#like. i simply think that if you think good writing is good writing by virtue of its surface level character struggles

[hsslilly-blog]

source

[caracalla-dondus]

Suspicious Minds

Pairing: Emperor Geta/wife!reader

Summary: A senator informs Geta about the rumors surrounding his wife

Author's Note: This fic consists of pieces I took out from a much longer fic I had written. After reading what I originally wrote I didn't really vibe with the whole thing and so I took out parts I liked best to create this fic. Idk if it's better or worse because things feel a bit rushed in this fic now and not as cohesive as before but it's good enough I think ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I was partly inspired by Fire & Blood where it says that some in court found Queen Rhaenys Targaryen suspicious because she spent time with bards and singers and they were sure she must be having an affair on Aegon I. Also the title is from the Elvis song of the same name because it popped into my head while writing this because it's similar to the plot lol.

~~~

The late afternoon sun streamed through the marble arches of the palace, casting shadows across the floor of the Emperor’s private chamber. Emperor Geta paced restlessly, his jaw clenched tight, his fingers twitching. The rumors had come to him this morning, carried by a senator whose words had been carefully chosen, yet laced with venom.

“She is often seen in the company of poets and bards, my Emperor. Some say perhaps too often.”

The words echoed in Geta’s mind as he strode to the balcony. Below him, others strolled about, oblivious to the storm brewing in his heart. He had always known that his wife had a fondness for the arts. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her. The way her eyes lit up when she heard the verses of a poem she thought was interesting, the soft smile that graced her lips during the final notes of a ballad. She was a woman of intelligence and charm. Perfect qualities to be his empress.

But now those very same qualities and interests had become the source of his unrest.

~

Geta finds his wife out in the garden. “I had hoped to speak with you my wife,” he said, his tone polite but firm. 

“What troubles you, my love?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she stepped closer to him.

Geta studied her, his gaze lingering on her face, searching for some sign of guilt. But she looked as she always did, serene, composed, and beautiful. “There are whispers in the court,” he began slowly, “that your affection for music and poetry has extended beyond mere appreciation.”

His wife’s eyes widened, and then she laughed softly, a sound like the chiming of bells. “Surely you don’t believe such nonsense.”

“I don’t want to,” Geta admitted, his voice low. “But the court is not kind to a woman who spends her days surrounded by other men, no matter how innocent her intentions.”

Her smile faded, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Geta, these men are poets, musicians and artists. They speak to me about the soul, not the flesh. My heart belongs to you, and only you.”

He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her. But the thought of her laughter, her attention, her admiration being bestowed on another man gnawed at him. “Then why do others speak of you so?” he demanded, his voice rising slightly. “Why do they say you adore Bacchus so much that you have embraced his indulgences?”

His wife stiffened, her hand falling away. “Do you question my virtue?” she asked, insulted that her husband would believe such nonsense about her.

“I question the company you keep!” he snapped, the words sharper than he intended.

She took a step back, her expression conveying her hurt and frustration. “You have always known who I am Geta. I am not a woman content to sit idly in the palace, just simply gossiping my day away. I find joy in the divine chaos of creation. If that makes me suspicious in the eyes of our court then so be it. But I will not apologize for things I did not do.”

Her words hung in the air between them, heavy with emotion. Geta clenched his fists, his anger warring with his love for her. Finally he spoke, his voice softer. “I do not wish to stifle you. But I cannot bear the thought of others questioning your loyalty or your love for me.”

His wife stepped closer, her gaze steady. “Then let me reassure you, my emperor. I am as sure of my love for you as I am about Sol bringing us the sun each morning. But if you doubt me, then tell me what must I do to prove myself?”

He sighed, reaching out to cup her face in his hands. “Stay with me tonight,” he murmured. “Let the poets and bards sing their songs without you for once. Let Bacchus have his revelry elsewhere.”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch. “If it will ease your mind, my dear husband then I will stay.”

Geta pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if to shield her from the whispers that sought to undermine them. But even as he held her, a shadow of doubt lingered, refusing to be banished entirely.

~

The grand halls of the palace echoed with the click of her delicate sandals against the marble floor. The weight of her husband’s arm on her shoulder was both reassuring and suffocating. For the past three days, Geta had not let her out of his sight. Where she went, he followed. Where he could not follow, he sent his guards to watch her every step. It was unlike him, and though his paranoia was silent, she could feel it in the way his fingers tightened around her arm, in the watchful, almost desperate glint in his eyes.

She had tried to comfort him, tried to reassure him of her loyalty, but it seemed no words could pierce through the suspicion that had taken hold of him.

During a feast, Geta watched his wife like a hawk as she entertained a visiting nobleman whose son had written a collection of poems. His wife listened to the man intently, her soft smile never wavering as the man recited a verse.

But Geta saw something else. He saw how the man’s eyes lingered on her, how her laughter seemed to light up the room. His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair, his jaw tightening. Was it admiration? Was it mere courtesy? Or was there something more? The thoughts churned in his mind like a storm, dark and unrelenting.

When the man left, Geta wasted no time. He rose abruptly, crossing the room to where his wife stood.

“You enjoyed his company,” he said, his voice low but laced with accusation.

His wife blinked, startled by his tone. “He was reciting his son’s poetry, my dear husband. That’s all it was.”

“You smiled at him,” Geta pressed, his eyes narrowing. “You laughed.”

“Am I not allowed to smile and laugh?” she asked softly, though there was a tinge of frustration in her voice. “Must I always wear a sour expression to please you?”

His hand shot out, gripping her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “You are mine,” he said, his voice trembling - not with anger, but with something deeper, something more fragile. “Your smiles, your laughter, they belong to me and no one else.”

Her eyes softened as she saw the flicker of insecurity behind his harsh words. She reached up, covering his hand with her own. “And they are yours, Geta,” she murmured. “Only yours.”

His grip loosened, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if afraid she might vanish. “I will not lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I cannot.”

~

For the next several days, Geta’s wife’s world shrank. Where she once wandered the gardens freely, now her husband walked beside her, his hand resting possessively on her waist. When she visited the library, he went with her. Her gatherings with poets and musicians were no more, replaced by dinners where Geta sat her beside him, his eyes never leaving her.

She tried to be understanding, but his constant scrutiny weighed heavily on her. One evening, as they sat together in their chambers, she finally spoke.

“Geta,” she began, her voice tentative. “Do you not trust me?”

He looked up from the goblet of wine in his hand, his expression guarded. “Of course I trust you, you are my wife,” he said after a long pause. “It is everyone else I do not trust.”

“You cannot keep watch over me forever,” she said.

His jaw tightened. “You are my wife,” he said firmly. “My empress. And I will not risk anyone else taking you from me.”

“Even if it means suffocating me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Geta flinched, as if her words had struck him. He set the goblet down and rose to his feet, pacing the room. “You do not understand,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I have enemies everywhere. We have enemies everywhere. They would use you against me. They would take you from me. Take your love away from me”

“Who could take me when I am yours in both heart and soul?” she asked, rising to stand before him.

He stopped, his gaze meeting hers. For a moment, he looked like a man on the edge of breaking, his carefully constructed armor of intimidation cracking to reveal the fear beneath. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “But the thought of losing you terrifies me.”

She reached out, cupping his face in her hands. “Geta,” she said softly, “you will not lose me. I love you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you will never leave me.”

“I promise,” she said, though her heart ached at the desperation in his voice.

He pulled her into his arms again, holding her as if his life depended on it. She sighed softly, resting her head against his chest. She understood that his possessiveness was not born of cruelty, nor out of a need to stifle her but it was of a fear he could not truly voice, a fear he could not truly reconcile with, and it had consumed him.

And so she stayed, tethered to him by her love for him, hoping that soon his insecurities would ease and he would see that she was his, not because he demanded it, but because she chose it. But she was not sure how much she could take of this suffocating behavior. Of every move of hers and every interaction being heavily watched.

~

She rarely let her frustrations boil to the surface, but this time was different. As she sat across from her husband in their private chambers, the weight of the senator’s venomous words and their impact on her marriage gnawed at her patience. For days and days now, Geta’s suffocating possessiveness had taken over every aspect of her life, and she could no longer bear the thought that this rift between them had been instigated by a man seeking to undermine her, a man seeking to replace her.

She set down her goblet with a sharp clink, her hands trembling, not with fear, but with barely restrained annoyance and anger. “I’ve been thinking, my dear husband,” she began, her voice calm but carrying an obvious edge to it.

Geta glanced up from his seat, his brow furrowing slightly at her tone. “What is it?”

She met his gaze, her eyes blazing with uncharacteristic determination. “The senator who came to you with these baseless rumors. I believe he must be punished.”

Geta blinked, clearly surprised. “Punished? For what?”

“For daring to speak against me,” she replied, her voice firm, slightly exasperated that he did not already know what she spoke of. “For poisoning your mind with lies and causing this… this chaos between us. He sought to undermine your confidence in me, to cast doubt on my loyalty, to possibly destroy my reputation. That is not something we should let go unanswered.”

Geta leaned back in his chair, studying her intently. “You surprise me, wife. I thought you were above petty revenge. You have always counseled me against such rash decisions before”

“This is not petty, nor is it rash!” she shot back, her tone sharpening. “He sought to disgrace me, your wife, your empress. By doing so, he has disgraced you as well. How can you tolerate such audacity?”

Her words struck a nerve. Geta’s insecurities flared, his mind racing as he considered her argument. She was right. The senator’s insinuations had not only called his wife’s loyalty into question but had also implied that Geta was a weak ruler, unable to control his own household. The thought made his blood boil.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, his voice low.

“Demote him. Remove him from his position. Let it be known that you will not tolerate slander against your Empress.”

Geta narrowed his eyes. “And if others see this as an act of weakness? A sign that I am blinded by my love for you?”

“Let them see it as a warning,” she countered. “Let them know that your loyalty to your wife is unwavering and that you will not allow anyone to sow baseless discord in your court.”

Her words appealed to Geta’s pride, and she could see the gears turning in his mind. After a long silence, he nodded slowly. “Very well. The senator will be dealt with. I’ll ensure his removal will be public and soon.”

Relief washed over her, though a part of her felt dissatisfied about simply just having the senator removed from his position. The senator had meddled in her marriage, made her husband watch every move she made for days now, and he deserved to face more severe consequences for it. The senator has a daughter around her age, she felt certain the senator was likely hoping to get her pushed aside to potentially make way for his daughter to get close to Geta, for her to be the next Empress of Rome. Geta’s wife seethed silently at the thought of someone replacing her, of someone attempting to steal her position. She thought about paying Caracalla a visit and informing him of the treacherous senator in their midst. He would certainly give her the dramatic reaction she wants.

Geta rose from his seat, crossing the room to stand before her. He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze softening. “You are right. I should never have allowed his words to poison my mind. You are my empress, my wife. No one will come between us again”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch and calming for a moment. “And I will always stand by your side Geta. But we must stand together, against anyone who seeks to divide us.”

Geta kissed her then, fierce and possessive, as if to reaffirm their bond. She let herself melt into the embrace, even as a small voice in the back of her mind wondered if she should push for more to be done about the senator. 

~~~~

reader can't take out her frustrations on Geta so she will take it out on the senator who started all of this instead lol

[ephemeralinstance]

is Solas bad at plans?

We joke about this but I actually don't think Solas is that bad at plans! His problem has always been not the plans themselves but the fact that he insists on working alone, even though the kinds of things he's trying to achieve are simply not things that anyone could realistically achieve alone.

The Veil, for example - in a way that was very ingenious and presumably an incredible feat of magic. And it allowed him to single-handedly defeat seven extremely powerful enemies in one fell swoop! The real problem with what he did is that we know from Felassan's writings that he had withdrawn from his allies after Mythal's death and planned this whole thing alone, and he just shouldn't have tried to fight a battle like that alone. The plan itself was probably the best he could have done by himself, but he didn't need to be by himself in this.

Similarly the orb and Corypheus - if he'd been willing to trust people he could surely have found some powerful mages to help him open the orb voluntarily, but because he didn't want to ask anyone to help he had to trick someone into doing it, and the rest is history. Similarly in the ritual at the beginning of Veilguard, the biggest problem with his plan is ultimately that he didn't tell anyone what he was doing or what the stakes were.

This is such a fascinating aspect of him for me because you can see that he believes this tendency is a virtue: he thinks it's a good thing that he's taking the responsibility himself and not burdening others with his problems. He says as such to the romanced Inquisitor in Trespasser, if she offers to help: 'It is my fight' and 'I cannot do that to you.' As a very stubbornly independent person myself this aspect of Solas' characterization has always meant a lot to me, because a very important lesson I've had to learn in life is that there are some things that you just cannot do alone, and you end up harming yourself and others if you try.

[lis-likes-fics]

Delicious

Pairings: demon!Natasha x Reader Word Count: 5.5k words Prompt: Demon AU Warnings: NSFW, corruption kink, fingering, oral (f! receiving), multiple orgasms, strap-on, swearing... A/N: This is late and it's not very good. This would have been so much better but I have ADHD brain and I had to rush this a bit. Sorry, guys. But I hope you still like it! Thank you!

Natasha had never been in this shop before.

Drawn to a strange feeling coming from within, she wanders inside the little cafe and stares at its warm tones, letting her eyes wander the wall of books, the tables and booths, the counter where a beautiful waitress talks to a customer. She lays eyes on you and can feel the mischief twisting in her gut.

You are perfect.

The light that surrounds you is a beacon of…purity. Your tan apron wraps securely around your body, your hair is out of your face, your smile is brighter than the sun and snow outside. She can taste the innocence oozing off your skin like honey from a honey dipper.

You are radiant, and he can’t wait to hold you in her hands and see how dark she can make you.

A dark and charming grin spreads over her red lips as she walks up to the counter, waiting for you to give your warm goodbye to the last customer and offer a warm hello to the next. She steps forward and swears she could get drunk off your virtue.

You give her a bright smile, and she can see it shining in your eyes too. “Hi! What can I get ya?”

Natasha lets her green eyes wander the menu for only a moment, turning her gaze back to you as she speaks slowly, deeply, letting her rasp wash over you like a siren to a sailor. “I’ll have a mocha.”

You nod, picking up your notepad and a permanent marker to write her order as you take in the sight of her face. She’s beautiful. “And what size would you like that in?”

“Grande.”

You pick up the cup, nodding as you do. “Anything else?”

She looks you up and down, drinking you in some more before gauging what it does to you. You seem almost fidgety, flustered. She grins. “What do you recommend?”

“Well,” you chuckle lightly, “I am a sucker for our Christmas special—the gingersnaps. I shape them like little Christmas trees.” You illustrate your words as you pull your hands up to form a triangle, the closest you can get to the tree.

She raises her brows. “Oh, so you make them?”

You nod proudly, smiling widely as you set your hands on the counter. “I do!”

She hums. You’re adorable. “I’ll take it.”

“Alright-y! Will that be all for you?”

“It will,” she nods simply.

You grab her cup size and clutch the permanent marker. “And what’s the name on that order?”

“Natasha,” she purrs, watching you closely and letting her gaze openly drink you in to see how you’ll react. You’re so flustered already, practically melting at the sultry nature of her voice. “But I think Nat will do just fine.”

You start writing the name, “Nat” in pretty script. “Alright, Natasha. A grande mocha and gingersnaps coming right up!” You say her name like warm icing on cinnamon rolls, letting it drip over your skin like melted caramel. You look at her and smile fondly, shyly, your head tilted slightly down but your eyes glancing up at her nervously. “You have…a beautiful name, by the way.”

Natasha chuckles, shaking her head gently. You're hypnotized. “I can't tell if you're flirting or if you're just that nice.”

“O-Oh!” you say, your eyes widening slightly as she catches you by surprise. “Oh, I'm a really bad flirt.” You meet her eyes again and she sees you panic for a moment as you raise your hands. “W-Well, not to say you're not worth flirting with! I think you're very pretty—gorgeous, even. You're very—You're really–!”

She cuts you off with a hearty laugh, reaching a hand out to gently grab your own as she offers you an almost sly grin. “Relax, sweetness,” she bids. “I think you're absolutely delicious, too.”

“O-Oh,” you sigh, smiling as she eases your nerves. Then you realize, “Delicious?”

“Did I say delicious?” She shakes her head gently as if to say “silly me”. She pats your hand lightly before removing her soft fingers from you. She never looks away from your face. “I meant delightful.”

You nod before you speak. Natasha can't help but think how adorable you are, like the purest angel—but how they are in the movies, not the ones stuck up her ass all the time, calling her pest and rodent and vermin.

No. You would never say something so harsh. She can see it in you, the purest diamond. She wants to break you.

“Okay,” you speak softly—and you're so naïve, she thinks for a moment that you heard her thoughts and were offering yourself up to such exploitations.

She licks her bottom lip subtly. She can almost taste your honey. “What was my total?”

You seem to snap out of whatever thoughts run through your mind. “Well…” you clear your throat, “since you're so nice and I own this place… I'll give you the cookies on the house and bring your total down some.” You lean in, and she thinks you'll wink. “Our secret.”

She doesn't know if she thinks you're capable of holding secrets. But she's been around humankind so much, she knows there's always a secret lurking around the corner. You all just can't help yourselves…

“Nonsense,” she shakes her head. “I'd hate to do that to you.”

You smile gently. “Come on. Let me do this. You've been so nice.”

She scoffs gently, not offendedly. “Nice isn't a word people usually associate with me.”

You tilt your head, genuinely curious as to how someone so sweet could never be called “nice”. “What do they usually use?”

With a dark glint in her pretty green eyes, she smiles. “Sinful.”

“Sinful?” you mutter.

She shrugs a shoulder. “I've got a bit of a…mischievous streak.”

You smile sweetly. “And I like giving pretty girls free cookies.”

Natasha sighs, looking you up and down for the sole reason of flustering you again. “Well,” she says, “at least accept this big tip.”

“Tip?” you tilt your head.

“For a beautiful girl like you.”

She's done it. You clear your throat and nod. “O-Oh. Okay,” you say, watching her pull out her wallet. When she pulls out a hefty $50 bill, your eyes widen and you look like you'll have a heart attack. “Oh, this is too much! I can't accept this!”

She makes a pouty face, gazing at you with those pretty green eyes. She leans forward, and you feel yourself crumbling at the sight of her. “Oh, but you would break my heart if you didn't.” She slides the bill over and smiles, still presenting her puppy dog eyes as she lowers her voice. “You don't want to break my heart…do you?”

No. Never. How could you ever break the heart of someone so…her?

“I…” your teeth graze your bottom lip as you think to yourself before ultimately giving in. “Okay.” You slowly reach your hand out and hesitantly grab the bill, clearing your throat and feeling a little clammy for accepting the money as you put it in the pocket of your apron.

She smiles, but it's more like a smirk, a devilish curl of the lips that you don't quite label as dangerous, like you should.

“Good girl,” she purrs.

You don't know why that has such an effect on you. You feel yourself go limp but you stay standing as your eyes flutter and you feel the need to clear your throat again.

“While I'm in the charitable spirit,” Natasha says, satisfied with your obedience, “why don't you go out with me sometime? Got any Christmas plans?”

Your face is warm, the tips of your ears burn with the idea of going out with such a beautiful creature. As you think of your holiday plans, you shake your head. “Uhm, n-no.” Why can't you seem to speak today?

“No?” she says, her face drenched in surprise. “No dinner with family, an outing with friends?” She finds it hard to believe that a sweet girl like you has nothing to do for the biggest holiday season of the year.

But it's hard to have friends when you're all the way in New York and your family is all the way in California and all your friends are visiting their families or have their own friends to be with.

So, no… no plans for you.

“No,” you smile, almost sadly. “Nothing for me this year.”

Natasha almost thinks she's taking pity on you when she asks this, rather than forming her own plan to taint your white ledger.

“Well, I've got no plans. You've got no plans.” She smiles and reaches her hand out to brush your fingers. “Let's fix that.”

“O-Okay,” you stutter.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

She nods, pleased with you. “I'll meet you here, then. Seven o'clock, Christmas day. Dress to impress.”

You smile sweetly. “Always do.”

“I can see that,” she says, looking you up and down with an appreciative glance.

You smile widely, a grand smile that puts the sun to shame. “I'll have your order right out.” You pick up your pen and dot the notepad you have her order written on.

Natasha nods before turning and walking toward a tiny table by the window, the morning light still pouring in, even as the morning slowly dwindles into noon. She watches you as you work, her eyes glued to your body as she follows you everywhere.

You really are just so…pure. She was thinking it may have been a façade to make the customers feel welcome, but one look at you, one sniff of your perfume, one word from your sweet lips and she knew you were sweet as sugar. Pure.

She hasn't met someone this pure in a very long time, if ever.

And you would taste divine.

“Nat.”

Her name said by such honey-tainted lips pulls her from her thoughts. She rises from her seat and makes her way to you once more.

Your smile is already ready, and just so sweet. “I hope you enjoy. Thank you for coming and…” you smile, biting your lip briefly, “I'll see you soon.”

“Thank you…” Her gaze darts down to your nametag, reading the letters one-by-one to savor the taste of it. She says your name like she's making love to it. You shudder. “Beautiful name.”

“Thank you,” you speak, your voice so soft and gracious she could have mistaken it for a whimper.

Natasha grabs the cup and the box of cookies, her fingers intentionally brushing yours as she speaks. “Christmas day. Seven. Don't forget.”

You shake your head. “I won't.”

She smiles. “Goodbye, angel.”

You nod quickly, too excited to see her again. “Bye, Nat.”

She walks out of the little cafe, her treats in hand. She lets the door close behind her, lets the bell ring about her head. Once she's out of the coffee shop but still in your view, she takes a sip of her scorching hot coffee like it's nothing and sighs. Even the coffee is as pure as you, perhaps because it was made by such hands.

She turns her head to see you watching her through the window and just nods. She watches your fluster, nodding proudly back to her before trying to look busy.

She can't wait to devour you.

~

You don't know how you got here, with your back pressed to your bedroom wall, with Natasha's hands smoothing underneath your shirt to touch the bare skin of your waist, with your lips molding perfectly with her own like they were made to fit together.

You'd gotten to the cafe an hour early, pretending—even to yourself—to tidy the place since you were closed for the holiday. Natasha showed up five minutes late, but fashionably so. She was beautiful; a pretty blouse red as blood, dark slacks tight around her waist and loose the rest of the way down, a black coat draped down past her knees.

The air was knocked from your lungs. She was beautiful.

Her eyes examined you, and she was impressed. You wore a short, long-sleeved, cream-colored dress and skin-colored tights to fight the cold. An angel.

She’d taken your hand and kissed the back of it, telling you how beautiful you were—though you swear you heard her say “delicious” again.

Then she took you to dinner. It was a nice restaurant, somewhere cozy with really good food. She paid for your food and for dessert, and you told her she didn't have to, but she insisted.

Then she took you ice skating. She held your hand the whole time and paid for you, and you told her she didn't have to, but she insisted.

Then she took you on a late night walk through the park. She held your hand and kept you close and told you that the moon looked beautiful on your skin. You told her she didn't have to, but she insisted.

Then when she walked you home, telling you how beautiful you were at the doorstep and taking your hands and pulling you in for a gentle kiss, you smiled and kissed her back. Then she kept kissing you, and you kept kissing back.

And it turned into you opening your door and letting her inside, kissing her some more and offering her coffee, only to have her tell you that she had everything she needed right here.

Hands wandered, then lips wandered, then she pressed you into the wall, and now she's got you laid out on your bed, still fully dressed and so, so hot.

She leans over you, inhaling the scent of your perfume with a sigh as she keeps kissing you. You hold her, your arms wrapped securely around her neck to keep her close.

Her teeth graze your lip, struggling to refrain from biting so hard, she draws the sweet syrup of your blood. You lean into her touch, keening against her and longing to savor the flavor of her name on your lips as you whisper, “Natasha.”

She wraps her hand around your throat as her mouth trails down to your neck, to your collarbone, feeling your pulse beating rapidly under the skin. Her teeth sink into your flesh, and she chuckles deeply when your breath hitches.

She could just as easily crush your windpipe if she wanted to. She could snap her fingers, and you'd be reduced to nothing but a pile of ash and bone.

But where was the fun in that?

No, she would savor you. She would lick your skin and taste the sweet ambrosia you'd create all for her. She would carve her name into your flesh with the bite of her claws. She would sink her sharp teeth to the bone. She would make you scream until the only word you knew were the letters of her name.

Her hand dips low under your dress, gripping your thigh as she slowly moves it up, up, up, her fingers digging into your skin as she does. Your eyes flutter shut, resorting to just feeling her as she touches you any way she likes. She hums deep in her throat as she pulls back to look at you, riding your dress up and pulling your leggings down so she can see the pretty panties you wore for her.

“Mm,” she sighs. “You look delicious, darling.”

Your tiny chuckle comes out as a breathy moan. “Don’t you mean,” you whimper slightly as her sharp nails dig into your skin as they make their way down your leg, the stinging sensations exciting you more than she initially thought. Corrupting you will be easy. “Don’t you mean ‘delightful’?”

Her hand around your throat tightens just a slight, not enough to constrict any airflow, but just enough for you to feel the warmth of her palm against your skin. “No,” she rasps. “I mean delicious.”

She manages to get your tights off, humming appreciatively at your lacey panties before ripping those off your body instead. You gasp lightly but say nothing else, allowing her to do as she wishes as you sit back and enjoy it.

Your hips jerk when her thumb teases the skin of your mound, dipping between your thighs just enough to press it lightly to your clit. Your breath hitches, your chest rising and falling in quick succession as she presses her thumb so lightly, you wonder if she’s actually touching you. She teases you like this for a moment, feather-light touches that make you so desperate for her.

“Tasha,” you whimper. “Please, I need you.”

Her eyes glint at the way you plead for her. Already, you’ve begun to beg. You’re so responsive, so sensitive to her touch. One would think you were untouched, but no… She would be able to smell that off you, and she smells that this is not the first time someone has been between your legs.

How precious you are. Tainted but still so unspoiled.

The pad of her middle finger grazes your slit, teasing you further as your body keens for her touch. “Say it one more time for me, baby,” she whispers in your ear. “Say it. ‘Please, I need you.’ Lemme hear it.”

You whine gently, letting one hand travel to her hair to let your fingers card through the softness of her red locks. You let your bottom lip pass between your teeth before you gladly obey her. “Please,” you whisper, lifting your hips to meet her. “I need you.”

Proud of herself, and of you, she slips her finger inside of you, sheathing it in the warmth and wetness of your body. You hum, closing your eyes. “How is that, angel?” she smiles, watching your eyes dart behind your closed lids.

You nod, parting your lips as a breath passes through them. “Yes.”

She grins devilishly. “Good girl.” She rewards you with another finger in the tightness of your slickening pussy. You reward her with another little whimper. She pumps them slowly, in and out of you, pushing them deep to feel every little part of you before allowing herself to pull out and do it again.

She curls her fingers inside of you, a come hither motion making your lips round into a ‘o’ shape. You whisper her name again, gently begging her for more. More closeness, more pleasure, more her.

She pumps them slowly, massaging your spongy walls as you begin to move your hips to the rhythm. “More?” you whimper, still so polite as you beg her for a request. And how could she say no when you’re as sweet as you are?

“You want more of me, angel?” she smiles. “I’ll give you some more.”

She dips down to kiss your collarbone again before she pulls her fingers out of you and laughs at the way you whimper, a pathetic little sound at the loss of her touch. Before you can begin to protest, you hear her snap and feel the zipper at your back begin to zip down your body. But you have no time to question her, as her lips attack yours between the time it takes to pull the dress over your head and off your body.

You don’t seem shy when you are laid bare to her. You keep holding her and kissing her, forgetting your confusion and shock before in favor of tasting the spice of her lips. She pushes you back onto the bed, abruptly separating you, even as your hands stay attached to her arms just to feel her soft skin.

She leans down over your body and lets her kisses ghost over your flesh, a phantom of herself teasing you. You feel her warm breath at the juncture of your thighs and want nothing more than to feel her tongue next. And it seems your prayers are answered when the hot muscle of her tongue flattens against your wet pussy and licks the arousal she’s pulled from you.

She’s happy to listen to the way you whisper her name under your breath when her lips wrap around you, allowing her tongue to plunge between your folds and fill you with pleasure. You moan and grind your hips against her face. She has to hold you down, chuckling darkly as she continues to lap at your needy core.

She sucks around your clit and swirls around your folds, tasting the sweetness you bear with a deep hum. “You taste just as delicious as you smell,” she rasps, kissing you messily. “This body is so…divine.” You melt under her praise, your hands tangling in her hair as your chest heaves.

Her fingers join her tongue once more, stroking and spreading and slipping in and out of you with the sole goal of tasting more of your sweet, sweet honey. “Natasha,” you moan. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? That’s a new one. Out of all the words in the Urban dictionary that can be used to describe Natasha Romanoff, sweetheart is not among them. Still, it’s sweet, and she thinks you’re adorable for thinking that way.

Natasha devours you, feeding off your moans like they are the essence of her being. Her hands grip your flesh and her tongue delves inside of you. She replaces her tongue with her fingers once more, pumping them in and out of you, curling against that sweet spot hidden deep within you. Your back arches and your moans get sucked up into the walls of your bedroom, pitchy and full of breath and desperation. You need her like you need air.

You moan her name again and she knows you’re close by the way your pussy tightens around her fingers, the way your clit pulses between her lips, by the way your fingers begin to tug at the locks of red hair you have tangled between them. She works harder, so eager to taste your nectar.

You hurdle over the edge with a loud, gasping moan. She holds you securely atop the counter, fingering and licking at your pussy as you gush around her, easing you through your orgasm. You chant her name under your breath, riding out your high against her face as she keeps building you up and prolonging your release just so she can continue to suck on your offerings, like the sap from a maple tree.

The last sparks of pleasure shoot through your limbs, in your belly. Your hips jerk when her fingers curve inside of you just a slight. She pulls them out and pulls away and licks her lips like she’s gotten sugar smeared all over them. “Oh, my angel,” she rasps. “Like heaven on earth.”

And you think she’s done as you will yourself to sit up, offering a sweet smile as you pull her in to kiss again, fully intending on seeing if she tastes just as “delicious” as she keeps telling you that you are.

But she breaks her kiss and stands off the bed and to her feet. You sit back, watching her pull her blouse over her head as her eyes stay glued to your beautiful body. She slips her lacey, only-for-decoration bra from her body to leave herself in nothing but her slacks.

You gaze at her, taking in the perfect hour-glass of her body and gawking when she steps out of her slacks and presents you with the strap-on she’s been hiding all this time. She watches the way you stare at it, smirking to herself as she stalks back over to you, leaning on the bed with her knee. “You like?” she says.

You bring your gaze up to her face, swallowing thickly and feeling embarrassment warming in your face for staring. You just nod. She chuckles, cupping your chin with her hand and shaking her head. She thinks you’re adorable.

She slides the hand around to your neck, cupping you there and pulling you in for a kiss. You moan, leaning into her. “But what about you?” you whisper, pressing your hand to her side and stroking your fingers over the skin.

She shrugs, “Don’t worry.” You miss the small wave of her hand behind her back as she lets her magic wash over her, connecting her own pleasure to that of her strap as she’s done a million times before. But you don’t need to know that. You don’t need to know the extent of her inhumanity. It isn’t important to the pleasure she derives from getting to taint something as pure as you. “It’s double-sided,” she lies.

You don’t get to protest because her lips are already on yours again. She slides her fingers through your folds again, swallowing your moans as she lays you down on your back and spreads you wide open for her.

As you're distracted by her kiss, she thrusts inside of you with a deep moan. You break the kiss, laying your head back and letting out a whimper of your own as she fills you, stretches you open for her as your tight pussy adjusts. You whisper her name like a prayer, and she moans yours like a sin.

She gives you only a moment to adjust to her size before she's moving her hips, a slow and steady in and out as she gets herself used to the feel of you, and oh… You definitely do not disappoint as you squeeze her cock like a vice.

“Fuck, my angel,” she laughs to herself. “You're fucking perfect.”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders and savor the strokes of their cock inside you. “Please, Tasha,” you mutter.

She likes the way Tasha sounds. She's never been called Tasha before, her nickname has always been Nat. But the way it sounds falling from your lips, like a spell seeping into her skin and pulling her under your enchantment.

And it's hard to deny you when you look as precious as you do.

Her cock slides in and out of you in long, slow strokes as she fills you to the brim. You bite down on your bottom lip, your eyes closing as you breathe long, heavy sighs at the feelings she thrusts into you.

The desire for you, the desire to tear you apart invaded every little crevice of her being as she lost herself to more and more of her urge to fuck you desperate. She wants to hear your angelic voice beg a demon to fuck her nice and deep. She wants to see you fall apart, become a sinner all for her.

She grips your hips tightly, her rough thrusts no longer forgiving as she decides to take you how she wanted. You moan and whimper as your legs climb her waist until they're wrapped around her. She holds your thigh and just keeps thrusting.

You stutter her name, your capacity to remember anything else already slipping. She thrusts into you with all the passion in the world.

And then she pulls out at the pique of your wanton moans. You mewl and uselessly grab at her arms and waist. She separates from you with a sigh and ignores your attempts at bringing her back in, turning you on your stomach instead.

She thrusts inside without another word, filling you up from behind as you let your head hang. “There you go,” she husks. “That's better. Now I can fuck you like a whore.”

You moan, gripping the sheets and letting her do as she pleases. She keeps fucking you, relishing in the building sound of her hips smacking against your slick skin, the sound of you practically crying at the feeling of her fucking you so roughly making it harder to hold back.

“P-Please,” you stutter, clenching harder at the feeling. “Please don't stop. You're…amazing.”

Your gentle praise spurs her on more than she'd intended. She presses her finger to your clit and begins to rub fast, tight circles over it. She wants to feel you come undone. The more you cum on her cock, the more tainted you become with her darkness.

Her cock spears into you, pulling the dirtiest sounds from you as they echoed in the room—skin on skin, wet against wet. Your mouth falls open and you let out breathless cries accompanied with their own pleasured tears as they slip down your cheeks.

It feels so good, and you're going to cum.

You feel your body getting ready for it, building up higher and higher until you can do nothing but moan Natasha's name and shake upon your crashing release.

“Tasha,” you whine, dragging the last syllable out and breaking off into a pathetic moan. She keeps fucking you, groaning roughly as you clench so tightly around her. You gush and moan and she can't help but to fuck you just a little harder.

And when the orgasm melds to a little tremble, she keeps going. One of her hands wraps around your throat, tightening just a bit. She likes to feel her veins thumping under her palm, she likes to feel your life in her hand.

And apparently, so do you as you wrap your hand around hers and hold it securely there. Her eyes close as your pussy tightens, her thrusts become rougher as your moans become louder. She is going to make you cum again, she's set on it.

Your legs are a trembling mess, your arms are slowly dwindling in the strength they need to hold you up. “Please,” you mewl again. “Please don't stop, Tasha. I need you so…fucking bad.”

She feels successful. That's the first time she's heard you curse, and she's so excited to have spoiled your tongue with such a word. She rubs your clit again, wanting to reward you.

“I want you to cum for me again, angel,” she rasps. “All over me. Come on.”

Her thrusts are becoming sloppy, so absorbed in her oncoming release as she readies herself for your own. She pulls you back to meet her thrusts, rough and fast and deep as she continues to build you up.

You moan loudly as the pleasure builds and builds until it snaps. You throw your head back, crying out as you cum with the tight squeeze of your cunt. The warmth and the wetness of your pussy is too much as Natasha follows after you. She moans deeply in her throat as she grinds roughly inside of you, burying her cock in your pussy as if she was cumming in you to give you a deeper taint of your purity.

You allow your arms to give out as you fall forward onto the bed and muffle your moans into the sheets. She keeps gripping your hips tight, still riding out her high as she moans your name and lets out a string of curses.

Your whole body is shuddering by the time both your pleasure is reduced to tiny spasms through your limbs. She thrusts her hips a couple more times before pulling out of you with a long sigh.

You roll onto your side, lazily lying there as you glance up at Natasha with heavy eyelids. She runs a hand through her hair and gathers herself, looking down at you as the pride shimmers in her eyes and her chest.

She watches you, smiling, though she can't help a prickle of confusion when she takes in the sight of you. You lay there, half-asleep and completely spent, bare and vulnerable and exploited by her darkness.

And, yet, you look every bit like an angel as when she first met you. You look just as sweet, smell just as sweet, smile at her just as sweetly.

“Thank you,” you whisper sweetly. She watches you, watches as you pat the spot next to you and cast your innocent eyes on her.

And she's curious, so she lays down where you offer her a spot. Then you cup her cheek with the palm of your hand and kiss her, a long and slow and gentle kiss that Natasha becomes conflicted with as she leans into it.

Then you wrap your arms around her body and pull her in tight so she can't escape—or, she could… but she won't. All that time spent trying to corrupt you, and you're still the virtuous little angel she met at the coffee shop, cradling her in your arms and kissing her forehead and thanking her for the night of passionate fucking she'd just given you.

There is a warmth in your arms that Natasha hasn't felt in a long time. She's not quite sure if she's ever felt a warmth like this. She leans into it, she feels herself succumbing to your purities, despite her best efforts.

Curious, she lets you hold her, even longer after you had fallen asleep as she could safely slip away into the night, never to see you again.

But, no… You intrigue her. She couldn't leave now, especially if there was still so much virtue left in you. She will have to stick around. Yes… she will have to keep you a while longer.

You are a rare delicacy. She couldn't let you go to waste.

True Believer taglist: @activebliss @xxromanoffxx @thelastpyle @likefirenrain @babypink224221 @autisticbrie @alexxavicry @evabalexeeva @dumb-fawkin-bitch @hatterripper31 @kmc1989 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @notzammm @evansstan-akya Red Ledger taglist: @ripleysupremacy180286 @luminous-faerie @nowthisisliving27 @lorsstar1st @poptartpoppyy @blackwidow-3 Red-Head taglist: @red1culous @wannabe-fic-reader @imnotsaddude @lovelyy-moonlight @tessarqctt @fanreader @smromanoff Tag yourself here...

[fakescenariosbeforesleepblog]

What did you just say?

Aegon x Fem reader (y/n)

«The news of your marriage and pregnancy woke the dragon inside him.»

Sorry I just watched this gif and I couldn't avoid thinking about a moment like this. Also I want to utilize this short writing to let you know that I also like Game of thrones, House of the dragon, star wars, teen wolf, etc. so, occasionally I will start to post about those characters too.

Warning: spelling and grammatical errors.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Part 2 is finally here.

A soft knock on the door echoed in the room, Aegon was sitting, drinking his morning cup of wine.

- Come in.

- My king.

A servant appeared in the meeting room, Aegon was waiting for him anxiously. Since he became king he only wanted one thing. You.

Both were betrothed before Alicent decided to cancel it and marry Aegon with his sister, Helaena.

He really needed you at his side, he wanted you, his mother made a mistake, he always said that, it was unfair not only for him but for Helaena too, so, now he was king, he wanted a new wife, he wanted what a long time ago belonged to him.

Unfortunately, the poor servant's face was not the kind of face that brings good news.

- Speak now, where's she? Where's my betrothed?

- My king... I... The information I obtained, it's maybe just rumours, I do not intend to defile Lady (y/n)'s reputation or her virtue, But...

Before the servant could end, Alicent appeared at the door, the look in her eyes could say there was guilt and fear.

- Get out, I want to talk with my son.

The servant nodded and started to walk out when Aegon stopped him, he wouldn't let him go without knowing the news or rumors about his beloved.

- Stay, you haven't finished yet, What do you know about her?

- Aegon...

- Silence, you Continue.

- Lady y/n got married a few moons ago with the lord of the north, as I said these are maybe just rumors, but it's probably she's pregnant, a wolf is growing inside her, My king.

Aegon stood up and walked around the room, the servant hadn't moved, Alicent closed her eyes, she was standing there like a statue just waiting for Aegon's reaction. Suddenly, Aegon walked directly to the servant, his face was almost purple of Anger, his eyes could burn, certainly, the news of your marriage and pregnancy woke the dragon inside him.

His hot breaths with the smell of the wine he drank before, were now filling the servant's nose and lungs.

The goblet In his hand flew to the other side of the room, tension filled the room, silence was uncomfortable, then, Aegon simply asked.

- What did you just say?!

[alexanderlightweight]

Hi! Thanks for your writing! I requested the Eldritch Delight Ragnor meeting Alec fic, which of course meant I had to reread the entire series for the umpteenth time. :) In doing so, I realized/ remembered THEY'RE ENGAGED! So, for my request this week - could I please have some Eldritch Delight wedding planning 'cause I think it would be the most unhinged thing ever! (Poor Jace, Mirai, Ragnor, Andrew & anyone else they come in contact with regularly - except maybe Cat as she seems like she's having the time of her life.)

As always, thank you so much!!

SFW/NSFW your choice.

<3 hi you're welcome and yes! they are engaged and they are wanting to get married as soon as possible. this kind of veered sideways but its specifically all about wedding planning stuff! sort of... it makes sense in context.

i hope you enjoy

<3 lumine

this eldritch delight

“You cannot be serious.”

Alec feels as if that’s one of Jace’s favorite things to say.  It certainly comes up far more often than it should, considering that no matter how many time Jace says it, Alec has always been and remains, serious.

“It’s my wedding.” Alec never thought he’d feel such devastating delight or feel the the agony of enduring each day that keeps him from marrying Magnus. “If I can’t marry Magnus in the moonlight of a hollow volcano used for necromatic rituals, then I’m going to have my lilies.”

“Lilies? Those aren’t lilies, Alec. Those are blood sucking monsters designed to look like gorgeous flowers who specifically devour nephilim blood! Over half of your guests will be nephilim.”

Alec frowns and Jace steps back and further into the sun but too bad for him, Magnus gave Alec a miniature parasol that expands upon contact with the sun.

Jace scowls a muttered, ‘unfair’ under his breathe and before he can run, a vine has crept up and thoughtfully tangled with his foot.

“What do you mean over half of the guests will be nephilim?”

“Oh Raziel, why are you like this?”

“I’ve always been like this. Why do you continually expect differently?”

Jace apparently — and for once — has nothing to say to that and so Alec steps closer and politely doesn’t shade Jace’s face from the sun, even if Jace is squinting as if the sun is blinding him.  Alec is sure he’s enjoying it like the strange being he is.

“So, as I was asking. What do you mean more than half would be nephilim? Magnus knows more people simply by virtue of being alive longer. We’ve already decided that no more than one fifth of the guests will be nephilim.  So the lilies are fine and your numbers are wrong.”

“This is going to be a political nightmare. Alec, please do you really think they’re going to be fine with the Commander and Head of New York Institute having that few nephilim guests? At his own wedding?”

Alec really thinks that Jace just likes being dramatic, because it’s clear his brother has overlooked some — what Alec considers — fairly obvious problems.

“Jace.”

And Jace stops talking and with a sigh, brings his hand up to shade his eyes — why Alec isn’t sure why since he likes the sun — and tries to meet Alec’s gaze.  It’s slightly off, which is good because Jace’s eyes are boring, they start to twitch and flicker away after only meeting Alec’s for a few seconds.

“Jace!”

That’s a strangely familiar yet unfamiliar voice and Alec turns to see a small red-head and suddenly remembers the promise he’d fulfilled with Jace.

“Oh no.” Jace doesn’t seem to realize he’s said it, his eyes focused with the intensity of a hawk on the redhead. Alec wonders if Jace thinks of her like he does his bunnies.

Well, she looks healthy enough and considering that she’s clearly escaped containment — Jace seems unduly worried at seeing her — Alec decides it’s only fair he helps. After all, maybe it will endear Jace into helping him.

—

Jace can only stare in fascinated horror as Clary hits the ground, unconscious even before her body drops and Alec watches her fall with an almost disappointed frown.  The black lace parasol keeping Alicante’s bright sun off his skin twirls as he tips Clary’s body over with his toe.

Like he’s touching something poisonous. 

Actually no. 

Alec would be thrilled to touch something poisonous.  He’s acting like Clary is some kind of mundane atrocity.

“Where you hoping she’d run?” Jace can’t help but ask, even as he steps forward — the vine having let him go — and helpfully picks Clary up, relieving Alec from the burden and saving Clary any further damage.

Jace makes a note to dose her with an antidote as soon as they’re done.

“She had an interesting look to her eyes. It might have been interesting.” Alec grins and Jace swallows back the instinctive bile as Alec’s maw widens.

“Look, Alec. Please, I know you dislike them but even you need to engage in politics for some things.”

“Jace this isn’t about politics. How many nephilim do you think will want to come to a Trueblood wedding? And how many do you think will come back from one?”

The thing is, it’s not a threat.

Alec seems exasperated and suddenly Jace feels ridiculous, because once again, he let the Council talk him into something ridiculous.  In fact, he’s going to quote Alec word for word because he’s right. Despite the Clave wanting a significant presence at this wedding, almost no one will show up when they realize it’s a Trueblood wedding.  They might, if it was Maryse remarrying.  However there are very few nephilim who will be willing to come for Alec’s and even fewer who would both be willing, and be able to survive.”

“I see your point. It’s a very good point and I think I’m even going to ensure it’s followed.” Because if anyone insists after Jace reminds them of Alec’s very crucial point, Jace will just kill them and let his grandmother ground him.

“Hey Jace.”

“Yeah buddy?” Jace turns and sees Alec stepping up to where a portal shouldn’t be able to form but is. Alec smirks and Jace’s spine tingles as Alec tilts his parasol just enough to let his eyes glint with the promise of a threat.

“You are going to be at my wedding and if you don’t survive, I’ll turn your bunnies into a stew for Magnus.”

Jace would have rather Alec had just said he’d be disappointed in him.  But after one time when it made him cry, Alec had decided to find different ways to threaten him… despite the fact that they still sometimes make Jace cry.

Alec's kind of awfully sweet and terrible at it too.

“Don’t lie, they’re not poisonous enough for you to turn them into stew and you like how soft they are. You’d probably just steal them and somehow accidentally turn them into carnivorous lethal bunnies and honestly, I think that’s worse. So I promise I will both attend and stay alive.”

AN:

jace's eyes are boring because jace is controlling his reactions

alec is trying to be polite and not be like: hi jace, you're being dumb. can you please name more than a dozen nephilim who would even want to come? and more than five who would survive?

jace is going to show up to the clave's meeting and be like: who was the idiot who tried to have mostly nephilim be at the trueblood wedding?

*some important member* 'how dare'

"A TRUEBLOOD WEDDING!!! HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT THAT ENTAILS?"

Maryse gliding in sipping what is clearly something poisonous from the fumes coming from the glass alone.

"I don't see why everyone wouldn't want to come. However the seats will be limited, after all, there will be a blood harvest and I've decided to bring out the old trueblood chalices. Perhaps we'll even do a hunt. There's still a few circle members left."

the clave: ... so how many seats do we have to fill? like what is the minimum? like we could take it from 1/5 of the guests to 1/10

[ghouljams]

Idk honestly I could probably write a really in depth analysis on the prevalence of the blue/brown eyed Ghost debate, and what it means in terms of fandom politics especially when coupled with whether Ghost is a natural blond or a brunet, but I doubt anyone wants to hear about the political implications of people pushing most popular character in the series as aryan...

well, i for one would absolutely love to hear about it, but to be fair my degree is in media studies so fork found in kitchen

but tbh is it surprising that this kind of discourse (along with the whole Gaz “not being interesting enough” bs) is a prevalent discussion in a military propaganda game fandom? probably not lol

i also agree with your take that his eyes are brown as part of his character development and that it feeds into the complexity of the dynamics between them

anyway, don’t feel pressured to talk more about it if you don’t feel like it, just wanted to let you know that at least one person would read all of it lol

Much love!!

- Morph

Ghoul thoughts under the cut because I love media analysis and rambling

You hit the nail on the head by bringing up the Gaz "not being interesting" bullshit in relation to this entire thing because I absolutely see the crux of the brown vs blue eyed Ghost debate being a debate over which eye color is "better" which has inherently racist roots.

And as an immediate disclaimer: I am not saying that headcanoning Ghost with blue eyes makes you racist, I am not saying that headcanoning Ghost as blond makes you racist. I am simply pointing out that the way we view certain traits has been and will be filtered through a lens which requires an examination of our own values/beliefs.

It is so intensely interesting to me that in a fandom with a history of racial exclusion, for a media property that upholds whiteness as the pinnacle of virtue, that upholds western ideals and values as the height of moral purity, that places the good guys in a position where they can do NO WRONG despite having a higher torture rate than the bad guys, that a faceless character would be arbitrarily assigned blue eyes and blond hair despite textual/in game evidence to the contrary (yes there is evidence).

Now maybe I am just sensitive to certain things because I paid attention in school and know what a dog whistle sounds like, maybe that's all this is. However, within a fandom that seems to cater so hard to white women and has racist bullshit popping up every other week, I think... maybe we should examine why we want Ghost to have blue eyes.

I find that with faceless characters headcanons always exist within the hopes of making them more attractive. The idea that they would be ugly under the mask is antithetical to the wish fulfilment of fandom, so it makes sense that people would come up with a face for them. But then why are so many faceless characters made into skinny white blonds? Surely people would want some diversity- oh no, wait...

So we make Ghost blond. Alright, I mean he was a brunet in the comics and in the one scene where we see him take his mask off he's got dark hair, but I guess there were too many people with dark hair on the 141 already, so we gotta mix in a blond. But then why the blue eyes? He has blue eyes in the '09 comic, but in every cutscene we see in the '22 remake his eyes are brown. There's already two members of the 141 with blue eyes, so we don't need another one for diversity. So then why give Ghost blue eyes? If you want him to be closer to the '09 version why make him blond as well?

It's because people want to make him attractive, and in the dominant racial zeitgeist blue eyes are attractive. Which... I mean do I need to ask why? It's because they're a white european trait and people still hold white features as the attractive ones. Same with the blond hair. That's why WW2 Germany designated Blond hair and Blue eyes as the "true German" traits and created a whole class for them "aryan."

So what are the political implications of creating an aryan character out of the most popular character in the series (one who has minimal voice lines and minimal canon backstory in the reboot) within a fandom that regularly disregards/ignores the main black character? It's the continued upholding of whiteness and a specific kind of whiteness as more valuable than others. I'm not even going to say more valuable than blackness, I would say more valuable than other white traits. Why are blue eyes more attractive than brown eyes? Because they're more "white." Why is blond hair more attractive than brown? Because it's more "white." Why is a blond haired blue eyed Ghost such a popular headcanon despite evidence to the contrary? Because he's more white that way.

Now I like blond haired Ghost. I think it's an interesting addition to the color pallet of the team, and I like that it makes him look more like a ghost to be so washed out. But I think fandom has a habit of following what becomes popular within head canon spaces and making it fandom canon, and so many of us don't examine why a headcanon might pop up. Where did Ghost having blond hair come from? When did we all decide that was what we were going with? Why is it even a debate whether or not he has blue or brown eyes, and why does it matter?

If I said right now that Ghost 100% in canon of the '22 game has brown hair and brown eyes, would people get mad at me? And why? Why would it matter if he had brown hair and brown eyes? Does that make him less attractive? Why? Why does it matter? Why do you want him to have blond hair and blue eyes? Why do you care? What is the difference between blue and brown that makes it so important? For God's sake look at the societal conditioning that you've been put through! Why does it "make more sense" for him to have blue eyes if he's blond? Why?

Every single idea we have of what is and isn't attractive has been designed for us by the society we live in. Consider what ideals are being upheld when deciding that the "hot" character is blond and blue eyed while also discarding the black character. Being anti-racist and dismantling your own racial biases is a long and constant process, but it is so vitally important. And once we start examining those biases all sorts of shit starts popping up.

And before someone comes in and tells me it isn't that deep: maybe you should look at why you need it to not be that deep, does it make you uncomfortable to think that you might be feeding into these biases without realizing? And who does it benefit to have it not be "that deep" is there perhaps a group of people that would want you to not examine your preference for blue eyes and blond hair? Some sort of brotherhood perhaps...

[theemissuniverse]

I love your writing! I saw that your requests were open do to mind doing Johnny Cage x reader? (Gender is your choice) like reader is a god/goddess and somehow falls in love with an earthrealmer?

“TOO CLOSE TO THE HEART” JOHNNY CAGE X GODDESS!READER

A/N : surprisingly this is my first Johnny fic lmao. Also a little bit of info the goddess is of nature and virtue

WARNINGS ; none

MASTERLIST

Johnny was a ladies man. Usually he turned on the charm for every woman. But then he met you and his sole attention was on you.

You’ve told him time and time again that you did not mingle with mortals but he didn’t give up.

Johnny often flirted with you but not like how he usually flirted with women. He still kept it respectful because at the end of the day- you were a goddess.

Usually you were able to not fall for his advances but this time you couldn’t resist.

You were in your garden and helped your pretty flowers blossom. You looked over to your left and saw Johnny looking upset with a flower pot. He was sitting at a picnic table.

The flower pot held a flower that was barley alive.

You were quite concerned for Johnny. He was usually full of light but he looked really upset.

You walked over to him and sat down next to him. “What’s the matter? Someone make fun of one of your films?” You chose to joke.

Johnny sighed. The joke didn’t hit with him. You now were extremely worried. He scratched the back of his neck and he passed you the dying flower. “I know how much you like flowers so I was trying to grow one myself for you but…taking care of a flower is a lot harder than I thought.”

Something about this notion was incredibly thoughtful. You were the Goddess of Nature. Flowers were your everything. So, for Johnny trying to bloom one for you melted your heart. It meant he did care about the things you cared about.

You took the pot. “Lucky for you, I am Goddess of all things nature so…” You used your power and the flower started to regenerate into a healthy golden tone. “It’s all healed.”

Johnny smiled at what you did. “That’s pretty cool that you can do that.”

“Oh really? Because what I heard from Kung Lao, you thought it was pretty lame.”

“Well-that was before I got to know you and now I think it’s kick ass.” Johnny stated. You chuckled a little.

You then thought of something. “Why did you do this or try to do this for me any way?”

Johnny gave you a look like it was obvious. “Come on, doll. Don’t be naive. You know I like you.” He sighed a little. “But you don’t got a thing for mortals so I probably should just leave it be.”

You watched as Johnny was about to stand up from the table. You grabbed his arm and made him sit back down. “You are sweet…when you want to be Johnny and it’s not that I don’t want to but it’s unrealistic to be with you. I am immortal. One day, you’ll die.”

“Hey, I’d be one lucky old man to have you on my death bed and you’ll still look that good.”

You shook your head slightly. “I have a lot of responsibilities. We can’t be together twenty four seven.”

“And I’m a hot shot director now. Same here.” Johnny could see that you were starting to get convinced so he took your hands in his. “Come on! One shot. That’s all I’m asking, babe.”

You thought about it. Johnny had been showing relentless interest in you. And after the flower thing, you couldn’t help but say yes. “Alright. We’ll give it a shot.” Johnny fist pumped the air and you rolled your eyes playfully.

Your eyes glowed a bright green. (Because of your Goddess nature.) Johnny tilted his head as he stared into them. “Say, how do you walk out in public with your eyes like that?”

“I don’t.” You stated simply and your eyes changed to your human eye color. Johnny blinked his eyes in shock as he saw them. “Wow. You should wear your eyes like that more often.”

You return your eyes back to their God like nature. “You don’t like my eyes, Johnny?”

“Nah. You look hot either way, babe.” Johnny leaned in to give you a kiss but you placed a finger on his lips.

“In time I will see if you are worthy of that.”

“You know I like a challenge.”

[melancholicstation]

BEAT POETRY ON AMPHETAMINES - a collection of situationship!jfk headcanon's

takes you on "dates" which are in reality him taking you to a matinée showing of an erotic nineteen twenties film that ends in you guys risking a public indecency charge on both your records between the theatre seats

does the equivalent of a "you up?" text by randomly showing up at your parents home and telling them that he's going to take you out on a twilight boat ride across the cape

the night definitely doesn't end with you guys wandering out way top far on the water simply because other things caught your attention...

jfk going to mass because situationship!reader won't answer his letter and/or calls cause she saw something in the newspaper about him and another socialite:

situationship!reader being embarrassingly down bad and commissioning a one of one bespoke tie for jack as a birthday present embroidered with a message like this

always makes incredibly crude and dirty comments whenever you have to make jello for a summer society event or sorority meet, however there's a sick sense of accomplishment that you feel knowing that jack sticks around to watch you do the mundane stuff, rather than simply leaving you after he's had his way like he does with the other girls.... (i'm sorry in order to be in a situationship with jack and not rip your hair out you would have to harbour a pick me/not like other girls complex inside you... i don't make the rules, i just timidly enforce them!)

also the jello moulds would be by gelée (yes, i know the brand wasn't around in 1950s my fanfics exist in a liminal space without the actual laws of time) cause they are my favourite for crafting a 1950s confectionary feel in the modern age (and they have free shipping! hallelujah!) and the jack's favourite flavour would be pĩna coco... don't play with me right now

would actually wow you with his morning after breakfast cooking skills (on his good back days) and would work within the confines of your very limited pantry in your one bedroom apartment...

and then he would return to the bedroom where he left you, wrapped up in a white poplin sheet, with a cobbled together jelly and tahini brioche on a plate to share with one fork for the two of you

at like 4am once you guys had done what you do for most of the little time you get to spend with each other, he'd try his hand at being vulnerable mostly about his chronic illness and back pain...

i'm thinking specifically something akin to how he would write to igna arvad about his outlook on pain as a constant plague on his enjoyment of all the things that life could offer a man as wonderful as he "if i had lived to be a hundred, i could only have improved the quantity of my life, not the quality" but it would be more conversational when in person. because a man like jack doesn't strike me as overly eager to trauma dump, yet also reads as very emotionally intelligent in parts

he always gets letters sent on hotel stationary whenever you stay at the chataeu marmont like this:

after fifty years and once you two have both passed i just know people wander across photos of you two together on pinterest and are like who is that girl with the thirty-first president of the united states?? and why have we never heard of her.

and you two are always serving cunt prince and princess of the people in the photos:

he would write rambling letters to you when he was a little drunk if he caught a glimpse of you at a partying entertaining or simply talking to a man in the manner you once talked to him in (despite making no moves to make your relationship offical or monogamous in any fashion) and then apologise later on in person with a kicked labrador expression or right his wrongs in a follow up letter

you're granted visitations rights to visit his room while he's recovering from 2nd back surgery and you bring bread and broth (due to the strict clinical diet he's been placed under) along with a hand written steve harrison quote "the virtue of soup and bread in a clay pot prepares the body and mind for what is to come" that you use push pins to affix on his hospital room wall

alongside that selection, you begrudgingly bring some adult magazines because he hasn't stopped whining that there was nothing to do all damn day

you guys keep a small pseudo capsule closet in each others drawers. for him: there's a small collection of parisotto cotton shirts in blue, black and navy. for you: there's a pair of linen pyjamas, a biella cashmere jacket and pleat skirt set, and an oversized coat

jack would 100% smell like a mix of abercrombie and fitch fierce cologne and the deauville lotion from chanel

you'd handed him a mother of pearl spoon with some osetrra caviar in a little gift box for christmas...

which then led to jack eating caviar of various parts of your body quietly trying not to wake up those who were still up for the night...

[gravityrises]

The Virtues of Stanford Pines

Summary: I've seen people accuse Ford of doing horrible things on one side, and people defending his actions on the other side. But how about we turn the tables and talk about all of the good Ford has done. (At least, that was the plan.)

Word Count: 2813.

Spoilers: Gravity Falls series, Journal 3, The Book of Bill, Lost Legends, thisisnotawebsitedotcom.com

1. He's incredibly hard-working:

Just because someone is smart doesn't mean they don't put a lot of effort into studying and Ford definitely did. It's mentioned twice just in "A Tale of Two Stans," when he tries to convince the college board to give him another chance and when he describes his years at Backupsmore.

And it doesn't stop at intellectual pursuits. In Journal 3 Ford says he exercises daily, despite having always hated physical activity.

Anyway, I don't think anyone is going to argue this point, so let's leave it at that.

2. He's supportive of his friend:

There are going to be a few controversial takes, but I truly believe that Ford was trying to be a good friend to Fiddleford. Now, there were fights between them, and Ford did say quite a few insensitive things both to his face and in the Journal. But overall, I don't think he ever intended to hurt Fiddleford, and he definitely appreciated his friend's company.

When Ford invited Fiddleford to work on the portal, he wrote in the journal: "He (Fiddleford) has sacrificed so much to come to my aid. He has temporarily left his bride and their young son... he has abandoned his own professional aspirations... I must do my best to make him feel at home.... I am off to the store for some banjo strings and microchips!" (quote shortened, because I'm lazy) Clearly, Ford cared about his friend and wanted to make him feel welcome.

He also compliments Fiddleford's "brilliant mind," "amusing quirks" and scrupulous work ethic, by saying "I double-check my equations. He quintuple-checks!"

And I hear you, didn't he claim the complete opposite in the series? According to him, Fiddleford "was wasting his talent trying to make personal computers", right? Well, if we ignore the fact that the creators weren't 100% consistent in their writing, here's how I would reconcile those two statements. Ford thought (erroneously) that his friend's research wasn't important in the grand scheme of things, but it was important to Fiddleford personally. And can you really blame Ford? He was about to demostrate the existence of other dimensions and create a gateway that would allow us to visit them. If something like that happened irl, it would've been a groundbreaking discovery, altering our very understanding of the natural world and how it works. Meanwhile, laptops, at least in Ford's opinion, were just "heavy, slow journals." Still, he knew this work was important to Fiddleford, and he wanted to accommodate that. Hence, his trip to buy microchips (and banjo strings.)

Ford tried (and unfortunately, failed) to help Fiddleford deal with his anxiety. In Journal 3, he mentions teaching Fiddleford some meditation techniques and going to the Carnival, so that Fiddleford would enjoy "a day of relaxation." In the Book of Bill, Ford feels guilty about not getting his friend a gift and decides to throw a surprise Christmas party instead. This was also an attempt to cheer Fiddleford up after his fight with his wife.

"But Ford didn't take Fiddleford's anxiety seriously, and it ruined his life." Okay, let's say you're right. Remember, Ford was raised in the 60s. A time when mental illness or just mental distress were looked down on. What was he supposed to do? Suggest Fiddleford goes to the therapist? I mean, they were studying paranormal creatures, if Fiddleford told those stories to a therapist who didn't believe in these things, there would've been a really high chance of misdiagnosis. Should Ford have simply fired Fiddleford? Well, that wouldn't have been very nice. Also, there is no need to infantilize Fiddleford in the first place, he's a grown-up person capable of makind his own decisions. If the job is too stressful, if the relationship doesn't work out, he has every right to leave, because his life and mental well-being are his responsibility. Instead, he ignored Ford's warnings and decided to use the Memory Gun and start a cult. It was, by the end of the day, Fiddleford's decision. And it's tragic. It really is. No one deserves to lose their family, their mind and their sense of self. It's something Ford feels guilty about, because whether it was intentional or not, he did indirectly contribute to Fiddleford's downfall. That's why, when they finally reunited after 30 years, Ford apologized to Fiddleford. And according to Journal 3, Fiddleford dissmised his apology, leading Ford to say that "Not only is this man's mind superior to mine, but he has one of the biggest hearts I've ever seen."

3. He has no reservations about helping others out:

There's a reason why Ford's the first person people turn to, when there's a problem. He has both the desire and the skills to help people out. Using Dipper's idea, he stops agents from investigating his family. He goes above and beyond just to change a lightbulb in the kitchen. Though morally questionable, he did give the kids a mind control tie with the intent of helping Stan win the elections. In the comics, Stan turns to Ford when Mabel's face is stolen and when Stan himself is cursed by an old chest.

And that's how things were in the past too. In "The Pines Boys in: The Jersey Devil's in the Details", Ford defends his brother, twice. First, when Filbrick accuses Stan of stealing the gold chain from his pawn shop. And then, when the Sibling Brothers offered Ford to let him keep the monster and become famous in exchange for photos that would prove Stan's guilt. And just to add an incentive, they threatened to frame both twins, if Ford didn't comply. Obviously, it didn't work.

According to thisisnotawebsitedotcom.com, that's also how he became friends with Fiddleford: on the very first day, he spent nine hours helping his new friend prove his theory. And in the Book of Bill, when Ford learns that Bill's home dimension was destroyed by a monster, his immediate reaction is to offer help with hunting it down.

Whenever someone's in distress, Ford really wants to help them out, and I don't know about you, but to me that doesn't sound like someone lacking empathy.

4. He's got no qualms questioning the status quo:

In Journal 3, Ford mentions traveling to Northwest Manor to confront Old Man Northwest with evidence of his family's deceit. Instead, he was met by young Preston, who wasn't impressed with his speech and forcibly escorted Ford from the premises.

Also in Journal 3, Ford wanted to debate politics with Reagan. Make of that what you will.

Now this one is more of a conjecture, but in the Book of Bill, this is how Bill compliments him: "Guys as smart as you come along once every century, and they scare the pants off of authority figures!" This lie wouldn't have worked, if it wasn't what Ford actually wanted.

And of course, learning that his former "muse" is one of the most feared beings in the entire multiverse, didn't stop Ford from going on a quest to defeat Bill. Even after witnessing other creatures shriek and cover their ears at the mere mention of Bill's name. Which leads me to my next point.

5. Calling him determined would be a massive understatement:

Forget his sleepless nights at college, forget his extensive research in Gravity Falls, Ford has spent 30 years, let me repeat that again, 30 years traveling across dimensions and looking for a way to destroy Bill Cipher. I haven't even been alive for that long! From the little we know about those years, they were anything but easy. In fact, Ford describes them as "frightening, exciting, cruel, and strange." (And of course, the guy actually does use the Oxford comma in his writing. Who would've thought?) Let me stress that Ford was under no obligation to continue his quest, maybe he could've found a quiet dimension to settle down and live peacefully, in fact, that's something he contemplates while visiting A Better World in Journal 3. But he decides against it. Not because he didn't want to, he literally says that he wanted to revel in his parallel self's success. Not because defeating Bill would get him recognition. It wouldn't, at least not in his home dimension, where no one is even aware of the danger. No, he didn't stay, because his own conscience wouldn't allow it. Ford just couldn't break his vow from 30 years ago, it's as simple as that.

And what does he do, when his plans fall apart? Does he even consider giving up? Of course not! In fact, he ends his tale of interdimensional travel with the following sentence: "My resolve to defeat Bill has never been stronger." It's almost comical, watching him throw anything he can think of at Bill and see what might stick. His battle in the Nightmare Realm was interrupted? He jumps through the portal to stop Bill's forces from entering his dimension. The portal created an interdimensional rift? He tries to contain it. Bill threatens to get his hands on the rift? This time Ford has two ideas: he tries to encrypt Dipper's thoughts and creates a mystical barrier around the house. The worst happens and the world is about to end? Well, get in loser, we're going to shoot Bill with Quantum Destabilizer. Ford misses and is captured? Not to worry, there's a Zodiac prophecy, we can give that a try. It doesn't work, because two grown men can't put aside their grievances for just a few seconds, gosh that scene is so frustrating to watch. Well, here is another idea: one can erase Bill with a memory gun as long as he's in someone's mind. I don't know what else to say, Ford really did his homework, when he set out to destroy Bill.

6. He has the patience of a saint:

Wow, now here's a controversial take. Remember Stan's "Beep boop. I am a nerd robot. That's you. That's what you sound like," which Ford just laughs off. Yes, that's what siblings do all the time. And yes, this teasing does come from a place of hurt. Stan was feeling like "the stupid twin," "a dumb idiot who screws everything up," so Ford felt like he just had to put up with this. But it's still hurtful to be mocked for your interests. It really feels like their relationship was already a little strained even before the Science Fair Project Incident.

What about the fact that he was the first to stop the fight in "Dungeons, Dungeons, and more Dungeons" and suggesting Stan might actually have fun, if he joined their game?

Or all the snide comments Stan made, when they reunited during Weirdmageddon, including "Well, he's lost his mind" and "You really think some caveman graffiti is gonna stop that monster?" All of which Ford simply ignored. Yes, he did correct Stan's grammar under the worst of circumstances, I agree, but you know, everyone has their pet peeves.

What people often forget is just how difficult it is to be a kind person, when you're stressed. It is much easier to treat people with respect and understanding, when you yourself are doing fine. So is it that big of a surprise, that someone who's under pressure, sleep-deprived and/or in pain might be more prone to outbursts? And we know how traumatic Ford's experience of being bullied as a kid was, how much suffering Bill put him through, how difficult his years on the other side of the portal were and how much pressure he was under, trying to prevent a literal end of the world. It's ironic that the people who blame Ford for his lack of empathy, really don't show him any empathy themselves.

7. Even under torture, he didn't reveal the equation that would've allowed Bill to take over the world:

Do I really have to spell it out? Look, as someone who was on the verge of mental breakdown from a simple toothache, I have nothing else to say other than: This is admirable. And he did it to protect the world that, need I remind you, wasn't particularly kind to him. On the same note, he just never joined Bill in the first place: not in the 80s, and not during Weirdmageddon.

"Oh, but he's the one who started the Apocalypse, so he kind of deserved it." Seriously? No, I mean it, are you being serious? Is that something you would say to a person suffering from diabetes type 2, that it's their fault for eating too many sweets; or to someone with liver cirrhosis that they deserve to suffer because of their alcohol addiction? Because this is neither appropriate, nor helpful. Talk about kicking someone when they're down...

8. He's fiercely loyal to his family:

I think the way Ford compliments his grandniece in "The Last Mabelcorn" is very revealing: "You've protected your family. You're a good person, Mabel." His very definition of a "good person" is "someone who supports and protects their family." Which is... interesting to say the least, considering that Ford has spent a very long time away from his family and completely alone. But it does sound like something he aspires to. That's why he goes out of his way to help his family out, whenever they're in trouble. (See point 3 for more on this.)

When Bill threatens the kids, Ford is willing to risk the entire universe for a slim chance that they might be spared. It's a cruel Trolley Problem, which once again proves just how much he values his family. Still, this is some Fate/Zero level angst and I don't want to talk about it more than I absolutely have to. Let's finish this up with something more lighthearted.

9. He's never lost curiosity and childlike wonder:

This! This is what made me fall in love with the man and why I'm wasting my time writing this nonsense in the first place. This allconsuming excitement, when he finds a new anomaly to study; this seemingly endless energy, when he explores new places; this pure joy, when he gets to play DD&MD with Dipper! I don't know how to talk about it without gushing.

Ford obviously loves games, and not just DD&MD. He plays chess with Bill. He mentions being great at charades in the comics. And what cracks me up the most: during Weirdmageddon, when Pacifica compared the Zodiac to a game of hopscotch, not only did not Ford get offended, but he replied: "It would be a pretty fun game of hopscotch." Ford, darling, the world is about to end, is this really the best time to contemplate a hypothetical game of hopscotch? Also, you've just been through something traumatic... Forget it, you've been through 3 decades of traumatic experiences, can you at least have the decency to become a tad more cynical as you age, like the rest of us. I guess, mirth really is the mail of anguish. (It's from Emily Dickinson's poem and the quote means that some people act cheerful to hide their suffering.)

Also, something Ford doesn't get enough credit for, mostly because people usually focus on his academic achievements, but he is quite creative. He draws incredibly detailed sketches not only depicting various anomalies he encounters, but also whatever happens in his life. (Probably off-topic, but I find the implications of that karaoke page so funny. Think about it: the guy sobered up, looked at the incomprehensible nonsense he had written the previous night and thought: "You know what? This could really use an illustration.") Also don't forget that he canonically plays piano. Yeah, if I were Stan, I'd be jealous too.

And of course, that's why he's so passionate about science. Sure, part of him wants the fame and recognition that would come, if he makes a big discovery, but you can't deny that he genuinely enjoys learning new things. And that he enjoys sharing them with whoever is willing to listen.

In conclusion, I'm not trying to say that Ford is perfect in every way and has never done a single wrong thing in his life. To be honest, that would've made him a really boring character. So, yes, he is flawed, and misguided, and sometimes insensitive. He's made a lot of missteps because of his upbringing, personality and, as many have speculated, neurodivergence. But I really take issue with people saying Ford's a bad person, when he clearly isn't. Ford is and always was a good person, and by the end of all the trials he became a better person. One who understands that the only way to success is cooperation, not being a lone vigilante. That it's not a weakness to ask for help or to need help in the first place. And that a sea otter shared is a sea otter halved.

That's strange... why did I write that?

[url-is-url]

I'm in a mood to write meta/ramble about my opinions so here's why I think DPxDC fics that put Johnstantine in a paternal/uncle/mentor role are fine actually.

"But John is canonically a godawful father with little to no interest in parenthood" yes, that's why it's funny to throw teenagers at him. He is imminently tormentable. "Bad things happening to John Constantine" is approximately 72% of plots in Hellblazer. Also, Dadantine fics tend to be ones where Danny's parents react violently to him being a ghost and Vlad’s canonical villain motivation is that he wants to be Danny’s dad. The fact that Constantine is a) not his dad and b) has no interest in being his dad immediately makes him a relatively safe adult. Also, subjecting a noir horror protagonist to cartoon teen shenanigans is funny simply by virtue of the contrast. Juxtaposition is hilarious and I primarily read and write fanfic for my own amusement.

"Okay, bad things happening to Johnstantine is 72% Hellblazer plots, but he brings most of that upon himself and the other 28% of Hellblazer plots involve nice or neutral things happening that he proceeds to irretrievably fuck up" yes and after 40-odd years of this I am BORED. A constant never-ending tragedy train gets boring. Also I like Johnstantine, if he wasn't a likable scumbag he wouldn't be such a compelling character. Maybe I want him to have nice things sometimes! Also, by virtue of cartoon protagonist plot armor, if anybody could survive being in John's "I Kill Everything Good In My Life" radius it would be Danny Phantom.

I'm not saying you have to like Dadantine dpxdc fics, I'm just saying that they can be done in a way that makes sense for John's character. I personally feel that those are the ones where they tame each other like feral cats and they both think the other one is the feral cat.

[seriousfic]

I was watching a Youtube video recently of a nerd convention or a podcast filming where the panelists were discussing which movie they would erase from history if they had the chance. And obviously they all said they would never erase a movie, but if they DID... Elijah Wood gave this thoughtful answer about how Tim Burton's remake of Charlie And The Chocolate Factory brought nothing new to the table and it almost retroactively ruined the original by making Wonka a creep instead of a lovable, magical figure. Very credible argument; he's engaging with the question.

Then the microphone goes to Kevin Smith. And he's a big nerd, you'd think he'd have a good nerdy answer. Maybe a Star Wars movie that took the franchise in the wrong direction or a Batman movie that ruined the series' momentum. Instead, he says Triumph of the Will, and you can just feel an UGH go through an audience that he's not going to answer the question in good faith, he's just going to pivot to Nazi shit and virtue-signal.

And that kinda exemplified for me how the modern world and modern politics have ruined being a hater. Because a generation ago, we had these real nerdy figures who were also in the world of acting and Hollywood. Kevin Smith, Simon Pegg, a few others. Tom Welling might play Superman, but c'mon--you know he didn't read comics for fun.

And part of being a nerd wasn't just being self-referential or making nerdy stuff like sci-fi or horror--it was hating on the excesses of the genre. Pegg famously called out The Phantom Menace, saying

And that's not something that happens now. Part of it I think is that they're simply sell-outs. Pegg starred in The Force Awakens, he's a friend of J.J. Abrams--Kevin Smith writes DC comics, he directed episodes of The Flash and Supergirl... they're not going to piss off their bosses and lose potential work by complaining about Man of Steel, or at least complaining too loudly.

And the other part of it is that being a hater at all has become verboten. How many times have you seen a reviewer give a lousy review to something like Captain America: Brave New World, but preface it by saying something like "I'm no chud grifter Trump voter incel, but this movie really is bad"? Or qualify every negative criticism of Doctor Who by saying that Jodie Whittaker is a good actress and her Doctor sucking is the fault of the nearest straight white man (Chris Chibnail).

You can say old-school sci-fi fandom was overly negative--if that can possibly be applied to people who, for fun, watched Space: 1999--but it was also apolitical. There wasn't this boosterism we see today where liking a movie is synonymous with being a good person and not being a fan is suspicious, borderline treasonous behavior.

It's like the only thing you can criticize a show for is not being black enough or not being gay enough, and any discussion of the craft or execution of a piece of media is secondary to how effectively it propagandizes some vague pro-girl anti-Nazi political platform.

"Who cares if Captain Marvel was good or not, it pissed off some people I'm going to think of as Nazis and this is a tangible good for the world in some way."

And it didn't use to be like this! We used to make fun of this shit! We didn't obsess over Nazis all day like one Nazi in Missouri enjoying a movie about a white man was going to restart the Holocaust.

But now everything is Not So Bad or an Unappreciated Classic and it's just so defensive, isn't it? We can't admit that movies are worse, we can't admit that TV shows are worse, so we just keep pretending that everything's better than ever or else the Putins win.

[sergiosimptellitto]

Ecce: Femina

Ecco: Femina

A Geoffredo Tedesco x fem!OC work

Journal Entry April 14 Somewhere in the French countryside "Domine, non sum dignus ut intres sub tectum meum..." The irony is not lost on me. The Lord enters the house of sinners. Today, I entered a kitchen. Lucas insists this is good for me. He says my thoughts have become dry. That the mind, like soil, needs air and sunlight lest it harden. That I’ve become too much stone and not enough breath. Father Lorenzo, with his maddening gentleness, said it better: “Write something each night, even if it’s nothing but your pride leaking out.” So I write. Today, I awoke from a dream I’ve had in many forms. A cottage. Children. Bread. The smell of peace. Always faceless, the woman. A veil. A kitchen. A life that might have been mine had I been a lesser man. Or perhaps a freer one. But this time, the dream didn’t dissolve. The scent stayed. Real bread, real hunger. And when I followed it—I found something… not divine. Not demonic. Simply real...

April 12th– (Verona, 1993)

Father Geoffredo Tedesco was tired. Not tired like men who sleep little, or who walk long distances, or who bear physical strain—though he knew those too. This was something else. A hollowness in the lungs when he breathed. A silence in the chapel that felt heavier each day. A fatigue in the soul.

He was forty years old and had the weight of it in his back, his joints, his prayers. A brilliant linguist—Doctor of Philology, fluent in Greek, Latin, Aramaic, and five modern tongues—but these days he found himself thumbing through old dictionaries more from habit than hunger. The Word still mattered. The Church still mattered. God still mattered.

But the world... the world had become unbearable.

Divorce, abortion, vanity, immodesty, irreverence—everywhere he turned, sin had been rebranded as liberation. And worse, the flock no longer wept when they confessed. They laughed. They excused. They said, “You must understand, Father—it’s complicated.”

No, it wasn’t. It was wrong. And yet, he remained—hearing confessions, offering Mass, lecturing students, giving spiritual direction to people who could not spell obedience if it were engraved in stone.

That morning, he had reprimanded a married man in the parish—calmly at first, then not so calmly. The man had admitted to an affair with the same sheepish smirk Tedesco had seen too many times.

“You broke a vow before God and your wife,” Tedesco had said, voice cold. “And you think that’s easy for me?” the man shot back. “You think I wanted this? I tried!” “Trying doesn’t sanctify betrayal.” “Oh come on, Father—You would’ve done better?”

That stopped him. Just a second. A hesitation no one else noticed.

The man stormed off. Tedesco stood still.

Would he have done better?

The question hung in the air like incense that wouldn't burn out.

He walked back to his office and closed the door behind him, sat at his desk covered in papers and theological journals he no longer had the heart to annotate. He leaned back, tilted his head to the ceiling.

A wife.

A home.

Children who would look like him. A son who would carry the name. A daughter with dark curls and a hymn in her voice. A woman—modest, warm, pious—who would rise before dawn to make coffee and kiss him on the cheek. Who would pray with him. Kneel beside him.

Not temptation. Not lust. Order. Grace. Continuity.

Would he have done better?

He rubbed his hands over his face. He knew what this was. The beginnings of temptation disguised as hypothetical virtue. But he didn’t stop the thought. He let it sit.

What would his life have been like?

And why—why did he feel like he was grieving something he never even chose?

Father Tedesco sat in his study in Verona, the shutters cracked open just enough to let in the gold of the late afternoon. The bell tower rang distantly—four o’clock. The city moved outside without him.

He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the letter again. Folded crisply, written in Lucas’ fast, slanting hand—ink as familiar as the man’s voice. Lucas Dumont, an old friend from his doctoral years in Paris. A jewish man, regrettably. But sharp as ever, and—Tedesco had to admit—one of the few who still took ancient texts seriously.

The letter was in French. Of course it was. Just like Geoffredo, Lucas never resisted the chance to flaunt his “mother tongue.”

Lettre de Lucas Dumont Mon cher Geoffredo, I hope this letter finds you well and not buried under too many penitents or too much paperwork. I write to offer you a break—not a vacation, don’t worry, I know the word gives you hives—but a project. We’ve begun preliminary work translating a series of liturgical texts and glosses recently discovered in a private archive near Avignon. Old French, Latin, Occitan—some of it is nonsense, but some...is fascinating. You're the only man I trust with the syntax of Saint Isidore and the stubborn poetry of pre-Scholastic verse. We’ll be staying at a large countryside house, something between a monastery and a vineyard. There’s a small team—no one irritating. A few doctoral candidates. Some very bad wine. It’s more a camp than fieldwork, to be honest. You’ll hate the informality, but you’ll love the material. Think of it as a retreat with ink and dust. Say yes. Avec toute mon affection, Lucas.

Geoffredo read the letter slowly. Again. He knew it by heart by now, but still, he let his eyes move across the page as though trying to extract a new sentence that might change his mind.

A countryside house. A handful of scholars. A stack of forgotten texts.

No parishioners. No married men who cheat on their wives. No children given names from soap operas. No women with bare shoulders at Mass. No neon signs outside abortion clinics.

Just...words. The ancient ones. The holy ones.

He exhaled through his nose, then folded the letter neatly and slipped it back into the drawer. Closed it.

The air in the room felt heavier than before. Not sad, exactly. But full of something old, and slow-moving.

He did not say yes.

Not yet.

A faint chime came from the small brass tray on his desk—another letter, another folded photograph, another disruption.

Geoffredo opened it without thinking, more to dispose of the distraction than from any curiosity. Inside, a glossy square. A newborn. Swaddled in blue. His name scribbled in ballpoint ink on the back.

Emanuele, born Tuesday.

It was the third child this year. His fourth nephew. Fifth if he counted Lucia’s stepchild, though he preferred not to.

Eight living siblings. Eight. And together they had five children. Five. A disgrace.

He stared at the photo in silence. The baby looked wrinkled, indistinct. Small. Not yet heavy with meaning.

Once—long ago, when his bones didn’t ache and the world hadn’t yet slid into filth—he imagined he would have a large family. Not just large—fruitful. As Scripture demanded. As the Lord blessed.

Five children? No. At least five sons himself. Perhaps six. A daughter or two. Children were arrows, the psalm said. Arrows in the hands of a warrior. Not ornaments. Not accidents. Weapons of virtue, meant to defend the walls of the home, the name, the faith.

His chest tightened—not from grief, but from memory.

He had always had this image in his mind, half-formed, like a prayer not yet spoken aloud. A home. A wife. A place with shutters and stone, with chickens scratching outside and firewood stacked near the door. He used to imagine it idly on the train rides back from Rome after seminary. And now, as the photograph of the new nephew slid between his fingers, the vision took shape again.

This time, he let it.

He was entering the house, the cottage in Rome—not the city, but the countryside outside it, where the olive groves were patient and the air held heat like scripture held grace.

The door creaked open under his hand. Inside, the air was soft and warm, heavy with the smell of rosemary and baking bread. Enough food for a family of ten. Loaves wrapped in cloth, a bubbling pot, fruit piled high in bowls. Not the hunger he’d known as a boy. Not the rationed meat, the hollow bellies, the stingy mouths of tired mothers.

Here, there was abundance.

He walked through the rooms—quiet, yet full of presence. A cradle here. A stack of children’s drawings there. Rosaries. Laced tablecloths. Crumbs on the floor, the evidence of joy. No poverty. No lack.

There were beds—five, six, seven—all made, all clean. Covered in blankets that smelled of lavender and warmth. Boots by the door. A coat he recognized but never owned. This was his house. His home.

And then, the kitchen.

The fire crackled low under the stove, and someone stood with her back to him. A woman. Graceful, tall, serene. Her back turned. Sleeves rolled modestly. She moved like she knew the rhythm of the house better than language. She was stirring something. The wooden spoon moved slow and firm, with care.

He couldn’t see her face.

She was wearing a veil.

Of course she was. A modest woman veils herself, not because she is ashamed, but because she is holy. Hidden not in fear, but in reverence. Like the Ark. Like the tabernacle. Like the Virgin herself.

He stood in the doorway for a long time, watching her.

She turned, or almost did, shifting slightly, as if about to greet him.

He opened his mouth.

And the breath that came out was too warm, too close to—

No.

Geoffredo jolted back in the chair, the edges of the desk biting into his palms. His breath came short. His collar felt too tight.

He slapped himself. Not gently.

The sharp sting grounded him. He rubbed his jaw where his fingers had landed and stood abruptly, crossing the room in three strides to throw open the shutters. The air outside was cold and bright and full of noise—motorbikes, pigeons, the metallic whine of Verona’s afternoon.

He leaned into the window frame. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.

What was that?

A dream? A test?

No. Worse. A desire.

He gritted his teeth. His fingers curled into fists.

"Deliver us not into temptation..." he muttered aloud, lips dry. "But deliver us from evil."

And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, he could smell the bread.

The Archbishop noticed it first—not in confession, nor in the pulpit, but in the sacristy.

It was a Sunday morning at San Lorenzo, and the priests were vesting in silence. The scent of beeswax and incense mingled with the faint sting of antiseptic. Geoffredo moved stiffly as he pulled the alb over his shoulders, his hands trembling slightly when he reached for the cincture. His fingers, usually so precise, so disciplined, fumbled the knot.

“Are you ill?” asked Monsignor Alvani, glancing at him sideways as he fastened his own stole.

“No,” Tedesco answered quickly. “Just tired.”

But his complexion was pale, his jaw tighter than usual, and his hands—yes, those were shaking.

It wasn’t until Vespers the following week that the Archbishop called him aside.

They sat in the sacristy, after the laypeople had gone home and the candles had been snuffed. Geoffredo remained standing, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier waiting for orders.

“You’ve grown leaner,” the Archbishop said gently. “Your appetite?”

“I eat what I need.”

“Hmm.” A pause. Then, more carefully: “And sleep?”

Geoffredo said nothing. His face was still, but his eyes betrayed something fractured. Tight. Frayed.

“We’ve received reports,” the Archbishop continued. “From the brother assigned to lauds. He says you’ve been arriving...earlier than usual.”

Tedesco gave a slow nod. “It is good to begin the day with mortification.”

“That’s not what he described.” A longer silence. “He says he found blood on the bench, and on the floor beneath it.”

At this, Geoffredo closed his eyes. He did not speak. He did not deny it.

The Archbishop sighed and folded his hands. “You’ve taken to the disciplinaria, haven’t you?”

Geoffredo nodded once. “More frequently.”

“Daily?”

“Twice,” he admitted, low. “Once before matins. Once after vespers.”

The Archbishop let the silence settle between them. The disciplinaria—a knotted cord, sometimes iron-tipped, used for self-flagellation—was not forbidden. On the contrary, it had once been a noble spiritual practice. Saints had used it. Monastics still did. But only under spiritual direction. Never compulsively. Never alone.

“You are not a Carthusian,” the Archbishop said finally. “Nor a desert father. You are a diocesan priest. You must serve.”

“I am serving.”

“At the cost of your flesh.”

Geoffredo opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Your hands shake during Mass. You’ve stopped attending communal meals. You hide in your study, writing treatises no one asked for. And you preach more about wrath than mercy.”

The words landed gently. But they landed.

“You are a shepherd, not a martyr,” the Archbishop finished. “And we cannot afford to lose you to zeal.”

There was a pause. Then a piece of paper slid across the table.

Lucas’ letter. Translated, printed, annotated.

“Go to France,” the Archbishop said. “Two months. Work. Rest. Pray in a different air. That is my instruction, not my suggestion.”

And for the first time in weeks, Geoffredo could not argue.

The confessional was dark, close, and quiet.

Not the broad open boxes they used now in suburban parishes—this was the old kind, carved wood, with a thick curtain and a sliding panel. A place where sins could breathe in secrecy, where the heart could crack without consequence.

Father Geoffredo knelt, folding his hands so tightly his knuckles ached. He didn’t speak right away. On the other side of the screen, the old confessor—Father Lorenzo, nearly blind, half-retired—waited in patient silence.

Then Geoffredo spoke.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eight days since my last confession."

"Go on, my son."

A breath. Then another.

"I’ve had thoughts. Not carnal—not overtly. But they come like visions. Fantasies. I see... a woman. Not any woman. The same one, always. She’s Beautiful. Veiled. Modest. She serves. She speaks softly. She recites scripture like breath. She kneads dough while children cling to her skirts. She never raises her voice. She never disobeys."

His voice trembled.

"She’s not real. She’s... my design. A Proverbs 31 woman made in my image. Made to obey. Made to bear my name, my will, my children."

Silence.

"I dream of her with my children. My sons—broad-shouldered, laughing. My daughters—intelligent, graceful. I walk into the house and everything is in order. I am the order."

He wiped at his face. Then, quieter:

"I know what I’ve done. I’ve turned scripture into scaffolding for my desire. I’ve used God’s Word to dress my fantasies in holiness. I tell myself it’s not lust. That it’s righteousness. Legacy. Order. But when I see her—this woman—I want to take her. Gently. Completely. Over and over."

His voice cracked.

"Sometimes I imagine she doesn’t even speak. Just nods. Just listens."

A sob, then another.

"I cry during baptisms. Do you know that, Father? I baptize babies and I feel... cheated. Not by God—no, never by God—but by something. Like I missed a door I was meant to open. And when I see pregnant women in the pews, it’s like being stabbed with light. A brightness I’m not allowed to enter."

He tried to breathe but failed.

"And I hate how much I want it. Not the woman. Not the body. The life. The unity. The power of it. I want to be the priest and the husband. The master of the house. I want to lay hands on her belly and say, ‘This is good.’"

He buried his face in his hands.

"I can’t unthink it anymore. It’s everywhere. In the way I preach. In how I judge. It’s not just sin—it’s grief. It’s—"

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"—it’s loneliness dressed as theology."

On the other side, Father Lorenzo waited a moment. Then spoke, quiet as dust.

"My son... you are not the first to love an ideal more than a person."

Geoffredo wept harder.

"You are not damned. But you are lost in your own design. You have built a cathedral around a fantasy. It’s time to walk outside."

A pause.

"For your penance: ten minutes before the Blessed Sacrament each morning. But say nothing. Just listen."

Geoffredo nodded. The screen slid shut.

And he was left in the dark—emptier, but perhaps, finally, honest.

The room was small, lined with oak bookshelves and crowned by a crucifix that stared down with silent, pierced judgment. The late afternoon sun filtered in through old glass, dust rising in golden streaks. Verona's diocesan offices had never looked so much like a tribunal.

Father Geoffredo sat straight in his chair, black cassock immaculate, face composed. But inside, his stomach had coiled into a silent fist.

Three men sat across from him.

Monsignor Alvani, stern and stone-faced. Archbishop Merani, gracious but remote, hands folded neatly like a bishop in an oil painting. And to the right—quiet, gentle-eyed—Father Lorenzo. Half-retired. Half-forgotten. The one who’d heard his confession.

Tedesco understood immediately. So he told them.

“Father Geoffredo,” the Archbishop began. “You are a priest of great intellect. Great fervor. And also—if I may say it—great suffering.”

A pause. Tedesco said nothing.

“We have grown concerned. This past year has taken a visible toll. Your body shows it. Your tone in sermons shows it. And... your confession confirms it.”

He bristled. “I didn’t know confessions were a topic for committee discussion.”

Father Lorenzo spoke softly. “I didn’t share your sins, my son. Only your exhaustion.”

A silence passed like a shadow.

“We are not here to punish you,” Alvani said, clipped. “We are here to offer you what most priests never admit they need. A reprieve.”

Geoffredo’s eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly.”

Merani looked at him gently. “We would like you to take a sabbatical. There is a project in France—literary, linguistic. It would allow you to return to your scholarly roots. Time to study, to think, to pray in a different rhythm.”

He said nothing.

“You may take it as rest. Or research. Or... discernment.”

And there it was. The word that sliced open everything.

Discernment.

A euphemism. An escape hatch. A door out.

“You’re asking me to consider leaving the priesthood,” he said flatly.

“No,” Merani said. “We’re reminding you that the Lord calls His sons in different ways.”

“Some calls don’t come twice,” Geoffredo said bitterly.

“Some grow over time,” said Lorenzo. “Like vines. Like fatherhood.”

Tedesco turned to him sharply.

Lorenzo’s gaze held his.

“There is more than one priesthood,” the old man said quietly. “Perhaps the Lord is drawing you toward the other kind. The one that lives in the hearth. The one that raises children. The one that loves a woman not in temptation, but in covenant.”

Geoffredo didn’t breathe.

“That, too, is a holy calling,” Lorenzo finished. “The priesthood of the father. The head of the house.”

It broke him open. Not into tears—not yet—but into silence. That kind of silence that hollows the chest and fills it with something else: hope.

A terrible, terrifying hope.

He looked down at his hands. Pale, calloused, trembling.

Could it be? Could the longings he’d buried, twisted into self-flagellation and bitter sermons, be not temptation—but prophecy? Not defiance—but direction?

A family.

A house full of order, warmth, scripture.

A woman in a veil, not as an idol—but as a partner.

Children who prayed before dinner, who bore his name like a banner.

Geoffredo swallowed hard.

Merani pushed the folder toward him.

“Go. Rest. Translate. Pray.”

“And if I don’t come back?” he asked quietly.

Lorenzo smiled, soft and sad. “Then may the Lord bless your new vestments.”

The silence that followed was not condemnation.

It was permission.

The train hummed beneath him, cutting through the French countryside in long, sun-drenched lines. Geoffredo sat stiffly by the window, cassock buttoned to the throat, suitcase tucked beneath his feet. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of dust and iron. A small village blurred past the glass—cows, vineyards, shutters half-closed in the heat.

His eyes drifted shut.

He didn’t mean to sleep.

But the movement of the train rocked him loose from thought, from vigilance.

And then—there it was again.

The house.

He knew it now. The walls of stone, the soft orange light, the smell of bread and woodsmoke and linen. The doors opened without creak. The shutters let in gentle air. And somewhere inside, laughter—children’s laughter. Familiar. His.

He stepped into the bedroom.

The bed was wide. Clean. Covered in soft ivory sheets. The light slanted across the floor.

And there—

She was there.

Still faceless. A blur. A silhouette outlined by sunlight. She was standing at the window, quiet, her veil slipping slightly down the back of her neck.

He still couldn’t see her face. He had never been able to. It wasn’t the face that mattered. It was the presence. The posture. The obedience.

But today—something shifted.

For the first time, he noticed her skin. Not pale. No. A warm tone, olive and glowing in the late afternoon light. Her arms bare to the elbow as she folded something small—a child’s garment, perhaps.

Her lips. Full, slightly parted.

Her waist—slim. Her hips—made for bearing.

His own thoughts startled him.

He had never imagined her so clearly before. He had always dressed her in scripture, in Proverbs, in obedience. But now—

He saw her turn slightly.

And heard his own voice, not preaching, not praying—

“You are mine. You will give yourself to me. That is your joy, your design, your covenant. You are my wife, and I claim what is mine.”

She nodded. Head bowed.

He stepped toward her.

His breath caught.

His chest rose, fell.

Rose—again.

Something in his chest began to tighten. To burn.

His hand reached forward—he was going to touch her veil, lift it, finally—

The train jolted to a halt.

The brakes screeched hard against the rails, and the momentum snapped his head forward. His eyes shot open. For a second, he didn’t remember where he was.

Just the scent of iron. The shape of her lips.

His breathing was too fast. His throat was dry. He sat back sharply in the seat, one hand clamped to the armrest, the other pressed to his chest.

He wiped his face with his sleeve.

He was sweating.

Outside the window, the station name passed into view. A whitewashed sign, edged in moss.

He was here.

France.

Geoffredo adjusted his shirt collar—simple, crisp, layman's white.

It felt strange.

His fingers kept reaching, reflexively, for the button at the throat, for the black fabric, for the heavy symbolism of his office. But this time, it wasn’t there. He had left his clerical clothes folded in the bottom of his suitcase. Locked. Deliberately.

Before leaving Verona, he had written to Lucas with a request that was more a confession than a favor: “I ask, as a courtesy and a brother, that you refrain from disclosing my clerical vocation to the team. Let me be among them as a scholar, not a priest.”

Lucas, to his credit, had replied in a single line: Bien sûr. Il n’y a pas de soutane entre nous.

Now, standing on the station platform, suitcase in hand, the smell of warm hay and pine in the air, Geoffredo swallowed the taste of dust and shame.

He stepped onto the gravel path that led away from the train stop. The French countryside opened before him—rolling fields, the soft sound of insects, a scattering of olive trees, and the occasional burst of red poppies between the weeds. He hated to admit it, but it was beautiful.

Despite being French.

It wasn’t quite the Roman campagna. But it wasn’t far off, either. There was something Mediterranean in its hush, its gold-edged stillness. The kind of place that looked like it had been holding its breath for centuries. And walking up the stone road, seeing the outline of the estate—tall shutters, cracked blue paint, climbing ivy—he felt something in his chest loosen.

It looked, frighteningly, like the place he had dreamed of.

The house—no, the manor—stood at the top of a gentle hill. Older than modernity, likely 18th century, but kept up with love. A vineyard curved behind it like a parenthesis. White sheets fluttered on a line. Chickens strutted without urgency.

He approached the front steps and raised his hand to knock, only for the door to swing open first.

Lucas stood there, smiling with that irreverent light in his eyes.

“Tedesco,” he said in French. “You look like a man who packed guilt in his suitcase.”

“You said this would be informal,” Geoffredo replied, switching languages easily. “You didn’t mention it would be Eden.”

Lucas grinned and stepped aside. “Come in. I’ll show you around.”

The interior was cool, high-ceilinged, full of books and mismatched chairs. The scent of something herbal—thyme, perhaps—hung in the air. He saw a young man napping on a faded divan, papers on his chest. Another person—he couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman—sat cross-legged on the floor near a large wooden table, murmuring to themselves while scribbling notes.

Lucas waved a hand casually. “Half the team’s in the vineyard doing phonetic recordings. The rest are trickling in over the next two days. I’ll introduce you to everyone properly over dinner.”

He led Geoffredo down a long hallway, sunlight dappling the tiled floors. “You’ll have your own room, of course. I put you in the east wing—quiet, good light, and away from the students in case their late-night wine debates get tiresome.”

They reached the room.

It was simple, airy. A large window looked out over the back orchard. The bed had a real mattress—blessedly—not the slab he was used to at the rectory. There was a wooden writing desk. A pitcher of water. A folded towel.

Lucas opened the window.

“There. Now you’re a man of the world again.”

Geoffredo said nothing for a moment. He looked out at the trees. Heard birds. Wind.

“I don’t know if I’m here to rest,” he said, quietly.

Lucas shrugged. “That’s between you and your ghosts.”

Then he left him to unpack.

The room was modest, almost austere, and that suited him.

A wide bed with a handmade quilt, rough linen sheets. One wooden writing desk, a low dresser, and a lamp that flickered when you turned it on. A crucifix hung above the bed—carved oak, worn smooth from generations of fingers touching the foot of Christ. The window opened to rows of plum trees, just on the edge of bloom. Their scent floated in gently with the breeze.

He placed his suitcase on the bed and opened it.

He had packed with discipline, almost severity.

Three plain white shirts.

Two pairs of wool trousers.

One spare cassock, buried at the bottom—not for public wear, just... in case.

Three undershirts, five pairs of socks, and a pair of worn leather shoes, carefully polished.

A Latin Vulgate.

A New Testament in Greek.

His tattered personal breviary.

A small notebook for field observations.

A slim black leather belt, and—out of old habit—a bottle of rosewater he used for shaving.

And wrapped in linen, protected like relics: two small disciplinary cords, coiled like snakes.

He stared at them for a moment. Then placed them inside the desk drawer, without ceremony.

His bags were nearly empty now.

He moved to the bookshelf—mostly empty—and placed his books there. He opened the window wider, letting in the sunlight and distant smell of thyme and woodsmoke.

Just then, a soft knock.

The door opened without waiting. A man stepped in—early forties, smiling, thick glasses sliding down his nose.

“Geoffredo? I thought it was you.”

It was Étienne Duval, a linguist he’d once co-taught a seminar with in Rome. Polite, harmless. Liked phonetics a bit too much, and always kept cheese in his bag.

“I didn’t realize you were coming,” Geoffredo said, standing.

“Neither did I. Reinauld told me last week—made it sound like a retreat with a touch of grammar.” Étienne chuckled. “I came for the wine and stayed for the manuscripts.”

He leaned against the doorframe. “Maranata is taking care of the rest.”

Geoffredo looked up. “I’m sorry—who?”

Étienne’s eyes lit. “Maranata. She’s cooking tonight, actually. Said she was used to large kitchens. Took over the pantry in about five minutes. Reinauld was thrilled. Says she reminds him of his mother’s housekeeper.”

Geoffredo blinked. “Maranata?”

He repeated the name softly, like a liturgical response. Maranata. Come, Lord.

The Aramaic word that appeared in early Christian worship. A sacred invocation. Half-prayer, half-warning.

Who names their child Maranata?

Étienne didn’t notice his change in tone. “Yes, I believe she’s the youngest here. Fresh from Latin America, although she did most of her education at the States. The kind that wears aprons and quotes Aquinas at breakfast. You’ll see.”

He gave a nod and wandered off down the hallway.

Geoffredo remained by the bed, suddenly very still.

The youngest. Aprons. Theology. In the kitchen.

His heart gave a strange thump. Not lust. Not panic. Something worse.

Anticipation.

The evening had settled softly over the vineyard, with a peach-toned sky bleeding into a lavender horizon. Dinner had ended, the plates cleared by volunteers, and people lingered over wine and espresso on the veranda.

Geoffredo sat alone at the edge of the terrace, nursing a demitasse of bitter black coffee. He had already declined wine. Twice. Politely. With just enough emphasis to suggest that the third offer might insult him theologically.

He was reading, or pretending to, the pages fluttering as if the book resented being a prop.

That’s when Sophie approached.

She was a comparative philologist from Belgium. Young—perhaps late twenties—with a penchant for cropped sweaters and declaring things “bourgeois.” She had been eyeing him since lunch. Possibly drawn in by his cheekbones. Possibly by the fact that he seemed to ignore her entirely.

“So,” she said, leaning on the railing beside him, “do Italian men grow that brooding look in seminary, or is it a birthright?”

He didn’t look up.

“In Italy,” he replied coolly, “we prefer to grow olives and saints. Brooding is for the French.”

She laughed. “That’s a no, then?”

He turned a page. “That’s a ‘not yet.’”

Sophie tilted her head. “You’re very hard to read.”

“Yes,” he said, still not looking at her. “That’s intentional.”

Undeterred, she sat down across from him and poured herself a finger of red wine. She smiled—wide, deliberate, American-style flirtation.

“So. What does a man like you believe in?”

He finally closed the book.

“Hierarchy,” he said, with a small smile. “Structure. Proper grammar. The Virgin Birth. That sort of thing.”

She blinked, unsure if he was joking.

“And,” he continued, now gazing at her with alarming warmth, “the terrifying ease with which people use conversation to try to gain power. Especially women.”

“Excuse me?” Her voice tilted, unsure whether to laugh or slap him.

“I think it’s charming,” he said sweetly. “How you imagine I might be flattered into disclosing my deeper convictions with the promise of shared wine and your undivided attention.”

Sophie flushed, still not sure if this was flirtation… or humiliation.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “But I do so little to hide it.”

He stood, collected his book, and offered a mock bow so shallow it might have been sarcastic.

“Good night, Mademoiselle Sophie. I do hope you get what you’re looking for. Whatever it is this week.”

He left her there, open-mouthed, the other scholars too polite to intervene—but not too discreet to gossip.

By breakfast, the whispering had begun.

“The Italian?”

“Good-looking, in a Fellini sort of way.”

“Painfully Catholic.”

“Weird. Like—knife-under-the-pillow weird.”

“I thought he was flirting, but then he mentioned the Inquisition.”

“He made fun of my research proposal and then kissed my hand. I think I was insulted.”

“He laughs at your jokes but not with you.”

By the time the sun rose over the vineyard the next morning, his reputation was set:

Arrogant, unreadable, conservative, gorgeous—and not to be trusted.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Children’s shoes were piled in the corner—small leather ones, laced and dusted with mud. Someone had left an open book on the floor: Lives of the Saints, edges dog-eared by little hands. The candlelight danced on the thick stone walls, and the smell of bread—warm, rich, leavened with honey—filled the air like incense.

He was home.

She was there, of course. Always the same. Modest dress. Bare feet on clean tiles. A scarf over her hair, pinned loosely. She didn’t speak, but she turned when he entered, smiling in that patient, holy way that made him ache.

His chest rose. He reached out—

But something shifted.

The children blurred. The fire collapsed into ash. The walls peeled into darkness.

He was waking.

And yet—the smell remained.

He opened his eyes.

It was still dark, the blue of pre-dawn soaking the windowpane. His room was cold. No fire. No woman. But the scent—that scent—lingered.

Fresh bread.

He sat up sharply. Was it real?

A pause.

Yes. It was real.

He dressed quickly, carelessly—shirt misbuttoned, no belt—and followed the scent like a man possessed. Down the corridor. Past the stairwell. Out the back door, across the small courtyard toward the main hall—an old farmhouse kitchen with a cathedral roof, beams thick as tree trunks, windows still greyed with sleep.

He stopped just before the door.

He could hear voices.

Lucas. Étienne. And... a woman. Soft-spoken. Clear. Confident.

They were deep in discussion, coffee mugs in hand, the oven ticking quietly in the background.

Lucas spoke: “But if God allows evil, how is He not its author?”

Étienne chimed in, amused. “Classic Calvinist trap.”

Then her voice, light but unmistakably clear:

“Can God be evil?” “Can a circle be square?”

They laughed. But she continued, calm and precise.

“The question itself assumes an external standard of good, as though God is accountable to something higher. But God is the standard. If He were evil, then evil would become the good by definition.”

Étienne whistled, impressed. Lucas sipped his coffee.

“So God is good because good is what God is,” she added. “Not because someone else decides it.”

Geoffredo froze.

It wasn’t the content—he had heard the argument before. In Aquinas, in Augustine, in every classroom worth its salt.

It was the way she said it.

Like she wasn’t just reciting theology.

Like she believed it.

Fully. Without embellishment. Without performance.

He closed his eyes.

“But then how do you define good?”

She answered without hesitation.

“God defines it. He is the measure. Not our feelings. Not circumstances. Good isn’t whatever comforts us—it’s whatever reflects Him.”

Lucas let out a low whistle. “You’re quoting Anselm before sunrise. That’s cruel.”

She laughed.

It was the first time Geoffredo heard her laugh. It was quiet, like wind through reeds.

“I’m quoting scripture,” she said. “He is light, and in Him is no darkness at all.”

Silence.

Then Étienne again, soft and almost embarrassed. “You should really be preaching somewhere.”

“I’m not called to the pulpit,” she said. “Not in that way. I like the kitchen. The Lord walked into Martha’s house before He walked into the synagogue.”

After year’s seeing her father’s ministry and the intrincacies of the church, Maranata was not eager at all to have a church of her own.

Lucas’s voice: “Well, He’d better walk into this kitchen soon, because that bread smells like a revelation.”

They all laughed.

Geoffredo stepped back from the door.

His chest felt… odd. Tight. Not like temptation, but like standing before a burning bush.

The scent of bread clung to his coat.

The scent of bread still clung to him.

Geoffredo stepped lightly onto the stone floor of the main hall, heart steadier than before, but only just. The kitchen was bathed in warm light, the kind that turned linen golden and steam holy. An enamel stove ticked in the background, and the table—an enormous wooden thing—was cluttered with carafes, ceramic plates, jars of honey, and cloth-covered baskets still exhaling the last breaths of night-baked bread.

They were gathered around the table—Lucas, Étienne, and her.

She sat closest to Lucas, sleeves rolled to the forearm, a towel draped over her lap. Lucas had one foot in a shallow basin of steaming water and herbs. The sight struck Geoffredo oddly—not intimate, but familial. Unassuming.

She looked up just as he entered.

Her smile was easy, no lightning bolt, no holy revelation. Just a natural act of welcome. He had seen it in parishioners all his life—widows offering cake at the church door, young mothers passing the peace. But this one landed differently.

Lucas waved, beckoning. “Come in, man. You look like a ghost. Did the smell drag you out of bed?”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Geoffredo said, which was technically true. “I… woke early.”

Étienne gestured to the food. “Then you’re just in time. We’re trying to convince her to open a bakery and abandon all scholarly ambition.”

She stood as he approached. “Good morning,” she said softly, her accent tinged with a southern warmth. “You must be Dr. Tedesco.”

He nodded.

She leaned in and placed a light kiss on his left cheek.

Geoffredo, raised Italian to his marrow, mirrored the gesture instinctively—though in his case, it was more calculated than natural. A cultural transaction.

“Call me Geoffredo,” he said.

“Then you must call me Maranata.”

She smiled again, more with her eyes than her mouth.

Before he could say anything further, she picked up a linen-wrapped bundle from the counter and unfolded it carefully.

Inside: a still-warm loaf—round, golden, brushed with oil and herbs.

She tore a piece from the crown—the first bite, the softest part—and held it out toward him.

Without thinking, he nodded, took it from her fingers.

The crust crackled faintly in his palm. The scent—thyme, rosemary, honey, wheat—was almost too much.

He took a bite.

It was unspeakably good.

Crisp. Pillowy. Slightly sweet. Unpretentious. Honest.

He didn’t moan, but something in his posture softened visibly. Maranata noticed.

“Sit,” she said gently. “I’ll serve you properly.”

He sat.

She plated for him with care—not dainty, not indulgent, but generous. A slice of bread, a smear of fresh butter, a spoonful of baked tomatoes in oil, a piece of soft sheep’s cheese, a small bowl of scrambled eggs dusted with herbs.

He devoured it.

She refilled his plate almost before he finished the first—quietly, without fanfare.

Étienne raised an eyebrow. “You’ll spoil him, Maranata.”

“Let him be spoiled,” she said, pouring him a second glass of water. “It’s a joy when someone eats with gratitude.”

Geoffredo, ever the cynic, would normally suspect flattery.

But she said it without guile. She wasn't praising him.

She simply loved that someone loved her food.

She refilled his plate a third time.

And this time, he looked at her—not with suspicion, not with mysticism—but as a man seeing someone he cannot place in the taxonomy of women he thought he understood.

He took another bite. Didn’t speak.

He just nodded. Silently.

Grateful.

Confused.

And, for the first time in years—

Fed.

He was halfway through his second helping of eggs when her voice interrupted softly.

“Your feet.”

Geoffredo looked up, fork paused.

“They’re dirty,” she said gently, not scolding, not teasing. “You came barefoot through the yard?”

“I was wearing sandals,” he answered stiffly.

Maranata gave a faint tilt of her head. “In the wet grass. With gravel.”

Lucas leaned over from his seat, peering. “And judging by that smear on the floor—you’re bleeding.”

Geoffredo followed his gaze to a faint trail of red at the base of his heel.

He hadn’t noticed.

Étienne leaned forward. “You didn’t feel that?”

“I didn’t register it,” Geoffredo muttered.

But the truth, of course, was worse: he didn’t notice pain until it became silence. He had walked with blisters, flagellated himself for over a decade, knelt on stone until his bones screamed. Pain was not information. It was just… normal.

Maranata stood before he could respond further. “There’s still hot water. Sit back,” she said simply. “Lucas, I’ll need the lavender and salt.”

“I’ve got the calendula,” Étienne added, rising to retrieve the small medicine case they kept for vineyard mishaps.

Geoffredo froze.

“I assure you, it’s unnecessary—”

Maranata had already moved to the sink.

Her tone was unwavering. “You’re tracking blood across the kitchen. I’m responsible for the kitchen.”

She said it like a fact, not a rebuke. As though his pain was simply... untidy.

Lucas chuckled, leaning back with his ankle still in its basin. “She’s terrifying. Get used to it.”

A deep bowl was placed at Geoffredo’s feet.

Warm water. Steam curling up like incense.

Lavender. Salt. A touch of vinegar.

Maranata knelt beside it in deliberate, practical care. She didn’t look at him. Just gently lifted one foot, as if he were a stubborn child or aging uncle, and placed it in the basin.

He flinched—not from the sting, but from the intimacy.

She washed it without commentary. No fuss. No cooing. Her hands were capable and strong. Her nails short. Her movements—modest, as always—but firm. Present.

She didn’t seem disgusted. Or impressed.

Just… attentive.

Étienne returned, crouched beside them, and dabbed the heel with gauze. “Stone shard. It’ll close clean.”

Geoffredo watched them both in silence.

He had healed hundreds of spiritual wounds. Delivered absolutions, heard confessions so soaked in filth they made lesser priests weep.

But no one had ever washed his feet.

He felt… undone.

“Thank you,” he murmured at last.

Maranata looked up, the corner of her mouth lifting—not quite a smile. Just recognition.

“Don’t thank me. Thank the kitchen floor.”

But this time, the dream didn’t dissolve. The scent stayed. Real bread, real hunger. And when I followed it—I found something… not divine. Not demonic. Simply real... A woman named Maranata. The name alone is a theophany. It disturbs me. Not in the sense of threat, but in the older sense of that word: disturbare—to shake the foundations. She quoted Anselm at dawn. Not to impress. Not to teach. But because it was true to her. As natural as breath. And then she served me bread with the same hands that had just defended the nature of God. She tends to the wounded, the foolish, the hungry—with competence. No affectation. No smugness. Her apron is not a performance. She likes the kitchen. She is not trying to be humble. She simply is. And then the feet. She saw what I had not. Blood. I had not noticed. What does that say about me? That pain no longer registers unless it is spiritual? Or that I have learned to ignore the body so completely it now shames me? There was no seduction. No temptation. She didn’t linger. She didn’t gaze up. She didn't thank me for the chance to serve. She washed my feet as if they were a dirty floor. I cannot explain how that undid me. No, that’s not true. I can explain it. I just refuse to admit what it means. There is a term in theology: kenosis—the self-emptying of Christ. That’s what she resembles, though she’d blush or deflect if I said it.

She is not trying to be holy. Which is precisely why I am afraid she is. I will not speak of her again here. I will pray. And tomorrow I will be clearer. Firmer. Less vulnerable. But tonight… I am troubled. And I suspect the Lord is speaking. Or laughing.

[conundrumoftime]

Whether TROP Sauron is repentant or not, some thoughts

(This is the short(ish) version, since I keep meaning to write about this in a more detailed and thoughtful way and then real life keeps interfering. SIGH. But I would like to put my thoughts down somewhere and so here we are.)

So my feelings on this are:

no, he isn't;

I do think he is genuinely regretful but I do not think this is the same as being genuinely repentant;

because while definitions differ, 'repentance' as a concept usually exists within moral or religious frameworks that assign it more weight than simply 'feeling bad' - it is feeling bad associated with a will to change and the actions following that will;

& 'change' in these frameworks does not mean 'promise not to do the bad thing again', it means 'work to become the sort of person who would not do the bad thing again';

and the way you do this, in a lot of philosophical/religious approaches and as Diarmid spells out in TROP, is to do good things until goodness becomes a habit;

Diarmid talking to Sauron in s2ep1:

S: I’ve done evil. D: All of us have done things that we care not to admit. S: Not like I have. D: Find forgiveness. You are alive because you have chosen good. S: But what of tomorrow? D: You have to choose it again. And the next day, and the next. Until it becomes a part of your nature.

eg Aristotle in The Nichomachean Ethics: "Virtue, then, is of two sorts, virtue of thought and virtue of character. Virtue of thought arises and grows mostly from teaching; that is why it needs experience and time. Virtue of character [i.e., of êthos] results from habit [ethos]"

eg the Muppet chorus in Muppet Christmas Carol underlining how Scrooge is not just doing bad things because he's bad but making himself more of a bad person by the habit of repeatedly doing bad things: "If being mean's a way of life you practice and rehearse / Then all that work is paying off, 'cause Scrooge is getting worse"

I do think TROP Sauron feels bad - there's no suggestion in the show that he was deliberately trying to deceive Diarmid or that his tears when no other character is watching him are not genuine. It is harder to say how much is self-pity vs pity for anyone else; but it feels reasonable to say "he does not consider what he has done to be a success by his own terms and he wishes he had not done it", and whether he is sorry for killing Finrod because Finrod didn't deserve to die, or because it's ruined his chance to get Galadriel on side now, or because that whole episode made Morgoth angry with him, he is still to some degree sorry about it, regrets it, wishes it had not happened the way it happened;

idk what Tolkien specifically thought on this particular issue but, point to note is that in Catholic theology you don't have to be sorry for all the right reasons & 'imperfect contrition' can still get you some of the way, as long as what it leads you to is a sincere effort at repentance;

but no matter how thorough the 'sorry', 'sorry' itself as an internal state of regret and sorrow is not enough without being willing to take the actions to become different that Diarmid spells out to him; the important thing is not 'did he feel bad' or even 'did he feel bad for the right reasons', it's 'did the feeling-bad lead him to doing anything substantial about the kind of person he was making himself into through habit';

eg Maimonides defined true repentance as when someone has the opportunity to do the bad thing again and doesn't, and not because they're afraid of consequences but because they're no longer the kind of person who would make that decision;

eg Tolkien's friend CS Lewis in The Screwtape Letters, where a devil is speaking about a human who regrets something: "The great thing is to prevent his doing anything. As long as he does not convert it into action, it does not matter how much he thinks about this new repentance. Let the little brute wallow in it [...] No amount of piety in his imagination and affections will harm us if we can keep it out of his will";

what TROP Sauron (and canon Sauron very arguably, although the framing device of what's said about him being written by other narrators about him and there being disagreement already in that text about whether he was genuine in what he offered Eonwe or not makes it more complex) does is different to just not feeling bad;

he does want to be forgiven;

but he is not willing to do that by anything that would challenge his view of himself as the excellent, the admirable, the one Maia who can fix all Morgoth's damage and produce a healed shining perfectly-functioning Middle-earth to cancel out his role in wrecking it;

and in that light he is willing to do whatever it takes to get to his shiny-healed-perfectly-efficient-Middle-earth-with-him-in-charge result, however brutal, however many die, because the end justifies the means;

but the issue with that is that it means consistently choosing to do bad and brutal thing in the hope that you're somehow a good enough smith/king/whatever to 'buy' the forgiveness you seek;

which will undermine any end you have in mind;

and turn you into, well: Third Age Sauron.

(also: I have Many Thoughts on what it says about TROP Sauron that he sees both Middle-earth and himself as being harmed by Morgoth and the idea of healing and how he sees his own role in the Morgoth era - does he regret following Morgoth? to what extent? - and I have played around with that idea in my fic and will probably do so more in the future but it's too tangled and too lengthy to get into here so I'm just throwing that in at the end.)

[cheekinpermission]

now, I know you don't ship your oc with anyone, buut- if you did, who'd it be????

I spent way too long on this question LMAO

Like anon pointed out, I don’t really ship Erin with anyone in particular mostly because I didn’t really write her to be with a canon character. She’s just trying not to die, honestly. But I’d be lying if I said I never imagined hypotheticals with her and some of the boys, so here’s the answer I settled on: tier list edition!

I’ll explain it a bit more in detail under the cut but there’s the short answer for anyone who wants to skip my rambling.

Ace x Erin

There is no universe in which Ace is not in love with Yuu, no matter what form they take.

Friends to lovers is a CLASSIC trope that I love dearly. Besides Grim (who is more like family anyways), Ace was Erin’s first friend! Ace and Deuce dropped their vacation plans to come and rescue them from Scarabia. He literally never shuts up about Erin and Grim when they’re separated. Ace has made two very suspicious requests to share a bed with Erin. Dude is down bad. And I love it <3

The reason he is so high up on the list and Deuce isn’t is simply because Ace and Erin have a lot more in common than Deuce and Erin. In fact, I’ve said once that she’s a female version of Ace in a lot of aspects and I still think that’s true. I could definitely see them as having a very fun and playful relationship, but still willing to drop everything to help the other if necessary. 

Realism: 2/10 

Sorry, Ace. You may like Erin, but Erin doesn’t like you. Not like that, anyway. Not now. Cough.

Azul x Erin

IT'S FOR THE MEMES!!!

I love Erin and Azul in much the same way as I love Jamil and Azul. The octopus boy pathetically pining after someone who wants nothing to do with him is so beautiful. Erin and Jamil would eat Azul for breakfast and he’d say THANK YOU. 

This is me rn:

Putting aside the rivals to lovers storyline that everyone loves, I do think they could make an absolute power couple. What does a scheming octopus need? An equally scheming wife at his side, of course! 

Realism: 0/10

Bro Erin hates him-

Kalim x Erin

This couple just makes my heart happy <3 

I’m obsessed with couples that are compliments of one another. They’re different, but different in a way that the other needs. Kalim’s ultimate downfall is his naivete and I think Erin offers a more grounded and rational approach to things. She’s more observant and cunning. Opposite to that, Erin would really benefit from someone as generous and kind hearted as Kalim is. Someone who is forgiving and willing to see the best in people, even when he’s been wronged. 

They’d be a good, healthy couple, and I love that for Erin. She deserves someone to make her happy and would want someone to make happy in return. 

Realism: 6/10

Erin appreciates Kalim’s positivity, especially since she’s surrounded by people who look down on her for not having magic and whatever else the cast rags on Yuu for. I’d certainly consider them friends in canon but not romantic. 

Vil x Erin

Fun fact: Erin canonically has a small crush on Vil. BUT ONLY BECAUSE HE SMOOCHED HER CHEEK IN BOOK 6! Erin is so affection starved that the simple act of a “thank you” kiss on the cheek was enough to make her develop a bit of a crush on him. It was never big enough to motivate her to want to date him or anything like that, but an attraction was there. 

Erin and Vil both have a similar appreciation for beauty. They both emphasize the value of hard work and self-improvement. They’re also both pretty strict on themselves to constantly be better than they were yesterday. Likewise, Erin isn’t too concerned with gender norms so Vil criticizing Epel for considering ballet “girly” won him a lot of points in her book. 

Just by virtue of Erin and Vil having a lot in common, I think they would make a cute couple. She’ll 100% sit down and be pampered and then turn around and do the same for him. Erin is naturally pretty charming and charismatic, so I could see her integrating well into celebrity culture. Erin also values her independence in a relationship and I don’t really see Vil as someone who would mind that too much. They’re both busy people with their own lives who can come together at the end of the day and that’s nice. 

Make room, Rook and Cater. Erin’s joining the Vil fan club. 

Realism: 7/10

They would be the most likely couple to work out, but I have no plans to make anything official.

I could see it 

This category includes characters that I think would either pair well with Erin or make for a fun ship. 

Ruggie and Floyd both give “partners in crime energy” that I think could be fun to play with. 

Malleus and Erin are interesting. Malleyuu is one of my favorite pairings, but for Erin specifically I wanted to deviate. I think it’d be more interesting if Malleus only liked Erin as much as he did simply because she was the first person to really give him the time of day as “Malleus” and not “future king of the briar valley and one of the most powerful mages in Twisted Wonderland”. If I were to write them a love story, I’d actually have Erin reject Malleus in Night Raven College. A few years later, they’d reunite after maturing and growing and fall in love as adults post-graduation. I think it’d be neat. 

(That being said, I wrote them as platonic friends LOL) 

Erin and Silver are appealing in the same way that Erin and Kalim are appealing, just to a lesser extent because I don’t see the same chemistry 

Maybe??

Erin and Deuce just give me sibling energy so it’s hard for me to want them to be together, but he’s not the worst option

Trey and Cater have the advantage of being Heartslabyul residents and I just envision Erin as being closer with them than most dorms because of Ace and Deuce

I think Rook could totally win Erin over with passionate displays of love if he was sincere about it. If he takes her hand and they dance in the square Rapunzel style and she’ll be falling fr 

Never really thought about it

Kinda self-explanatory. I never really explored their relationships with Erin in depth so I don’t really have an opinion of where I’d place them? 

Jack and Jamil seem too serious for Erin

Jade is just kinda there and freaks her out tbh

Epel and Erin would have to fight over his narrow view of gender norms

Erin and Idia are just TOO different in terms of extrovert to introvert. Ik some people really like those pairings but I don’t. I think pairings can be different, just not TOO different. (I’m also projecting because I’m an introvert and extroverts exhaust me LOL) 

Sebek is… Sebek

BLEGH 

Ortho is just a baby 

I don’t ever see it happening so i can’t say i ship them but i love him so we’ll call it wish fulfillment <3

It’s no secret that Riddle is my favorite character, so of course a part of me wants to like Erin and Riddle as a couple because then I could have him around more. 

They just don’t work in my head LOL 

I don’t think Erin would mind the rules so much, unless he started trying to make HER follow them. He can be as rule-abiding as he wants, but if he tries to tell her that she can’t put honey in her lemonade after 8 p.m… there’s gonna be a fight. 

On the OTHER hand, I think Riddle having a partner that can help him to enjoy life without the stress of following rules or the guilt of breaking on is super cute. Someone who could ease him into letting go of his need for rules, and who can reassure him when he inevitably slips up. Someone who can encourage him to stand on his own and to be confident in his own decisions outside of what a rule book dictates for him. Or, y’know, his mother. 

Riddle being the more reserved, caretaking one and Erin being the more spontaneous, fun-loving one...

Okay, wait, I might have to revisit them. (My bias may be showing.)

Illegal :)

Erin is 17. Leona is 20 and Lilia is, like, 700. Nope.

[eri-pl]

I'm having thoughts again.

About how "Men have a strange virtue to shape their fate outside of the Music" and how this is what made it possible for them to do whatever-happenned-with-them-and-Morgoth, and the Elves don't and that's why they never did Morgoth worshipping, because they simply don't have the possibility in them (ok i was not thinking this earlier but it came to my keyboard and ...this sounds like a possible explanation?). and yet.

—and yet. Allegedly (as in: the whole fandom knows it's true) the Elves aren't going to have a worse overall ending than the Men. I mean, Finrod thinks so, so of course it would be true. Yes there is nuance here, but still I say it's not worse even if less glorious.

I am having feelings. Of the "but it is not fair!" kind. And--- yea. I know. I know. Also I am probably having too much feelings about the fandom again.

But anyway this is somewhat weird.

And also also, the elves being unable to fall badly enough (enough for what?) explains a lot.

They are able to make some bad decisions (see: Doom of the Noldor) and maybe even so much that it does interfere with the things mentioned in LaCE (see: Celegorm and/or Maeglin, depending how you read them), but.

But I really don't think the Oath of Feanor could work as intended, unless there was some explicit exception (as in: Fefe can do a thing in a Mannish way because he's so special; see: Lulu but she was the positive version). And it would definitely work (as in: things like that have worked, yes, i know not fully the same but similar enough for me) for Men.

And... hmmpf. Not fair. I mean, yes, but also the Elves are getting things both ways, that's how it feels— I'm not sure if I'm wrong in the logic of it, or just wrong in trying to apply too much scrutiny to Tolkien's worldbuilding — again — even though I know I cannot expect perfect coherence from a secondary world and Tolkien did better than any other writer anyway.

OK maybe the Elves do have the possibility, maybe they just didn't.

But there still is the thing about the oath of Feanor and can it work and why not. And also... I can see why Tolkien writes the oath as much less of a problem than whatever-Men-did, but to me it does feel similar… And I could argue with solid arguments that it's just one step below. So.

And I don't have a problem with Fefe being immortal; I'm not doing the Atanamir arguement here.

But the Men are much more problematic (in behaviors) than the Feanorians, even Celegorm, which clearly shows that yes, Men can mess themselves up much more (see: the initial quote).

Also I feel like the Men are inherently more interconnected than the Elves. I need to think more about it, because it gets strangely unpredictable on the edge, when Men connect to Elves and start meddling with their fates too (see: Beren, Tuor, but also the whole Athrabeth situation however much you want to read into it) and it's ... it seems like they can only meddle with them in positive ways. Often sad, but positive in the end. The Men cannot break the Elves (in the way the early Men broke themselves and the whole species), or at least their ability to interfere with the Elves in negative ways is much much lesser than in positive ways. (Elu Thingol would disagree but his opinion is invalid.)

And... well, that's great but kind of out-of-the-blue.

OK maybe not maybe this counts as foreshadowed, in the part of Ainulindale where Melkor gets told off and that he can't make something really actually problematic in the end.

Maybe that's a case of this.

Anyway, I need to think more about Elves:Men and the sibling dynamics. The Men are the younger sibling yes, but in a way they are both the bad younger sibling from some stories and the good younger sibling from fairy tales.

Maybe this whole things is just TLDR: Men are chaotic and wildcard-y? Huh. A very simple summary for such a long and rambly post.