#martyrdom is real sometimes.

[3416]

okay none of this is coherent bc i'm on the verge of sleep at 9pm rn but that right hand man as dog post literally has my gears turning bc that's mitch fucking marner bro. that's mitch and there are so many levels to it. mitch who has made his whole career being the assist guy... takes pride in the fact that he can help the team even if that results in his point accumulation seeming lesser bc they're not goals. taking advantage of the skills and iq he possesses to try to make the people around him better and literally set them up for success...always the first one there to congratulate them on it too.... literally naming his whole foundation the marner assist foundation bc he embraces that role on a team with a generational goal scorer who's made it clear he wants to play with MITCH and appreciates mitch's talent and communication. like. actually his right winger... his right hand man. okay and even happy with being the second best, as he's been for large portions of his life w an older bro who's good at everything right on into a stacked draft class.

and mitch personality wise gets the dog description sometimes too. loyal, happy go lucky, wants to be around his guys all the time, and it's where he's the happiest and thrives the most. he's energetic, he's buzzin, he's willing to entertain, he's the life and love in that room in so many ways that are loud.... that bark but don't necessarily bite (THOUGH THEY CAN BITE. criticism can be doled out and taken as long as it's from the right places with him) but like. especially when he was younger too, he was literally the team emotional support puppy who loved cuddles and attention and with age comes protection from the outside a little bit..,. dialing back what he's willing to show or admit to people on the outside but it's still there and what keeps the camaraderie alive despite an ever rotating roster. and i kNOW. i know. so much dog imagery and symbolism has to do with being protective and fierce, and in hockey for mitch that doesn't necessarily translate on the ice the same way bc he's not big and rough and physically forward the way some people wish he was, but he probably would take a bullet for most of those guys. and in ways, he has taken on the shield or become the punching bag... he was with babcock, he's taken on the scapegoat with media so a lot of critique is thrown squarely at him for group failure. he's the martyr even if that's not exactly what he signed up for.

he's grown more guarded but he's LITERALLY. literally. a dog. a dawg. auston's dawg.... their dawg. the epitome of lots of good things about hockey culture (and i'm sure some bad too), but he embodies so much of the loyalty.. the side kick.. the best friend energy in some ways.... it makes me emo. and....... and to think of him with his own dog trying to recreate unbridled joy from his childhood (cut to those pics of him as a kid w his chocolate lab vs him now w zeus).... like he's desperate for love and recognition of his loyalty and companionship. he's gotten used to being second fiddle, not necessarily in any resentful way but like. these past few weeks he's kind of gotten to step up and be the guy™. he's the heartbeat...... the dog's not usually meant to be the main character but maybe he is worthy of it.

[lady-phasma]

Martyrdom

The Vampire Armand x gn!reader

Warnings: not that many really, tragically over-dramatic comfort, implied canon trauma if you know a little about Armand’s history (book or series)

Summary: 1k words of 🥺 and comforting our beautiful monster.

a/n: so yeah, I had to work out some stuff between 2.07 and 2.08 because Armand needs some comfort. This is the most melodramatic thing I have ever written. This was going to be fem!reader but then it really wasn’t important to the comfort so it became gn!reader.

Armand didn’t stir as you walked in. His head was bowed, iPad balanced in one hand, tapping at the screen with the other. His dark curls framed his face. You knew he heard you, of course he did, but whatever was happening on his tablet was engrossing. You walked behind the sofa and rested your head on his shoulder. A glance at the screen showed you an online art auction. You smiled as you leaned down to kiss his neck, ear, and cheek. His singular focus wasn’t unusual but when you looked back at his iPad you saw the thumbnail and item description.

The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian - Marius de Romanus

You straightened up and let your hand linger on his shoulder for a moment. He wouldn’t move from that spot until he owned the painting.

When the bidding was closed he found you in the bedroom on your own iPad. You looked up as he walked in. The blank expression he wore was a familiar sight. He didn’t look sad or dejected as others might. Sometimes he simply didn’t emote. But his eyes would betray him. He didn’t make eye contact with you right away. However, he wouldn’t have come to you if he wanted to be alone.

He thought often, spoke less, about broken things, people he had loved. He rarely spoke of those who had broken him. Sometimes you caught a glimpse of him when he felt unobserved and the vacancy in his eyes would be filled with regret and remorse.

“You own a new painting?” You asked with no inflection. You closed the iPad’s cover and set it on the night stand as he sat on his side of the bed. His back was to you, shoulders stiff.

“Yes.”

“When will it arrive?” You didn’t really need to know, but wanted him to know you understood the significance.

“Approximately 4-6 weeks,” his tone was flat. “Possibly sooner.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“500 years ago, give or take.”

“‘Give or take?’” He couldn’t see your raised brows.

“492, I believe.” His shoulders slumped slightly.

“What’s the provenance?” You didn’t expect him to answer.

“Venice, Milan, Prague, a few years unaccounted for, then Berlin,” his tone had changed. Rather, there was now tone to his words. The mildest hint of pain colored the city names. It had changed so many hands. It wasn’t rare for a painting to have been sold before the fire. It was the nature of the painting and who you could assume may have commissioned it, that concerned you. Possibly it was for the Church, but more likely for a private patron. Even so, had it been in a church, a museum? Hundreds of eyes moved by the martyrdom of a real boy who they would never think about. Did they even think of the model for Sebastian at all or only of the saint and his ecstasy? If Armand had wanted you to know that a public institution had once held it he would have said. You didn’t press.

You watched him as he slipped off his shoes and turned to sit more comfortably. His long fingers toyed with the crease of his pant leg. He stared off, looking at nothing, for a moment. Then he turned to you. Your heart ached for him. It did from time to time when he would casually mention something from his past, but this was different. You had only seen an expression like this a couple times before. You looked at him, unsmiling, but with a soft gaze, no judgement. For a moment he looked as if he would speak then he closed his mouth, his lips forming a tight line.

Armand wanted to tell you about the nausea he felt, a peculiar feeling, increasingly rare at his age, when the alert had appeared on his phone. He wanted to tell you that he even had an alert for Marius’s name, but he couldn’t. He had never told you everything, there was far too much to tell. But he had told you the broad strokes. He felt he might never tell anyone all of the details, those he could remember, except in the rare moments of weakness when he was jealous of Louis’s and Lestat’s ability to reveal everything.

You sat up straighter and moved toward him. You gently touched his face. He leaned into your hand as you cupped his cheek. His brow furrowed slightly and he closed his eyes. You stroked his cheek with your thumb. You let your hand slide down to his neck. He sighed quietly and when he opened his eyes to look at you, he became every bit the ancient creature trapped in a young man’s body. Every wrong done, every hurt inflicted, every lie told, by him and to him, turbulent beneath his ageless façade. Over 500 years of mistakes, violence, atonement, none of it truly forgotten.

Your fingers gently caressed the back of his neck as you held his gaze. You couldn’t conceal the expression on your face, the compassion and disconsolation. Slowly you moved your hand to his shoulder and guided him toward you. Armand gave in. He rested his head in your lap, his body folded up alongside your outstretched legs. You leaned back against the pillows and headboard. One hand automatically began stroking his hair, smoothing it back from his face. The other lay against his back, making small circles with your fingers against his shoulder blade.

He felt his shoulders relax first, then the tightness in his chest began to fade. He hadn’t realized tears had started to well in his eyes until he closed them. None came, but he was unsure how long they would stay away this time. He sighed heavily and let himself soften against you. Your steady, consistent movements were a balm to the raging of conflicting emotions inside him. He would think of them another day, perhaps when the painting arrived. Now, in this moment, he could rest.

Note about the painting: The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, Marco Basaiti (active 1496-1530 in Venice), located in Santa Maria della Salute, Venice

Masterlist

[thenerdyalien]

The real tragedy of bbc merlin

No matter how many years have passed since the finale, sometimes I still get choked up thinking about Merlin's devotion to Arthur and how cruel destiny really was to him. Because yes, Arthur's death was tragic, but for me Merlin's prophecised destiny was always the real tragedy of the show.

Like imagine being told that your whole purpose in life, your destiny, is another person, and not only that but someone you don't particularly like at first (a prat, you may say). And it's clear that he often feels trapped by this, even going as far as comparing his destiny with Arthur to a marriage (yes, that happens in not only one but two scenes, though one of them was deleted), an arrangement he had no say in but that has dictated his whole life. But the worst part is that he starts growing fond of him, he starts falling in love with the man he is inside, the real Arthur, not the facade he puts on for others. And suddenly it's not about destiny for Merlin anymore, it's about Arthur. He puts Arthur above everything. His kind, his beliefs, himself. He shuts himself off, he becomes a shell of the boy he used to be. Arthur's well-being is everything to him and nothing else matters. That's why he chooses Arthur over magic in the Disir, that's why he never told him the truth about his mother, that's why he was ready to die without ever letting Arthur know about his secret...because he would rather jump into the flames than to ever put Arthur in that position. And then imagine finding out that in the end, it was all a cruel joke, that the man you had come to love with all your being would be ripped from you anyway, no matter how dutifully you fulfilled your destiny, no matter how much you had given away for him. Because it turned out that your destiny was never Arthur, it was tragedy, it was martyrdom, it was giving away your body and soul for a future that will never come, a golden age that you'll never get to see.

That's why we're all still here 12 years later, because the bbc unintentionally wrote the most devastating tragedy of the century under the disguise of a silly family show.

[moonydustx]

How Does Work? (or at least, we try?)

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 ( you're here)

warnings: finally the real deal!!!! smut. Friends with benefits (but they both want more than the benefits, they just don't realize it yet), oral (f! and m!receiving), kinda orgasm denial, at some point they don't use condom. If I missed any warning, let me know

MDNI | MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

How could a few minutes sink so deeply into a mind that was far from empty?

How could sounds he rarely heard be present when Law closed his eyes?

The night that had happened - or at least almost - had become a martyrdom for the captain of the Heart Pirates. Your shy smile every time they passed each other in a hallway did nothing less to rid him of such thoughts.

He wanted to be able to think about other things, he wanted to at least listen to the sane side of him that insisted on reminding him that he could be speeding things up too much. But damn, it was too difficult to hear that side when your presence was still present in his dreams.

You wish you could say that you are in a different situation, that your roles, that your friends, that even the choppy waves of the sea against Polar Tang were enough to shake Law's presence from your mind. What didn't help much was that he was your captain.

Awkward shoulder touches, hands that insisted on sometimes intertwining under a table, hot kisses exchanged in an empty corridor. Despite the uncertainties that plagued both your mind and his, it was difficult to keep your distance.

The big problem was: it had been almost two weeks and that was all the two of you had.

"Hey, are you still with us?" Penguin shook his hand a few times in front of you, realizing that you were rambling inside your own mind. "What's going on?"

"Nothing." you tried to shake the thoughts away with a brief smile. "What do you need?"

"Today is your day to get the grouch out of there. Seriously, the captain's watch is yours"

Ah, captain's watch.

You and your crewmates knew about Law's bad habit of occasionally focusing on the job and forgetting about everything around him - socializing, eating, drinking water, anything that took his focus away. That's why you created the captain's watch, when he showed signs that he was going to disappear, one by one you would try to pull Law out of the dome in which he was placed. In today's case, you were docked on a small island, which barely interfered with the log pose. It would just be a night to breathe before continuing on the journey.

Already ready to leave, like the others, you decided to gather up the courage you had and go to Law. Two knocks on the door - almost softened by the sweat that accumulated on your hands - and a low murmur asking you to come in.

"Hey captain." your voice practically lifted him from the papers he was analyzing. "Sorry to interrupt."

"Don't apologize for that." trying to avoid boosting your ego, you could notice that Law seemed more relaxed as soon as he looked at you. "How can I help you?"

"I came to try and pull you out of this little dome, captain."

"This color really suits you." Law moved the chair away, creating a gap that allowed him to look at you from top to bottom.

"That's not what I said."

"But it's the truth, you really suited this dress." he insisted, knowing that your cheeks were probably burning with shyness.

"Is this your way of saying I look pretty?"automatically, your feet seemed to guide you in the direction where he was.

"What are your plans for today?" like a predator watching its prey, Law analyzed every step you took towards him. However, your walk stopped at the time of his month, where you leaned back, face to face with the man.

"We'll go out to dinner, enjoy the little time we have free on the island. I just came here to ask you if you want to accompany us?"

"Does that mean everyone is going to leave, including you?" it was hard to contain the laughter when you saw Law practically pouting.

"It's dinner, captain."

"I can take you to dinner." he sounded almost offended, standing up and stopping in front of you. One of his hands slid down your arm, moving up slightly. "And then, after dinner…"

"Stop being a pervert!" facetiously, you complained. However, instead of moving away, both of his hands attached themselves to your waist.

"You come here, all pretty, in a nice short dress and tell me you're going to leave me here alone? I have the right to be a little perverted." his torso, which was still a few millimeters away from yours, stuck to your skin. His fresh breath millimeters from yours. "What did you do to me?"

"What do you mean captain?" the name came out in a provocative tone from your lips.

Law thought about saying that during the last two weeks you had been his frequent thought. About him thinking about what moments would be opportune for him to steal some of your attention. But that might sound strange. Sounding in a way that was still difficult for even him to understand.

Instead, he decided to capture your lips with his, the taste of the sweet cherry gloss making him even more intoxicated than your presence was capable of.

He could have thought of having you there, on his desk and using the little time they had until someone suspected your disappearance. He could let one of his hands sneak where he wanted and capture some of your nectar to remind him how good it felt. But no. Your lips were enough to leave him lost.

"Law…" you pulled away enough for the air to return to your lungs.

"You still have time to give up on that dinner." he asked and saw you laugh lightly, denying his request. "It's okay. Go, enjoy the night." He stole some more from your lips and freed himself from your arms, watching you head towards the door.

"Maybe I'll make time to come back early." you warned before leaving and laughed when you saw him cross his fingers.

As soon as the door closed, you needed to catch your breath until you returned to your friends.

As soon as the door closed, Law collapsed into the chair again. The warm body and a not so familiar sensation. Was what he was doing right? Was what he was feeling right?

The night seemed pleasant, a lot of chatter wasted, bottles of drinks were piling up. But even so, your mind wandered to a certain submarine in the nearest port and you knew you wouldn't stay there for long at that dinner. And of course, drinking and talking resulted in some topic that would make you embarrassed, it was no surprise that the topic came back your way.

"I have a point to state." Ikkaku began, throwing one of her arms over your shoulders. "Someone here has been very happy, very mysterious. Even your skin is the best my dear friend. Tell us, what have you been doing?"

"You ask as if your distrust wasn't sex." you replied, cynically throwing her arm away.

"So… What are you waiting to tell us?" Shachi leaned on his hands, feigning heightened interest. "Finally someone took good care of you know what."

"Perhaps." there was no point in lying, you were terrible at it. In this case, you would try to control the damage and omit what was possible.

"The question is: your own fingers or someone else's fingers?"

If you were still drinking something, you would have choked for sure. Your memories dragging you directly to the first contact you and Law had.

"This is confidential." you replied to Penguin, who groaned.

"Don't be boring! It's rare to have new gossip, I want to know the details." Ikkaku pointed out, seeing you roll your eyes. "Was it someone we know? Someone from here?"

"No!" You immediately denied it. "N-no. It was on the last island we visited. It was a date at a bar and that was it, nothing more to explain." not that there were many lies left in your stock.

"What's his name?"

"La- Laos!" you stuttered. "He's been taking the same route as us, so we'll meet up today." you lied, already anticipating an excuse you intended to use.

"Laos, interesting name." Ikkaku commented and you could see the malice in her words. "And today, are you going to have another nighttime adventure too?"

"I don't know, it's up to him." you shrugged, wanting the topic to drop.

"Hey, I know you're not a saint or a spotless virgin." Ikkaku spoke in a more serious tone, ignoring the jokes the others made. "But some guys might want you just for you know what. And you're too pretty and cool to subject yourself to that."

"Serious?"

"Some men have sex just to prove a point: that they can do it, that it has to be their way, anyway. But if it's something you want too, I don't see a problem."

The topic slowly died down and in the first gap you found, you slipped out and hoped that none of them had thought of following you.

Some guys might want you just for you know what. Even with the joking tone, Ikkaku's words stuck in your mind. Well, you and Law hadn't had a complete relationship, but was that what he wanted? And wasn't that what you wanted too?

Immersed in your thoughts, the path to Polar Tang was faster than you expected. As you suspected, the submarine was practically empty. Those who hadn't left were too busy with their tasks.

Two knocks on the door were enough to find who you were waiting for.

Law didn't consider himself anxious, in the essence of the word. He did not consider himself one of those who suffer tortuously waiting for something. Except, today he was anxious.

After he finally managed to leave the small office he was in and head towards his bedroom, he had already tidied up the small place countless times, making the bed tidy, everything he could he did. He didn't expect two knocks on the door to make his heart race so quickly.

"Hey! Someone kept their promise." he gave you space to enter.

"I wouldn't be crazy enough to disobey my captain." You said in a teasing tone. "What good did you do?"

"To be honest nothing."

The hands in his pockets indicated that Law was more nervous than he appeared. Knowing that he seemed to be just like you gave you a boost of courage.

Before he could even come up with a topic to try and talk about, you approached him and kissed him quickly, surprising him.

"I'm sorry." you pulled away, seeing him take his hands out of his pockets slowly. "It's been two weeks and all I can think about is us, that night."

This time, Law took the lead. His previously shy hands pulled your body against his while his lips stole yours.

The taste of cherry in your mouth was a distant memory, but feeling your lips against his was still an intoxicating sensation. One of his hands felt around and found the key, locking the door.

In not so sure steps, you could feel the padding of the bed against your thighs and taking strength - or in the correct way, catching Law off guard - you turned him in order to guide him until he was the one sitting on the bed and you were standing.

Wanting to understand your intentions, Law leaned on his elbows and had to restrain himself from exposing how much he was entertained by your body in front of him.

Sliding the straps of the dress, the piece gathered at your feet and allowed Law to see only your almost naked body in front of him, except for the cloth of the same tone as the dress that covered your intimacy, almost like a planned act.

Using the same splashes of confidence, you bent down just enough to kiss him lightly and leaving his head hanging, waiting for another kiss. Your fingers, cold from nervousness, began to lift his shirt, throwing it away.

"It looks like someone is eager to do all the work." Law pointed out. Seeing your hands retract, Law took one of them and slid it down his chest, then his abdomen, to the waistband of the pants. "You can do whatever you want, really. Don't think too much."

"Can I kiss you… there." your eyes pointed to the waistband of his pants and Law swore he could die with just that question.

"Only if you want." he pointed out, seeing you kneel in front of him and reach for the buttons on his pants, untying them. Following his own order not to think too much, you let your fingers invade the underwear he was wearing, stroking his cock gently. the word came out as an exasperated whisper from Law's lips. "Fuck."

You pulled his cock out, small thrusts around your hand being made under Law's watchful eye didn't help one bit in your search for courage.

Your lips found his sensitive area, placing an almost chaste kiss and then gave way for your tongue to explore that place. As you explored every inch of him you could reach, you could hear some grunts above you and every time you looked in his direction, it somehow became clear that they were coming from his lips. You opened your mouth and swallowed half the length of his cock, enough for his tattooed fingers to get caught in your hair and begin to dictate a slow rhythm. There was still a bit of sanity in Trafalgar D. Law and at the moment, he was using all of it not to rush things.

"That fucking mouth, so good, so fucking good." he grunted once again, his head lolling back, trying to avoid the almost innocent looks you were giving him. "I can't wait anymore."

The last muttered words were the only thing you heard before you felt your body leave the ground. In a movement that you barely had time to understand how it was done, you found yourself in Law's arms being placed on the bed, while he fit between your legs and explored every inch of your lap with wet kisses.

"You're too good for your own good." he murmured, taking your lips in a wild kiss. "Makes me not want to let you leave here, ever."

His tongue invading every inch of your mouth and the heat making you look for friction against his pelvis and Law didn't hesitate in pressing his intimacy against yours. Fighting his own desire to sink into you, his wet kisses traced a path you were eager to see.

"You don't intend to stop me today?" Law commented cynically, his lips hovering over the thin, damp fabric of your panties.

"I don't think so, it's a good view from here." You tried to play his game and saw him press his lips exactly where you needed it most. "Law!"

"huh?" This time, he started licking over the fabric, wanting to tear your sanity away there. "Do you need something?"

"Please, can you do that again? Just a little, please." you whimpered and saw an almost sadistic smile on his lips.

"Oh I'm definitely still going to make you beg one of these days." his hands went up to the side of your panties. "But for today…"

You feel that same sensation from that day, your pussy burning for more, your legs shaking, your hips involuntarily throwing themselves against his face, until Law stops, immediately returning on top of you.

"Don't pout."

"But…"

"Today you will learn a new lesson about orgasms." Law pointed out, stretching to reach a condom that he had casually left next to the bed.

"What lesson?"

"Don't be hasty." he fit between your legs. "Can I?"

"Yes of course."

As soon as Law started to fit his cock inside you, God, it was the same feeling as two weeks ago. It was once again a little piece of paradise exclusive to him. The sly moan that left your lips didn't do much to help him hold back.

He began to move slowly, feeling every piece inside your pussy accommodate him as if he had made it there. Your hands got tangled in his dark strands and the hat with black polka dots was forgotten, lying on the floor.

He could see how hard you were fighting to not let a louder noise escape your lips and even though he knew the risks, he would thrust harder now and then just to hear the adorable noises that came from you, encouraging him to go even harder, faster. He wanted to have enough concentration to use his power and prevent any sound from coming out, but it was impossible with the way you were tied to him. So strong, so good.

"Pretty thing, I can feel you squeezing me." He sank into your neck, placing a few kisses that would definitely leave a mark on your skin, but he couldn't think about it. Law was leaning over your body, without leaving you, kneeling between your legs. "I bet you want to cum for me, hm?"

"Law!" your legs tightened around his torso. "J-Jst give it to me, p-please. I'm almost there."

Ignoring all your requests - and almost ignoring what his body wanted - Law came out of you, opening your legs and watching your intimacy pulsate with desire. Damn, that would be a difficult lesson to apply.

"Why did you stop?" you sounded indignant, your voice rising a few octaves and your eyes involuntarily filling with tears. "W-Why?"

"Hey, shhh, calm down." he asked with a smile on his lips. As if you were made of paper, he turned you onto your stomach, gently pulling your hips, leaving you on all fours for him. Your frustration was soon replaced by a choked moan leaving your lips as you felt his fingers explore your intimacy, tracing circles on your bud. “I promise to give you what you want, okay?

"But Law! I was almost there."

"I promise you won't regret it." he felt you buck your hips against his hand, searching for even more friction. "Is that good?" he heard you nod in a grunt. The nimble fingers were replaced by his cock, which slid to your entrance. "Can I continue?"

"Please."

Again, with an excess of patience that you had no idea what he was getting from, Law let inch by inch enter you. The moans surpassed any protection your hands could provide, much to Law's delight.

Law could see you writhing to take all of him inside you at the same time your hips thrust against his asking for more and more.

"I promised not to disappoint you today, didn't I?" One of his hands pulled you so that your back was pressed against his abdomen. "How do you feel?"

"So good, so fucking good. please - I... " a growl from your own lips interrupted you. "P-promise you won't stop now Law."

"And that's the lesson of the day." the hand that supported you by your torso went up and lightly attached itself to your neck, upon hearing you moan, Law controlled himself not to squeeze even harder, that wasn't his goal today. "Did you know that orgasms can be even more intense?" he began, breathlessly. "The more - oh fuck." he stopped when he felt you rocking against him, seeking even more friction. "I won't be able to give you the full lesson today. But in short, the longer you wait, the better it gets."

"I-I can't wait any longer Law!"

"I've got you baby, I've got you." his lips attached themselves to your neck, placing kisses on your sweaty skin. "You can cum when I tell you to, okay? Only when I tell you to."

"But…"

"Shh, I know you're almost there. Just a little more." he can see your face focusing, the mark of your teeth on your lip, trying to control the noises.

Feeling his own peak approaching, Law took one of his hands to your clit, making quick movements, which increased according to the speed of his thrusts.

"That's it, now just give it to me. Come on, pretty thing, cum for me."

Hearing your noises increase, Law took your lips to him in an almost uncomfortable position, but it didn't matter, What mattered was feeling you tremble under his touches, drenching you like he hadn't felt before and just like you, he allowed himself reach the apex.

Gently, Law let your body leave his embrace and lie face down on the bed. Your skin was covered in goosebumps and he could see small tremors in your leg. Better than that, he saw a shy smile and an ecstatic look on you.

"Was it a bad lesson?" he asked, laying down next to you and watching you deny it. "Everything is fine?" you again just nodded with the movement of your head. "Really?"

"It was just a little too much, almost too much to handle. I thought I was going to explode." You said, between sighs. Something told you to come closer and snuggle up to him, but at the same time, you didn't know if that was what you should do. That's what boyfriends did, wasn't it?

"Almost too much? Soon we'll have to decide on a safeword." he pointed out, making you laugh slightly. "Do you know what it is?"

"I don't know about orgasms, I already read that somewhere." you scored. "What do you think of a bear?"

"Bear?" he looked incredulous. "Do you really want me to think about bears during sex?"

"We're talking about a safeword."

"It makes sense." He also turned onto his stomach, facing you. And so, the two of you stayed for a few long minutes.

"I can hear your brain working from here." Law adjusted himself to the side, so that he could face you completely. "Seriously, it's a little rusty, but I can still hear it."

"You're not that good."

"Yeah, definitely rusty, after all, that's not what you were talking about just now." Law smiled when he saw you roll your eyes, just watching you he knew that your cheeks must be burning with shyness. "Seriously, what's going on in here?"

"Nothing to worry about, Captain." you pointed out, turning around and sitting down feeling his gaze burning in your direction. "I think I should leave."

"No, nothing like that." he gently pulled your arm, forcing you to lie down again. As a method of keeping you there tied to his bed, Law got close enough to leave his body practically on top of yours. "You're going to lie here while I get you some water and something so I can clean you up."

"Clean me up? You, clean me up?"

"What strikes you as strange about that?" He moved far enough away, getting up only to rip off the condom, throw it in the trash and put on the underwear that had been thrown somewhere that you didn't care about worrying about at that moment.

"I should go clean up myself, as well as go get my water."

The way the words came out of your lips with a certain conviction bothered Law a little. Not that he was bothered by your self-sufficiency, in fact it was one of the points he most admired. What bothered him was the fact that you didn't even consider being taken care of after all the things you both did, at least in the way he expected to be able to take care of you.

"You stay here" He simply responded, returning to the bed and bending down enough to leave a quick kiss on your forehead and ask with his face just a few millimeters away. "Do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you." nothing more than a whisper came out.

Before Law could get far enough away, the words fell like a waterfall from your lips, curiosity and the conversation you had earlier with Ikkaku seemed to occupy every space in your mind.

"Law?"

"Hm?" he muttered, as he hunted for where he had thrown his own pants.

"You… How can I ask?" Your genuine doubt caught his attention, and he immediately stopped to observe you. "What do we do… I mean, you didn't start this just to prove a point, did you?"

"Like what?"

"I mean, this all started after that conversation about me never having a orgasm and well, now I think we did everything we could do…" you sat down holding your legs against your body. "To put it in simpler words, you wanted me just for you know what."

"I knew that brain of yours was working too hard." he laughed lightly. Ignoring the idea of ​​leaving you alone with your own thoughts, he decided to postpone going to the kitchen. "What kind of idea is that?"

"I don't know." You shrugged, watching him sit in front of you on the bed, it was difficult to face him back in that situation. "I heard someone talk about it, about wanting someone just for that, just to prove the point and then this idea stuck in my mind."

"To answer your question, no, I'm not with you just for that, but to be honest, I don't know how to answer anything beyond that." Law tried to be as honest as possible, after all it was nothing but fair since you had said that to him. "The last few days I've been trying to understand some things, some feelings and while I understand all of this…" he approached, taking your face in his hands and forcing you to look him in the eyes. "While I try to understand all these feelings and I believe that you also have to understand something, I need you to know that I don't want you just for sex, you will never be just that, okay?

"Okay." your voice came out like a precious whisper to him. "Can you kiss me?"

He even thought about saying that he already planned to do it, but gestures said even more than words. Law took your lips and little by little he lay almost completely on top of you.

Feeling you searching for more contact, Law let one of his hands caress your thigh, asking permission to give you even more attention. Feeling you give up space, his hands soon found your intimacy. His slow touches began to elicit small moans from you.

"Look, all you want is sex." he joked, seeing you frown he reached up and kissed the tip of your nose. "Want some more my pretty thing?"

"Just a little, please."

"Whatever you want."

Fitting between your legs, he slowly slid into you and so followed his thrusts. Even with scratches being distributed across Law's white, tattooed skin, he continued at the same speed. His name was starting to become a delicious mantra to hear coming from your lips.

"I'm here, I'm here. Do you want to give it to me again?" He intensified his ministrations a little when he felt you once again on the edge of the abyss. He didn't expect to feel the wetness gush towards him as your nails dug into his skin. "Oh fuck, that's a good girl. My good girl. Can you give me one more of those? Please, just one more."

A few more thrusts were enough for you to reach your pleasure again and Law felt your sweet nectar running through him. Forgetting about the lack of a condom, Law allowed himself to cum inside, to feel his hot seed spread throughout you. Luckily, he was a doctor and would know how to deal with some kind of later contraception. He just couldn't miss the chance.

"It's okay." Law responded to your growl as soon as he came out of you. "Can I postpone going to the kitchen and cleaning up that I promised?"

"Yes." you replied sleepily. Unlike the first time, as soon as you finished, Law immediately pulled you into his arms. "I-I need to go."

"No, you don't need to."

"Don't?"

"No." Law insisted, pressing you into his arms. "Let me take care of you tonight, okay"?

"Yes captain." your voice was almost disappearing in your sleep.

Law slowly saw you close your eyes and sleep and he knew it wouldn't take long for him to do the same. The only thought that gnawed at him was that he didn't want it to be just tonight.

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈••┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈••┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈••┈••✦ ❤ ✦•

taglist: @metonimia-de-bellota, @deathsmajestysworld, @augustanna, @kitsunechan707, @thepinktiredfreak, @yve-barr

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hey, there. Can you help me with this? I am stuck on creating with this motivation for my WIP.

Those who seek death shall live, and those who seek lives shall die How do you create a character with this type of character motivation? either is an important side character, villain, mentor, or even main character?

Hi! Some writers like to use character tropes as inspiration when they get stuck with a certain idea. Here are some examples I found for you that you can use as a guide. And alter as needed for your story:

"Death Seeker" Trope

At some point in the past, some characters have had a traumatic experience, found themselves dishonored, committed a crime they could not repay, lost everything worth living for, caught an incurable disease or just became bored with continued existence.

For whatever reason, rather than turning to suicide, they went off seeking battles to fight, hoping to find an enemy who would kill them, and achieve an honorable, heroic, awesome, or otherwise acceptable death, sometimes going as far as outright surrendering and offering their life to their enemies. 

Martyrdom Cultures may regard such a character as a role model, even if upon closer examination they might seem like a Martyr Without a Cause.

In cases of cruel Irony, the characters who snap out of it and find something to live for often end up dying or getting killed shortly afterwards anyway.

A real life example:

Jeffrey Dahmer frequently expressed his wish to die for his crimes while in prison. When he was attacked by another prisoner who attempted to slit his throat, he refused to press charges and requested to be returned to the general prison population. Only a few months later, he was beaten to death by another prisoner. His last words were, reportedly: "I don't care if I live or die — go ahead and kill me."

"I Cannot Self-Terminate" Trope

Perhaps they've just been wounded in a vital area and know they are going to die slowly and in agony, and just want to die with dignity/end the pain quickly. Perhaps they are prisoners and being tortured, and the hero cannot break them free but could shoot them.

In any case, while they're ready or even eager to die, they cannot do it on their own. This can also count as a Heroic Sacrifice, sometimes.

If the character is robotic, this may occur due to influence from Asimov's Laws. Specifically, the Third Law states that a robot may not harm itself, or through inaction allow itself to be harmed, unless doing so is required to uphold the First or Second Law. Even when not following the hierarchical laws of robotics, it could still occur if a robot is simply programmed for self-preservation.

The victim may plead for death even when it is possible for them to be saved, owing to the pain. The hero is likely to override that, often saying No One Gets Left Behind.

Accidental Murder: Occurs when a situation that wasn't intended to be lethal ends with the death of someone anyway.

Anyone Can Die: This is easily defined as definite Truth in Television, because all living organisms are mortal and are bound to, by statistics at least, eventually die for any number of reasons, with no fiction writers to determine how it happens. When used poorly or too frequently, this trope can cause Too Bleak, Stopped Caring, possibly with audiences uttering the Eight Deadly Words, as the audience won't see any point in getting attached to characters that they expect to die sooner or later. A good way to check if this trope applies is to see if who survives is an important plot point, rather than only how they survive.

Cheated Death, Died Anyway: When a character narrowly escapes death on occasion (and perhaps more than one occasion), only to die shortly thereafter anyway…in a completely different way. Exactly how close the two incidents have to be varies, so the important factor in this trope is the presence of irony. This can apply in a matter of minutes, months, or even (in rare cases) years; the deciding factor is the Bait-and-Switch element of the death.

Death Is the Only Option: The only way to achieve victory is to die.

Forgiveness Requires Death: In order to be forgiven of their crimes, the character must die.

Heroic Sacrifice: Sacrificing your own life for the greater good.

Jumping on a Grenade: Sacrificing oneself by using one's own body as a shield against a deadly threat in hopes of sparing others.

Metaphorical Suicide: A despondent character willingly resigns themself to a fate similar to death without actually dying.

The Problem with Fighting Death: …is that even if you win, you'll still eventually lose. Killing or imprisoning Death might not offer protection either, as his sister Entropy goes around making everyone grow old and wish to die while Death Takes a Holiday or cause a plague of ghosts as the souls of the dead get stuck on Earth. This is the problem with fighting Death, Hades, The Devil, Psychopomps, Anthropomorphic Personifications or even God; you just can't win. However, a draw may be possible with creativity. If all that matters is that there be a Death, then replacing him with someone friendlier or someone with whom deals can be struck and honored can be a way to go. This can be done by appealing to someone higher on the divinity ladder, getting someone else to kill and replace Death (or doing so yourself, if you're willing to accept the job for the rest of eternity), and flying out of Hell are all possibilities. In this way, one can say Living Forever Is Awesome.

Who Wants to Live Forever?: If an immortal being grows so sick of eternal life that they just want it to end already.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hope this helps inspire your writing! You can look through the sources for more information on each trope.

[strayheartless]

Vanitas and the Chaotic Good learning curve:

Leaving complete darkness behind isn’t hard exactly. After having Mr. Giddy goofy light bringer (Sora) witter in his ear for a good nine hours about the “benefits of not being evil” Vanitas isn’t willing to say he caved…. But he caved.

Besides if little miss “How can I face everyone” Martyrdom (Riku) can find the balance, how hard could it be right?

Turns out it’s not hard, it’s just… interesting. He’s observed a lot from those light bringers who still have to find a balance with the darkness in their hearts. Here’s what he’s learning:

Dawn (Riku) is not above small acts of violence against Sora. Whacking him with a paperback, flicking his forehead, tripping him when he gets up to do to the bathroom. It’s all fair play apparently.

It is not acceptable to firaga people for annoying you, but that doesn’t mean Kairi hasn’t.

The real-boy (Roxas) can hit HARD and no he won’t apologise for braking something if he thinks you deserve it.

Raggedy-Anne (Xion) has a higher kill rate then Vanitas does… which is only mildly disturbing.

Biting people is bad, but Terra and Aqua always seem to be covered in Bite marks anyway. He has been informed it’s a different kind of biting. He doesn’t wish to explore that further.

His own natural eye colour after possession is red, and ain’t that a kick in the teeth.

Dawns a bitch when he’s grumpy and apparently the way to deal with him is to be a bitch back. Kairi is very good at being a bitch back. Sora just wishes everyone would get along.

The-real-boy and Dawn have serious history and it makes families dinners tense sometimes. Vanitas would not like a repeat performance of helping Ven drag Roxas into another room whilst Terra heals Riku’s fractured cheek. Roxas apologied but Riku still didn’t get out of bed for three days after.

Spikes and fire (Lea/Axel) apparently has the power to kill a man with the snap of his fingers. ApPaReNtLy he has killed someone with the snap of his fingers.

Moon boy (Isa/Sïax) has a limit beaker that could level city blocks. Wild.

Cry baby dislikes Cloud Strife for reasons only Ventus, Aqua and Hercules (apparently) know. Vanitas is pretty sure not even Cloud knows what he did. Van recons it has something to do with the big sword and the… Squats???

“I will not summon Floods until Xion and Sora cry. It is bad and I will apologise for it” … In Vans defence Naminé thought it was hilarious.

Dawn blindfolds himself when he’s upset about… something?

He gets along surprisingly well with Roxas… apparently shared trauma and distaste for stupid people goes a long way. Neat!

Raggedy Anne knows there is a spot on the back of Axels neck that if you dig in hard enough he passes out…. Isa showed her this.

Sora it not above throwing things at Riku and Kairi when he’s overtired and upset. He gets more upset that he threw the thing at them though.

Apparently master water slide (aqua) can still open dark corridors, she just doesn’t.

Dawn knows how to access dark gear. He’s done it exactly once in Vans presence and they didn’t see him for DAYS afterwards… that’s how Vanitas learned about the blindfold.

Naminé can get in your head. She hasn’t but she can. It makes for tense moments between her and Sora when she says something she shouldn’t know.

It is acceptable to throw water at Axel when he gets “fired up” during training. This was a delightful discovery.

Upon being introduced to the restoration committee it is not acceptable to point out that Leon looks like if Simba was a person… but it does make Sora and Aerith laugh so hard they end up crying on the floor.

Cloud strife is apparently more trauma then man and now Terra feels bad for hating him.

It is not acceptable to to tell Winnie the Pooh that forest fires are caused by thinking too hard. Sora and Ventus will slap you in the head and it will hurt

And possibly the most disturbing discovery of them all in Vanitas’ opinion… Sora has a Rage form AND an Anti-form. And they come out to play regularly in training.

Ultimately what Vanitas is learning is that nobody is amine to the darkness. He’s learning that it’s not about being evil or good by nature it’s about deciding who YOU want to be. For all he makes fun of them and calls them soppy lights, it’s…. Good to know that there is hope for him, even if it means he can’t get rid of the darkness. He can still exists in the light.

[secretmellowblog]

Grantaire’s bar is on the floor, but Javert’s bar is at the bottom of the Seine XD. 

And yee!  To me it’s less that Javert/Valjean and Grantaire/Enjolras specifically are parallels, as much as..... they’re both part of a wider trend throughout the novel. There’s this repeated relationship dynamic where characters who consider themselves grotesque and “misérable” start worshiping another character as an ideal— and then destroy/ kill themselves in the process of that worship. 

Like Jean Valjean’s worship of Cosette: 

“Jean Valjean watched these ravages with anxiety. He who felt that he could never do anything but crawl, walk at the most, beheld wings sprouting on Cosette.”

Vs terminally Ill Fantine’s worship of Cosette:

“I have been a sinner; but when I have my child beside me, it will be a sign that God has pardoned me. While I was leading a bad life, I should not have liked to have my Cosette with me; I could not have borne her sad, astonished eyes. It was for her sake that I did evil, and that is why God pardons me. I shall feel the benediction of the good God when Cosette is here. I shall gaze at her; it will do me good to see that innocent creature. She knows nothing at all. She is an angel, you see, my sisters. At that age the wings have not fallen off.”

Vs Grantaire’s worship of Enjolras

“The toad always has his eyes fixed on heaven. Why? In order to watch the bird in its flight.

And Eponine’s strange self destructive love for Marius has shade of this— she refers to herself as “the devil,” and a “dog,” as if she’s subhuman, and obsesses over Marius as a symbol of the life she hasn’t been allowed to have.

And then there’s obviously ….whatever on earth is going on with Javert in Derailed. XD Descibing Jean Valjean as some kind of impossibly holy monster, comparing him to angels and Jesus Christ, while describing himself in these beast-like terms as  “a wolf who finds its prey, and a dog that finds its master again” and etc etc etc. 

And beside Jean Valjean glorified he beheld himself, Javert, degraded.

And this is only tangentially related but when it comes to specific character foils, I’m personally way more passionate about the parallels between Eponine and Javert's self-destructions, than between Grantaire and Javert's— and I think the Eponine/Javert parallels are far more intentional on Hugo’s part! Though I'm still not completely sure about what he was doing with it.

I know other people have talked about this before, but I ramble about it every time I have an excuse because it's like! The way Javert and Eponine "trade deaths." The way Eponine repeatedly talks about drowning herself in the Seine, and Javert is supposed to die by being shot at the barricades— but then Eponine is shot at the barricades, while Javert drowns himself in the Seine. Eponine is the quote “daughter of a wolf” who makes herself the “guard dog” of Marius, while Javert is the quote “dog son of a wolf” who ultimately becomes “a dog that has found its master again”/“the watch dog that licks the intruder’s hand”  towards Jean Valjean. Again I'm still not fully sure what Hugo was doing with that parallel (though I've rambled about it a lot) but it iS my current favorite "relationship between two Les Mis characters who almost never interact."

The point is. I guess Romantic authors really loved it when characters destroyed themselves in questionably healthy ways out of a weird combination of self-loathing and admiration   

I beg y’all’s pardon, in my recent shitpost my inexperience thinking hard about Grantaire’s character arc led me to make an inadequate punchline, and in place of “The—no;…” I would like to present as a revision:

G: So you’re a man of Aegeus’ sin, so beloved of the nineteenth century, though we perhaps thought too little of the marriage of the boathook and the bloated flesh after. You prefer a watery baptism at the tail of life as well as the head—not my preferred sacrament, when Christ has been so good a host as to give his blood, and I a gracious guest, but one can’t judge another man’s religion. Besides, she’s a very fine thing, the Seine, a romantic. All the same, a bullet’s quicker.

J: That’s well enough, but the ninny had my pistols.

[sillyletterscomposingsillywords]

Saint-Just being a suisidal bloodsucker for 21 pages

Recently I’ve found this old post made by @saint-jussy with quite an amusing annotation of an article about Saint-Just and his homi-/suicidal inner tension. Here it is.

The article was awfully fantastic and fantastically awful and, as @saint-jussy wrote no review of that masterpiece, I now present it to you all. Enjoy.

Need to say, I have no intention of writing a real review. Just some of my considerations.

Basically, the author believes that

“Which aggression?” would you ask.

Here we move to the beginning of the article and its GREAT PRESUMPTION (that Saint-Just was “cruel” and “self-destructive”).

So, the presumption is that Saint-Just always possessed some kind of an aggression, that resulted in him being an Archangel of Terror (the author loves this metaphor a lot). Neither the origin of this aggression nor concretization of it is a matter of this article. The proof of its existence is “Believe me”:

I do believe that “Needless to say” is the worst thing that can happen in historiography. MYTHology can depict anyone in any way. But calling a person that refused to decapitate a prosecutor of the Revolutionary tribunal of Strasbourg [Schneider], who travelled through Alsace with guillotine and adjudicated by himself with no documentation (Histoire parlementaire, t. XXXI), but instead made him stand on an echafaud under the rain, possessing a wish to kill needs an appropriate proof.

Well, the author does illustrate their point of view:

They even quote Curtis for an alternative opinion:

Was Saint-Just that fair? I believe yes and he was also self-esteemed enough to want to try to beat Danton in oratory. His speeches were magnificent. The author writes by himself that:

But the author answers Curtise with the following part:

Which arrests were illegal and who enjoyed parliamentary immunity? Since the spring of 1793 there was no parliamentary immunity. Technically all arrests were legal, because they fitted the decree about Revolutionary tribunal (see Histoire parlementaire t. XXV, p. 59-62).

Was Saint-Just always fair? Let me ask it a bit differently: was every statement in his speeches true? No. But it doesn’t mean that he was unfair in general. As with the usage of guillotine or participating in battles, Saint-Just hated it, but it seemed inevitable for him sometimes. That is the point.

It’s about 15th germanal. Saint-Just said that the court session was ended because of inappropriate behavior of defendants, while the president of the court suggested Danton to rest after several hours of talking and continue his defense the next day (Danton agreed). But Saint-Just acted after a Committee meeting in which everyone considered it was necessary. And the trial was stopped not out of 15th germinal decree, but on a base of an old decree that the jury may consider the case clear to them after three days of a trial (originally made for Girondins trial). Source: L. Blanc “Histoire de la Révolution françes” t. 10

So, while the same facts can be interpreted in different ways, the author presents them only in a way that is suitable for his theory (not new thing, yeah) and the theory is Saint-Just Was A Real Blood Sucker, whose ideals “would turn the whole of France into a rigid, huge military camp”.

But now let’s move to the suicidal and self-destructive intention of Saint-Just.

We all know his letter to Daubigny. But the author connects it with the martyrdom theme he has in his speeches and writings. They point out an image of Marat in this case and the line “Great men do not die in their beds”. They call it a “noble death” and a duel with Danton, a colossus, might be a good death, because, according to the author, Saint-Just is a death maniac.

And then goes a “ravishment” and “oedipal hypothesis” and many many many “Archangels of death” and Hebertists being minor leaders and his speech on Thermidor leading to a Committee’s downfall (WHAT?) and all his speech that day called an “unnecessary public confrontation” (WHAT? 2.0).

According to that theory, on Thermidor Saint-Just should denounce Robespierre and then himself.

But the thing is: Saint-Just the author writes about is a syndrome model he imagined, not a person. And not everything can be described by one theory when it comes to a real person.

Oh, shit, oh fuck.

[pyrocephalus-rubinus]

I am just obsessed with the recurring themes of our lives as stories in the Junoverse.

Alessandra Strong reminding us that there are no Happy Endings in real life, only Happy Middles.

Juno being reminded that stories are a way humans have of trying to frame our lives in a way that makes sense, but real life is not that simple. In the reminder that you might want to become the villain in a story to make sense of it but maybe sometimes little kids who live in Oldtown die and no matter how much you blame yourself, it is just not that simple.

In the way Sarah Steel got her story stolen away from her. Andromeda's story, yes, but also her story. And how she couldn't deal with that.

How Juno tried to rebuild a story to survive, with him as a hero as much as he was embarrassed to admit it. And with the part of Sarah Steel pumping through his veins as the ultimate enemy. An epic of heroes and monsters. The way his life was not a simple story in which there was One Clue that would explain everything, One Answer from Ben that would make sense of it all.

The way Juno got robbed of his story by Ramses. Made all those sacrifices, those actions that felt heavy on his shoulders for a plotline that didn't exist. The plot twist was the unraveling of the story, leaving only pain and sadness behind. The way Juno was able to overcome that. To start a new story, to do with his life as he saw fit.

I also love the reminder that we do need stories like Mick's to keep us hopeful. To gather strength to face the big mean world. The acceptance of how useful and sacred the tool of "stories" is.

The way dreams - stories- like having a life of adventure among the stars with the one you love, or like having a home in a city that means death but also hope to you… that those are also necessary. But we can't live in a dream. And the dreams may pass, but it's okay that we dreamed them.

The way Juno could recognize the brutality of stealing Nureyev's story away from the thief. The cruelness of it. How he could sense it coming, looming from that door. How afraid he was for Nureyev.

The way Nureyev's only way of coping all these years has been telling himself a story over and over again. A story of martyrdom. A story of devotion… In order to keep Juno away and not succumb to the desperation to be next to someone he loves and feels like he doesn't deserve, he has been telling himself this story. This lie of how Juno would be better off away from him. How Juno would never understand the sacredness of his life's work.

All these stories, all these versions of what's going on… All these precious lives being used as little clogs of an infernal machine that does not care for stories. Only results and getting richer and richer…

Just ugh… this podcast…

[blood-injections]

The fabulous four were dusted years ago, but they still haunt the zones. Their names are spoken in reverence, like the Witch's, but sometimes in spite too, because nobody likes heroes anymore. To most zonedwellers, at this point martyrdom is nothing but suicide, an easy way out. You can say you died for your cause all you want but at the end of the day theres four less pawns on the board and if they were still here maybe they'd be overthrowing the king instead. It's different, running to Battery City instead of from it, many still think the faulous four were insane for it. Sure, they had a reason, but many argue it wasn't good enough. You don't just trade four lives for one like that, not in war. It's bad strategy. 

Whatever. In reality, most zonedwellers just don't care anymore, those legends are legends now, all thats left of them are their names, heavier in some places than others.

Like here, at the crash track, everyone knows of the Kobra Kid. His name is traded like a dietys among the racers, as if hes some god that can grant you luck in a race if you leave the right offering by the starting banner or whisper the right words under your breath. More than the rest of the fabulous four, Kobra Kid carved out a place for himself here, a trench of a legacy through zone four that everyone that races or watches them knows, the fastest 'joy to ever grace the tracks, they say, and even dead, the Kobra Kid remains such, standing tall as reigning champ in what remains, the records that no racers yet to beat. 

It seems that out of respect, no one even tries. It's become a superstition, that if you try to break one of Kobra's records, it's bad luck, like shattering a mirror or walking under a ladder, they say that on your next race you'll spin out or pop a tire or break a leg for real, that you'll be luckier than usual if you don't break your neck. 

Hardly anyone that hangs around the crash track anymore actually knew him, but everyone still knows his story, its whispered in the stands like gossip, killjoys discussing the kid that came along and grew up fast, watching races first, then one day showing up with his own bike he had saved up carbons for, then he made a name for himself quick, because the kid was a damn natural. He could race the track like an ospery flies, cutting through the sand with a grace unlike any other. Eventually he didn't just master the track, he became it. Older joys say you had to see him racing to believe it, the jumps he could make, the turns he could spin, the times he could set. They say that after he was ghosted with the fab four, the crash track, a place so full of life all day and night, was empty for a week. 

Barren. Nobody raced, crews didn't hang out, for a week there was no life, no music. It felt more like a graveyard. Some sat in the stands and watched the tumbleweeds blow across the track, waiting for a race that never started. It was a long moment of silence, and by the end of the week, apparently candles lined the track, the whole track, one big altar to the lost racer. 

Then, everyone came back, as if they had all unspokenly agreed to, and people raced again, seeing that red motorbike in the corner of their eye, keeping speed with them, they say, until a bend, then it will dissappear, and they know that if they turn to look, it will disappear too. Maybe its actually him, haunting the track, maybe its just a mirage, because he may be gone but the desert remembers, the crash track remembers. Nobody knows, but those older joys, the ones that knew Kobra, that raced with him, hardly any of them race anymore, they're fully able to, there’s just no fun in crossing the finish line and being neck to neck with a ghost.

Ao3

[haggishlyhagging]

Money, like writing, seems to have originated in the temples of the ancient world. The word money comes from the Roman Goddess Juno who in one of her forms was called Moneta meaning She Who Gives Warning. Her temple in Rome was the center for the finances of Rome and so her name Moneta became the word money. The same word became also mint because that same temple was the place where coins were minted. According to Barbara Walker silver and gold coins manufactured there were valuable not only by reason of their precious metal but also by the blessing of the Goddess herself which was believed to bring good fortune and healing magic.

Money was indeed a magical invention. Folk tales are full of magic lamps and genies and beanstalks, of magical ways to have our every wish granted. We would all like to be able to snap our fingers or twitch our noses and have our purposes accomplished. And that is almost exactly what happens with money. It can be exchanged for every conceivable kind of real wealth. Magic. Pure magic. So enamored were people of this magical invention that it became over time the primary measure of real wealth in Westem society.

Why then do three quite diverse philosophical or intellectual traditions agree on the idea that money is somehow unclean or something to be despised?

One of those traditions is Christianity. About one third of the parables of Jesus are about money. He is reported to have taught that being rich is a barrier to salvation and to have told the rich young man to sell everything and give his money to the poor. The one time he is depicted as angry is when he turns over the tables of the money changers at the temple. His advice on taxes is to render unto Caesar what is Caesar's, to separate money and worldly concerns from one's religion. Classical Christianity has preached, if not practiced, that money and this world are to be renounced in favor of an other-worldly kingdom of heaven. The love of money, said St. Paul, is the root of all evil.

Classical Marxism also renounces money as responsible for the alienation of human beings from their labor. People no longer work to create or produce, but only to make money. This situation Marx considered to be disastrous. He felt it was labor which was of essential value and that all monetary valuations were to be discarded. Those who seek only money he saw as exploiting those who work.

Finally there is Freud who thought money was anal. He equated money with feces, excrement. It is therefore filthy and messy. Withholding money is a kind of constipation. Money is related to the bowels and is dirty. And indeed, we do refer to money sometimes as "filthy lucre."

Christianity, Marxism and Freudianism all agree on despising money. As a psychologist I have learned to pay careful attention to those things another person protests most vehemently against. And as a woman I have learned to pay close attention to those things which our great patriarchs preach most loudly against. Because, of course, what is loudly despised is often what is covertly desired or feared or worshipped. So if Jesus, Marx and Freud are all in agreement on something, we women had better take a careful look.

Women are socialized to live out the Christian ideals of self-sacrifice and martyrdom and men are socialized to give lip service to them. The same hypocrisy would seem to apply to what is preached about money. Filthy, despicable, and barrier to salvation it may be, but the fact is that in general, men have money and women don't. According to the United Nations Labor Organization, women put in 65% of the world's work and get back only 10% of all income paid. The female half of the world's population owns less than 1% of world property. Women in our Western society may have access to money through their husbands or fathers, but until recently women rarely accumulated or controlled their own large fortunes.

Men may philosophize about the distinction between money, which is "merely" a measure, and "real wealth," the goods and services into which money can be changed. They can say that the pursuit of money leads to an unhappy, hollow existence. They can urge upon women the virtues of simplicity. But for most men the ultimate appeal is to the "bottom line," that is, to money. How much money will something cost? How much financial profit will be gleaned? Mae West cut through this hypocrisy with great clarity when she said "I've been rich and I've been poor, and rich is better."

-Shirley Ann Ranck, Cakes for the Queen of Heaven

[janasrdhr]

Salvation - Simon “Ghost” Riley

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Warning(s): Slight NSFW, Explicit Language

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The rain hammered against the roof of the safe house like an incessant drum, a reminder of the storm both outside and within its walls. The room was stark, illuminated only by the intermittent flicker of an old lamp, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. You sat opposite Simon Riley, the man who was as much your nemesis as he was your ally in this precarious mission. The Ghost.

You had been on opposite sides more often than not, each encounter a chess game where moves were calculated and every gesture could be a feint; two operatives with a common goal but divergent methods.

Maps and documents were strewn across the table, but they were momentarily forgotten as the tension between you and Ghost reached a boiling point.

“For fuck's sake, Ghost, can you not see you're compromising the whole operation with your damn recklessness?” you hissed, your voice low and fierce.

He slammed his hand down on the table, leaning closer, his expression hard. “I get the job done, dove. I always do. Maybe if ya' weren't so bloody rigid, you’d see that.”

The space between you was electric, the air thick with every harsh word and challenging stare you had ever exchanged. It was as if all the years of rivalry and grudging respect had built up to this singular, explosive moment.

“You're being reckless, Ghost!” you snapped, your voice sharp as a whip. “This isn't some solo mission where you can play the hero. We have protocols for a reason.”

Ghost's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. “And ya' think playin' it safe is goin' to get us out'a this? We're not in some bloody trainin' exercise, dove. This is real, and it's dirty, and sometimes ya' have to adapt!”

“Adapt? Is that what you call compromising the entire operation?” Your voice rose, each word laced with accusation. “You think you're the only one who wants to get the job done? I'm not here to clean up your messes, Ghost.”

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping back violently. “Maybe if ya' stepped out from behind yer' manuals and protocols, you'd see that. Ya' think you're always right, but you're blind, dove. Blind to the fact that this world doesn't play by yer' rules.”

The room seemed to shrink, the air charged with your mutual frustration and anger. You stood as well, meeting him eye to eye, neither willing to back down. “And you're blind to the consequences of your actions! It's not just about us, Ghost. There are lives at stake—”

“Lives are always at stake!” he cut you off, his voice booming over the sound of the rain. “'nd I do what I have to, to protect them. Ya' think I don't know the cost? Ya' think I don't carry it w'me, every damn day?”

His words hung heavy, laden with an emotion you hadn't expected to see. It was a glimpse into the burden he bore, a side of him he rarely showed. But the moment of vulnerability was fleeting, quickly masked by his frustration.

“You're not the only one with scars, Ghost,” you said quietly, your anger giving way to a pained understanding. “We all have them. But that doesn't give you the right to be a martyr. Not at the expense of the mission, not at the expense of our team.”

Ghost's expression hardened, the brief flicker of vulnerability vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He stepped closer, his posture rigid, the intensity in his eyes almost palpable. “Martyr?” he scoffed, his voice laced with disdain. “Ya' think this is about martyrdom? You're so wrapped up in yer' rules and yer' protocols that you've lost sight of what's at stake here.”

He leaned in, his face inches from yours, his words punctuated by the fierceness of his conviction. “I make the hard calls, dove, the ones you're too scared to make. Ya' hide behind yer' guidelines, thinkin' they'll save ya', but out here, in the real world, it's adapt or die. And I'm not ready to die, 'specially not for yer' idealism.”

You felt a surge of anger at his accusation, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “Idealism? Is that what you call valuing human lives? Because I call it humanity, Ghost. Something you might have forgotten in your 'my way or die' philosophy.”

Ghost's smirk was cold, unyielding. “Humanity? In our line'a work? You're delusional if ya' think that's what keeps us alive. It's about making the tough decisions, doin' the dirty work so others don't have to. If that makes me reckless in yer' eyes, so be it.”

The tension between you was explosive, a live wire sparking in the damp air of the safe house. Neither of you moved, the space between you charged with a volatile mix of anger and unresolved tension.

Finally, Ghost straightened, his expression set into a mask of determination. “We're wastin' time here, dove. Ya' can either get on board or get out of my way. But I'm finishin' this mission, with or without yer' approval.”

Your frustration boiled over as you watched Ghost dismissively turn his attention back to the maps. His words echoed in your mind, each one a spark igniting your temper further. He was so certain, so infuriatingly resolute in his methods, and his dismissal felt like a direct challenge to your convictions.

Stepping forward, you snatched a map from the table, crumpling it slightly in your grip. “Just because you're ready to die for this mission doesn't mean you have to drag the rest of us down with your god complex,” you spat out, your voice sharp and biting.

Ghost paused, his back still turned to you. The muscles in his shoulders tensed, and for a moment, you thought he might continue ignoring you, but then he slowly turned around. His eyes were a storm themselves, dark and intense.

“Ya' think y'know better? You think yer' way is the only way?” His voice was low, a dangerous calm that contrasted with the fury in his eyes. He stepped towards you, closing the space with a few determined strides.

“Yes, because my way doesn’t get people killed!” you retorted, your voice rising to match the intensity of the storm outside.

Ghost stopped just inches away, his gaze fixed on you. “You're so damn stubborn,” he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration and something else you couldn't quite place.

“And you're so damn reckless,” you shot back, unwilling to back down, your breaths mingling in the charged air between you.

Suddenly, Ghost's demeanor shifted, the anger in his eyes giving way to a different kind of fire. Before you could react, he closed the gap, his hands gripping your arms as he pulled you into him.

Ghost's grip on your arms wasn't just firm; it was electrifying, sending a jolt of unexpected energy through your body. His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours for a moment that stretched endlessly. Then, without a word, he pulled you harshly against him, erasing the space and the lingering traces of your argument with one swift motion.

His lips met yours with a force that spoke volumes, silencing your protests and melting your resolve. The kiss was not gentle; it was a clash, fierce and demanding, as if he was determined to prove a point. Ghost's mouth moved against yours with a desperate urgency, his frustration and pent-up energy translating into a passion that caught you off guard.

You gasped into the kiss, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against yours, exploring and asserting dominance. The world around you—the maps, the storm, the mission—faded into a blur of sensations. All that mattered was the overwhelming feel of his lips on yours, the stubble of his jaw scratching at your skin, heightening the raw intensity of the moment.

Your hands, initially caught in the moment of surprise, now roved over his body, tracing the hard lines of his back through his shirt, pulling him even closer. Ghost responded with equal fervor, his hands moving from your back to your waist, gripping you tightly, his fingers pressing into your skin as if he couldn't get close enough.

The intensity escalated as his hands roamed further, exploring the contours of your body with a boldness that fueled the heat between you. One hand slid up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, while the other traced down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. Every touch was electric, sparking a fire that threatened to consume you both.

You responded to his urgency, your own hands exploring his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. Your fingers dug into his hair, pulling slightly, eliciting a low groan from him that vibrated through your lips. The sound only added to the intensity, driving you to explore further, your hands slipping under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin against your palms.

When the need for air finally forced you apart, you were both panting, foreheads pressed together, the storm outside echoing the tumultuous rush of your heartbeats. Ghost's eyes were still closed, his breaths heavy and uneven against your face. His hands still rested on your waist, not ready to let go, as if breaking the contact would shatter the connection you had just forged.

The room thick with the heat of your encounter, the earlier chill replaced by an undeniable warmth.

“We really shouldn’t keep doin' this,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire, but his grip on you contradicted his words.

“No, we shouldn’t,” you agreed, your voice breathy, but like him, you made no move to step back, to break the spell that the intense, touch-filled encounter had cast.

The silence that hung between you and Ghost was thick, charged with the aftermath of the intense connection you'd just shared. The storm outside had dwindled to a soft drizzle, mirroring the quieting of the tumultuous energy inside the safe house.

Suddenly, Ghost broke the silence with a muttered, “Fuckin' hell,” his voice a blend of wonder and frustration as he ran a hand through his hair, looking at you with a complex expression.

You simply nodded, understanding the multitude of emotions behind his words. The air was still heavy with the unsaid, the future uncertain.

Ghost looked at you, his eyes searching. “The hell we do now?” he asked, the raw honesty in his voice stripping away any remnants of his usual composure.

“We'll figure it out,” you responded, your voice calm and sure despite the chaos that seemed to always be at the edge of your lives. “Whatever this is, we'll figure it out together.”

Ghost stepped closer, his presence enveloping you in a sense of security that contrasted sharply with the uncertainty of his words. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace that felt like a safe harbor in the midst of the storm. Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss on the top of your head, a tender gesture that felt like a promise. With a heavy sigh, he murmured,

“We always do.”

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masterlist - cod masterlist

© All content on this writing blog is subject to copyright protection; unauthorized reproduction or distribution of any material without permission is prohibited.

[thissmallplace]

THANK YOU FOR THE TAG @homoeroticfisticuffs

rules: answer and tag nine people you want to get to know better and catch up with.

favorite color: black, dark blue, dark red, dark purple and dark green. White sometimes. Mostly dark.

last song: Escapism by The Warning. 100% obsessed with that band. These girls are such an inspiration.

currently reading: Gaza: An Inquest into Its Martyrdom by Norman Finkelstein. It hurts, humanity hurts.

currently watching: Them. And rewatching Supernatural. Supernatural is my comfort series and right now I need all the comfort I can get.

currently craving: a big vegan lentil or bean burger. But a real huge one with jalapeños.

coffee or tea: both. But coffee has to be decaf for some health issues.

hobby to try: I really should go back to my guitar lessons.

current au: rock band Thor AU. Yep. 

tagging: @royalcommunistthor @thorsource @rbsstuff @angrymadsygin @cedrc-diggory @incredifishface @illwynd @lokijiro @powerbottom-thor

[fourteenfifteen]

ok kalvin brnine analysis hours under the cut cw for talk abt suicidal ideation and also for pld31 spoilers

adding some more words so this won’t appear in my popular posts yadda yadda yadda blah blah blah ok so.

there has been fandom discussion of brnine’s relationship w martyrdom ie the way it seems to have impacted them to have known several people who were true believers and who died in pursuit of that vision of a better world. like it was already easy to interpret their recklessness with their own safety as like seeing that as their own endgame and that’s especially true in light of their new hook (something along the lines of “i’m living on borrowed time and need to ensure that they can continue their mission” oof ouch my bones)

BUT i’ve also been thinking about their kind of preexisting ambient self loathing and their history and the interview segment in pld28. i feel like even going back to pzn brnine is like a person who can’t take ownership of things ykwim like there is a shirking of responsibility of the things they’ve done that have caused people to suffer. and really it seems like all of the feedback that they get from people is either saying that they’re horrible and a fuckup and have hurt people needlessly or that they’re yk brilliant and valuable and are aiding the cause. sometimes at the same time from the same people !

there seems to be a tension for them there: their faith in the ability of millennium break to change lives, their dedication to the cause and their crew, but also that they can’t own that fully because they still have the things they did when they only cared about themself hanging over them. and then on the flipside they’ve done horrible things but can’t stand to own up to that fully; they want to be good, they want to help people, that isn’t them anymore

so my real read on kalvin brnine suicidal ideation by martyr fantasy is like. an inability to imagine themself outside of the war bc a dedication to the cause is how they deal with the guilt and self loathing. they want to stop people from getting hurt but that is like the end of the line in terms of their own redemption. so yk the best they could do is do everything they can and then die for it like valence and gur and si and phrygian all did a brnine who survives it is a brnine who has to live with the weight of it all and try to figure out a cohesive self concept that can include both saving several dozen planets and gassing civilians

this is also an interesting train of thought in relation to their response to dahlia’s anime sicko forever war scheme: brnine wants the war to end and thinks it’s immoral to support its continuation (and they’re not yk always one to be calling out the morality of actions so that’s real shit) but there is not an after the war for them. i mean there wasn’t one for valence and there wasn’t one for phrygian but there is like. an imagined future still out there for someone. just they have seemingly put themself in the category of people who aren’t going to get there.

millennium break can change lives but can millennium break make up for the wrongs you did when all you cared about was making it to tomorrow? millennium break can change lives but will you deserve the new life that it builds for you? millennium break can change lives but does that mean the losses in its name have been worth it? and what do you do if they weren’t? millennium break can change lives but who are you when its gone?

[helianskies]

9 or 21, lietpru|pruliet?

man i hope i have done them and u some kind of justice—

Martyrdom

“God, you're in a sorry state.”

“Thanks for pointing it out,” Gilbert quips as he does his best to swallow down a cough that feels like it could dislodge a lung. “Hadn’t noticed.”

“No, really,” Tolys proceeds all the same, wandering only further into Gilbert’s room—notably, without his permission. Typical. “It stinks in here. For someone who’s usually a proud and tidy man, you might as well be living with animals—”

“Sometimes, I do.”

“—and it’s the middle of the day, why are your—? Here—”

Tolys walks right over to the window, and before Gilbert can stop him (or really even consider stopping him) he throws the curtains open and lets the sun in. Gilbert wants to scream and curse him back a thousand years into the past, but… he can’t muster the energy or will to, and simply chooses to defy the other, throwing himself back down into his bedsheets in the same way a child would.

Just because Toyls wants to invade his space, that doesn’t mean that Gilbert has to entertain him!

The mattress shifts and bounces with added weight behind him. Gilbert stares at the wall, but he knows that the other has now decided to make himself comfortable. It only grinds his gears more.

“Go away, Liet…”

“So formal, Preußen,” Tolys muses. “You really are in a bad mood.”

“No thanks to you.”

“Not sure I can be blamed for how you’re feeling. Or coping.”

“Maybe not,” Gilbert mutters, acerbic, “but you aren’t helping.”

“Is that what you want me to do?” Tolys asks. “You want me to help you?”

Gilbert lacks a real answer. Saying that he wants any kind of help would mean defeat. A kicked canine, tail between his legs. But saying that he wants nothing, and potentially sending Tolys back on his way, will only leave him alone again. And for how long? Alone to wallow, to lie there, to drip away slowly into nothing…

It’s been days now. Days of silence. He has noticed passing footsteps—footsteps that have sometimes stopped, listened, waited, and then moved on—

“So, you want me to help,” Tolys remarks as he crosses one leg over the other, and Gilbert can feel those watchful, attentive eyes on him. They may as well have been fingers on his skin, warm, ticklish, teasing…

“Yeah,” Gilbert replies, letting his breath go. He feels himself sink deeper into pillows and blankets. “I need a favour…”

“Go on then,” the other says. “What is it?”

Gilbert breathes back in. His body flushes with shivers and aches. And he asks of the other, “Put me out of my misery.”

Part of him wonders if Tolys will laugh at his request, or maybe tell him to stop being so dramatic. Part of him wonders if he’d feel fingers after all—if something would possess the other and he would cure Gilbert of his ailment—an ailment that Gilbert himself couldn’t even describe. Part of him wonders if—

“No.”

Gilbert nearly chokes on his own saliva, hurrying to sit himself up before he ends up coughing up a lung after all. He whips his head around to stare at Tolys, who is now apparently much more interested in looking out of the window opposite the bed, and he feels shivers and aches of a different kind. 

“No?” he repeats.

“No,” Tolys repeats, too. He looks back at Gilbert and says quite plainly, “Not my misery, so not my problem.”

He’s stunned. 

“Well, fuck you, I guess,” he says, before, again, returning to his bed. 

Not the same way as before, though. It isn’t abrupt, and it isn’t like a tantrum. He just… lies back down, like a dog who has given up trying to get attention, his head settling back on a pillow as his eyes return to the wall. To his wall. To one of his walls, so grey, so cold. 

A soft snort of laughter comes from behind him. It’s wounding, for a moment. But then he feels the mattress move and wobble again, and the next thing he knows, there is an arm. An arm. A whole arm that has come to lie across his side. It doesn’t quite hold him, but it is there, and… that’s okay.

“You get five minutes,” Tolys tells him as his fingers find the other’s hair and gently sift through it. Gilbert closes his eyes. He lets him continue, and relaxes. “After that, you’re having a serious fucking shower, got it?”

“Sure. Got it.”

But if Gilbert could fall asleep in those five minutes, then… Well, the shower, the cleaning, the living—it could wait. It would wait. He’s got what he needs for now.

The dog always gets the bone in the end.

[ find the fic collection on ao3! ]

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Prompt: Enlightened

Words: around one thousand

---

The blade catches candlelight. Leliana’s grip is steady, her motion precise—nothing wasted. Another strike, another necessary loss. She steps forward, her breath calm, measured, as if the weight of the moment hasn’t settled into her chest like stone.

Natalie kneels before her, head bowed, hands folded in quiet prayer. There’s no trembling, no resistance. Only stillness. Acceptance. Leliana’s stomach twists faintly, but she buries the feeling. It isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.

"I understand," Natalie whispers, her voice steady, unshaken. "If this is the price of faith, so be it."

Leliana’s hand falters, just slightly. Natalie’s voice cuts too close, too deep, like Justinia’s used to. For a brief moment, Leliana sees her friend—not a traitor, not a piece on the board, but the woman who once brought her tea late at night, whose prayers filled the silence of darkened chantries.

The Left Hand doesn’t hesitate.

It is instinct, not mercy, that steels Leliana’s resolve. Her blade rises.

Disruption.

Evelyn moves, swift and deliberate, and the anchor flares in her palm. Green light floods the room, its jagged glow casting saints’ faces into distorted grotesques. Leliana feels the warmth of Evelyn’s blood against her fingers before she registers the grip closing around her blade.

Templar training. The stance, the precision. Leliana files it away without thinking, cataloging details even as her mind protests.

"Bold," she says, her tone clipped and cold. Her eyes flicker to Evelyn’s face—calm, deliberate, save for the anchor’s violent flare betraying her anger. "Though hardly subtle."

"Not everything needs to be subtle." Evelyn leans in, her voice low. Blood drips from her hand, pooling on the stone between them. "Sometimes, a direct approach is what gets the point across."

Leliana studies her, unflinching. Evelyn’s hand shakes faintly, from pain or fury, but her voice holds steady. "And what approach is this?" Leliana tilts her head, watching her like a predator observing prey. "Martyrdom? Desperation? It doesn’t suit you."

"No games. No martyrdom." Evelyn’s grip tightens, and the blade presses deeper into her hand. The anchor flares again, its light burning harsh and unnatural. "You want to punish betrayal? Then start with me."

For a moment, Leliana considers it. The move would be clean, efficient. It would silence Evelyn’s defiance and remove Natalie’s treachery in one act. The Left Hand strikes without hesitation. That is the rule.

And yet, Evelyn’s words linger. "Start with me."

Leliana studies her position carefully, the way she might study a battlefield. She sees the trap Evelyn is laying, reads the desperation in her voice. It doesn’t stop the doubt from creeping in, soft and insidious.

"Your past sins are irrelevant," Leliana says, her voice sharpening.

"Are they?" Evelyn’s voice rises, raw and biting. "I enforced Meredith’s edicts. I dragged mages to their fates, watched the light leave their eyes when the Rite was done. I told myself it was order—but it was fear. Natalie believes in something. What did I believe in? What did I do?"

The question cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and merciless. Blood drips steadily now, dark against the stone, and the anchor flares with each pulse of Evelyn’s words. The light crawls over Natalie’s face, painting her serene expression in jagged green.

"Leliana." Natalie’s voice is soft, almost chiding, like a friend calling her back from the brink. "I’ve made my peace. Do what you must."

Leliana’s chest tightens. Natalie’s calm acceptance, her unwavering faith—it twists like a knife. The Left Hand doesn’t falter, but the woman Leliana used to be does.

(Justinia would understand. The Left Hand strikes; the Right Hand soothes.

The choice has always been yours.)

Evelyn steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "What do you see, Leliana? Someone playing a game? Or something real?"

The anchor’s glow sharpens, casting twisted shadows across the walls.

Leliana doesn’t look at Evelyn, doesn’t look at Natalie. She looks at the saints above, their faces warped and inhuman. For a moment, she sees herself reflected there, fractured and hollow.

"I see—" Leliana falters, her voice catching.

Natalie’s faith. Evelyn’s defiance. Her own doubts.

The blade falls from Leliana’s fingers, clattering loudly against the stone.

"Go," she says finally, her voice steady but softer than before. "Tell your Grand Cleric what mercy looks like."

Natalie’s eyes widen faintly, but she bows her head. "Thank you." Her voice is quiet, full of meaning Leliana can’t bear to unpack. She rises and disappears into the shadows beyond the chantry doors, her steps echoing faintly.

Silence follows, heavy and suffocating. Leliana looks down at Evelyn, whose bloodied hand still hovers where the blade had been.

"You need that hand," Leliana says after a moment, her tone regaining its usual edge.

"Worth it. Evelyn’s faint smile is exhausted, but resolute. "It needed to be done."

"Perhaps." Leliana binds the wound with brisk efficiency, her fingers steady even as her thoughts aren’t. "But next time, spare me the blood.""

"Would you have listened?"

Leliana’s fingers falter briefly before resuming their work. She doesn’t look up as she answers, her voice softer, almost uncertain. "I… don’t know." The admission feels foreign on her tongue, like a wound left unguarded.

She rises, her gaze sweeping the empty chantry. The anchor’s glow has faded now, dim and warm—steady, like Evelyn’s heartbeat.

As they step into the cold night air, Leliana glances at Evelyn. Some pieces, she thinks, refuse to play the roles assigned to them.

And sometimes, that’s how the board changes entirely.

---