#rather than 'what's the best way to spite a dead woman?

[cuntyglam]

hi! sorry in advance if this is bothersome, like fr feel free to just delete if you’d like, but for some reason your ask box seems like a good place to go to talk about this? anyway, that “lovingly help her transition” post has me thinking about transfem butch zoro again & just, like, yes sexy muscle woman blah blah but also honestly it just adds several really interesting layers to zoro’s relationship with women, as well as her relationship with strength itself that don’t really get discussed in conjunction with that headcanon & it’s a travesty fr. like, the way she hears kuina- a girl who will come to be the baseline for zoro’s view of strength for the rest of her life in someways- struggle with internalized misogyny as a result of their environment goes from something that frustrates zoro as it relates to his own strength to something that frustrates her on a much more nuanced level because, though zoro may or may not be aware she’s trans yet, if she can’t beat kuina, & kuina can’t be the strongest because she’s a woman, then what hope does zoro have? & that’s not going into the ways that the rhetoric placing any win specifically on zoro’s body rather than skill could be a huge source of dysphoria, & honestly i think that both of those would follow zoro for quite a long time in the context of her being transfem? but it also adds another layer to her taking on kuina’s dream as part of her own- like it was meant to be a pair of women fighting for the title & now that it can’t be zoro would feel like a more gendered? ig? responsibility to take the title on top of just the more directly interpersonal stuff. & it’s also a reading that i think has a very interesting impact on her whole thing with tashigi because i think both in canon & in this context part of what frustrates zoro so much about her is, for all she looks like kuina, she in many ways lacks kuina’s resolve or desire to prove her own strength. for all tashigi is very clearly (rightfully) outraged by the misogynistic expectations placed upon her, we very rarely see any desire from her to better herself for her own sake or in spite of those expectations (though the scene at the end of alabasta is a noteworthy exception) & like where in canon i think zoro tends to fuck with her because of it in a way that’s a tad more spiteful & demeaning, i think in a transfem reading of zoro it’s a bit more like… genuine indignation over how much of her ability to move through the world tashigi is willing to give up as a result of those expectations in comparison to her actual capacity. like it goes from “you wear the face of my dead friend who has come to be definitional to my person while in some ways being antithetical to her existence, & so i am fine talking down to you” -> “you are allowing the expectations placed upon us as women to hold you back & wasting the chances to do better never knowing when you’re gonna die & you can’t even see it. my best friend was willing to fight for it as a very young girl before death caught her, i’ve had to fight for it my whole life, what the hell are you doing to yourself?” & then there’s tashigi’s insistence on zoro’s disconnect being a result of being biologically male… like tashigi goes from irritating to triggering for zoro in a way. & with strength it’s like… kuina defined both strength & girlhood for zoro in a way that is incomparable to any impact anybody else has ever had on her, but the blueprint was cut off before completion, & now zoro is having to figure it out all on her own. & her commitment to being herself takes on a role that’s just as large as her commitment to strength, if not outright merging the ideas in a far more direct way than canon itself. to be the strongest swords(wo)man she has to be a woman who is herself who is able to carry the people she loves for the girl that taught her all this in the first place, yk? plus it just adds a cute layer of solidarity to everything going on with zoro & okiku. anyway sorry if this is too long or irritating or incoherent, just wanted to say butch transfem zoro rights!

oh my gods this is fantastic you need to write an essay NEOW. i’ve always headcanoned zoro as trans masc just because they feel very trans masc to me, and i’ve also headcanoned kuina as someone who may have been trans masc if they were able to grow up, but i really love this interpretation !! it’s just so fantastic, and i really love it. you could do debates or something fr. while i’ve always interpreted their relationship with women and misogyny in a transmasc light it’s so cool to see that reflected on a transfem zoro. i don’t know why i’ve never thought about it but i adore it !!

[zoobus]

The Bad Ending of an Otome

From time to time I've expressed a desire to explain otome isekai's appeal to me through a pastiche of my favorite writing pieces from tumblr, the Scorpion and the Frog. I still have not followed through, despite the fact that it should be literally the easiest thing in the world - the Villainess and Her World. Frustrating.

Anywho, today's scorpion/frog meta regards the jealous hater replacement heiress of a beautiful but terminally ill child in a dating sim.

The original game followed a girl who happened to look just like the now terminally dead Ophelia, who was previously alive and loved by all. The identical not-twin fills the Ophelia-shaped hole left in everyone's heart. The jealous hater replacement heiress (the villainess/frog, naturally) is quickly replaced and eventually killed for jealous hater maneuvers. Our main character (MC) of course reincarnates as the frog.

The first twist is a genre staple, could almost be considered the blueprint every story builds off of; rather than a specific, vindictive bitch... What if I was kind? What if I chose not to do anything that would make them want to kill me? What if I simply befriended the terminally ill Ophelia?

But like any good OI, the subversion takes it somewhere specific, someplace more personal. What if I befriended the terminally ill Ophelia...and still coveted everything she had? What if you're forced to realize it's actually pretty hard to not be a jealous hater when you're sitting side by side with someone effortlessly wealthier, prettier, more beloved than anything you'll ever experience? Especially when the beautiful dying Ophelia was honestly kind of a hateful bitch? And what if, despite all of this, you truly loved her? And that love didn't extinguish your overwhelming envy for what you could never have? This is an OI framing of what it's like to lose your best friend, the person no one else knew or loved like you did, to a slow, unstoppable terminal illness. It's a look at real friendship while harboring immense amounts of envy and hatred.

There's this tension with whether the MC really liked Ophelia, if she's saying "friend" or "love" out of habit rather than sincerity, whether Ophelia was just a bully using her wealth and power to manipulate someone she essentially owns, if her comment about dying with her are more about avoiding the the future or maybe placating a sick person, and nice little nuanced character things meant to keep you on your toes about the nature of their relationship. Area woman uncertain if she's being bullied or if this is girl bonding kind of stuff.

At times it would be logical to pity Ophelia, to despise her at others, even to take a certain amount of schadenfreude in this popular hot rich girl's pain. I liked the various ways the narrative muddied MC's perspective of Ophelia. She's an unpleasant, mean person that MC has to stick with whether she wants to or not.

I loved Ophelia. A lot.

Now of course they don't let this girl look terminally ill - this is a princess comic after all - but lmaooo do they let her act it. Ophelia is *Bitter* that she has to die. *Terrified* of the inevitable. *Seething* over the expectation that she suffer through future agonizing symptoms just so her family can see her longer. *Furious* at these lovesick horny men courting her like they don't know her days are numbered. "Oh I worship you Ophelia, nobody's made me feel this way before, no woman will ever measure up to you" she knows they only like her cause she's hot. Ophelia is so hostile, so spite-filled, so fucking mad that not only does she have to die young, these people who claim to love her are - in both overt and subtle ways - pressuring her to take her imminent death gracefully, quietly, and above all else, beautifully. Foisting dignity on this teenager who's going into her casket kicking and screaming. If Ophelia had a tumblr she'd spend her time browsing vent tags and sending suicide bait.

Her character is so good, I was unfairly irritated by her in-game replacement who hadn't done anything yet. You really get where Ophelia's at times excessive hatred for the male love interests was coming from because like...wow. You're going full yandere eternal prisoner bad end for her...? This innocent good girl lamb who wants the best for everyone? No matter how similar they look, the fact that she offers a kind word and a helping hand would break any TRUE Ophelia stan's immersion instantly. She would never.

Anyway. Stories centered on the friendship between girls that aren't overly saccharine or stilted displays positivity are sadly uncommon, but they're my favorite. Like not to be aro on main but I think what others get out of tales of romance is how I respond to tales of deep friendship between women. Asobi Asobase, Binbougami Ga, Nichijou, Surviving Romance, they all fulfill some base desire that no one else seems to cherish as strongly😢

When we finally get confirmation, I have to admit. I stared at this page for like three minutes, eyes wet.

Spoilers! She did love her. She loved her more than anyone.

[primalinfinity]

Y'know, this whole Luigi Mangione and health insurance CEO thing, and the aftermath of it, has actually been rather vindicating for me on a deep, spiteful level.

One of the big things that has been a perpetual rift between myself and most of my other politically engaged friends, is that I realised at fifteen years old that peaceful protests, marches, and especially fucking internet petitions never achieve anything. Those in power completely ignore them, they don't even look out their windows.

Those sorts of demonstrations and actions work pretty well for social policy, but when it comes to anything to do with the economy, or military, then they really don't do shit.

If you want to really shake up the ruling class, then grouping together as a crowd in the streets isn't going to do it. They'll ignore it, they won't change. Sometimes you have to do something...that actually puts the fear of god and consequences in them.

This has regularly and often been a major cause of debate between myself and others. The friends who love signing petitions, and doing random boycotts, and all that shit.

But now, one CEO gets gunned down in the street because of what he did and what he represented, and look at how the ruling class are reacting.

They are terrified. They are doing everything in their power to make a huge show of how terrible Luigi is. They're going to try for terrorism charges for fucks sake. That woman who made a passive threat over the phone to a random insurance employee got arrested on $100,000 bond.

They are panicking, and lashing out from it, and that's how you know that the action was effective. When they try to stop you from doing it.

Because terror is what they finally feel. One dead CEO, put down coldly, has done more to shake up the wealthy class than any protest I've ever seen. It's making them lash out like wounded animals, trying to squash any chance of it happening again. Because if it does, it's going to work.

The comedian Josh Johnson put it best, when he said "The reason they're so scared from this, is because it showed to them that we feel for them the way they feel for us."

I was right.

All I'm saying, is that Elon Musk sure goes to a lot of public events in open stadiums...

(I will 100% delete this soon, I just wanted to get it off my chest.)

[jasontoddiefor]

I absolutely adore your Jiang Fengmian and Cangse Sanren just being friends posts so much because my personal theory is that they were great friends and people were weird about platonic-male female relationships and shitty about how a beautiful, renowned women married someone insignificant in their eyes. It’s so nice and refreshing and I’m tired of the whole he’s creepy and obsessed with a dead woman instead of his two best friend died and he’s trying to give their son a good life. Let the man be complex! Is he is a great parent? No, but he was arguably a better dad than attic wifer and lecher, a C level parent and someone who was kind to common folk and let their kids play with his disciples, that making him into this villain character that’s either super creepy and gross or apathetic and completely neglectful and letting Madam Yu do inhumane abuses in front of him without retort is so weird.

Sorry for the tangent, I just love you having a platonic friendship of two souls both a little bit in awe of each other’s worlds. Let him be a lowkey depressed man with his two best friends gone and dead and is now just trying his best to be a good Sect Leader and still failing at times. Let him have some complexity.

Anon you made my day with this ask.

Like, I think the "grieves the idealized version of someone he loved (romantically)" is fine, like, whatever, but it's also kinda basic?

And if they were genuine platonic friends only, it would also add to the narrative IMO? MDZS very much works on a "things left unsaid and left unacknowledged" kind of theme, and a friendship that isn't allowed to be seen as such would fit just right in. From what we see, JFM is a very mild man as well, so of course there'd be questions, misunderstandings and such messy ugly rumors.

And I think the fandom also just generally exaggerates JFM? Like while reading and watching either adaption, I mostly got a sense that this is a man who has resigned himself to living alongside his wife and mostly doesn't know how to parent any of his kids in a way that doesn't infuriate YZY so he decided that being more hands off in general is better. But not this mess of obsessive to neglectful?

Like, thos interpretations can be fun, love me a good dark fic, but that's just not what canon gives me?

But yeah!!! you're right!!! Let him be a lowkey depressed man with his two best friends gone and dead and is now just trying his best to be a good Sect Leader and still failing at times.

Also here take a snippet of friendship bc I couldn't find much on AO§:

Cangse Sanren knocks on his door until Jiang Fengmian drags himself out of bed. He doesn’t know it is her or he wouldn’t have answered the door in his sleeping robes. She doesn’t notice, of course she doesn’t, and Jiang Fengmian is relieved that nobody else is up this early.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d claim Cangse Sanren only got up early to spite Lan Qiren and his expectations of her, but she came with the habit.

“Fengmian, I need you to go shopping with me,” she declares boldly. He knows that her expectation is now, although most shops won’t open for another two hours most likely. She probably wants to go exploring the area early – and ditch the disciples accompanying him, except maybe Wei Changze. She behaves even stranger around him and Jiang Fengmian is glad to have finally found something to tease Wei Changze about.

“And why do I need to go with you?”

“I need someone to tell me when the sellers are ripping me off!”

He knows that she has gotten a much better understanding of average prices now, and doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he knows as little about the prices of average street food stalls as her. Sect heirs, generally speaking, do not go shopping in the places Cangse Sanren finds her most favorite trinkets.

Still, she grins at him and Jiang Fengmian finds himself smiling back. He kicks her out of his room to get dressed, for his sense of propriety more than hers. Cangse Sanren has a rather tolerant view on partial nudity, even to a Yunmeng native. He considers waking another disciple to tell them that it is not last night’s curse that made him disappear, but settles on writing a quick note instead.

“Where are we going?” he asks Cangse Sanren the moment they’re out of the door.

She grins again, tellingly, and takes him by the hand to drag him into a street of craftsmen he’d have never seen without her. She hardly shuts up, praising every piece of art, the food, and Jiang Fengmian whenever he points out a piece of jewelry that would be particularly unpractical for nighthunting. Most of them look like gifts one of Jin Guangshan’s terrible cousins had tried to give her.

He thinks it’s the closest he’ll get to having a sister, but he’ll keep that thought quiet, least of all it betrays something else.

[thesungod]

Do you have any Hera meta you would like to expand on , maybe in relation to what a relationship with Apollo would look like

anon… do u share my brand of insanity or are u just indulging me.

as far as Hera meta goes, my main point is that she’s not a villain in the true sense of the word: i think she’s tolerant of humans and the consideration she generally has for demigods is the consideration she’d have for ants. and honestly, she’s truly one of the few gods who’s entitled to feel that way, considering that she’s not responsible for siring them and would rather the others didn’t. obviously she has exceptions (demigods/humans she really likes and demigods/humans she really hates) and she’s wrong for taking revenge on Zeus’ mistresses but overall she’s just not that bad. ya feel me?

she’s also shown to feel genuine love for Jason which brings the count of people who have actually felt genuine love for Jason in canon up to three lmao (Piper-Leo-Hera). Nico exists in a grey area and you got to have some respect for that.

so anyways, she was actually pretty smart to swap Percy and Jason and she managed to keep it under the rug for longer than what would be expected. obviously it was wrong of her to use them as puppets for her strings but she’s not nearly alone in that. Apollo confirms in ToA that it is simply the way gods treat demigods. In my view, she sucks but she doesn’t Especially Sucks.

i also have endless sympathy for Hera having to tolerate her husband’s infidelity and (so clearly implied they might as well say it) abuse. she’s just. an unhappy woman, dare i say the unhappiest olympian god, and i think she has been so for so long that she has forgotten what anything else feels like. does she have friends? she certainly doesn’t have lovers, and while that may have initially been a commitment of love, it must have gotten pretty lonely over the years. she’s portrayed as icy and dignified and distant, the godliest of the gods, the one who most clearly represents the divide between mortals and immortals, and i ask myself how much of that is her real personality, and how much is the result of bitterness and isolation.

imagine: Hera regretting the fact that she’s made so many enemies once, when she felt untouchable and at her peak, because she’s just alone now, but what’s done is done so what can she do?

Hera never quite fitting in with other deities and really, who can blame them.

Hera having spent such a long time not even considering the idea of romantic love for herself and being so stunted that when she starts falling for Apollo, she doesn’t even notice. she simply cannot believe it. doesn’t even dare to think it.

she feels that feeling. the one where you a crush on someone after a really long time and you are all giddy and excited, not because you think it may be reciprocated, but because it’s new and thrilling to desire someone. she’s a high school girl wanting to be asked to prom.

now, let’s suppose it all happens because her and Apollo start sleeping together to spite Zeus as per my headcanon, and she inexplicably begins to want him for more than just revenge: she would would be so angry because she cares more, she’s far more into it, she’s utterly taken by him. at the end of the day, what they do is nothing particularly new for him (except for the “if he catches us i’m dead” part ig lmao) but it’s all brand new never heard before for her!! and her pride would be hurt!! but what are you gonna do about it!!

and now let’s suppose that at one point he starts caring back, and he treats her well and she hasn’t been treated well in centuries. so she gets carefree, and she gets reckless and she catches herself fixing her hair before the Olympian Council so that he sees her at her best!! imagine how humiliating that is for her!! she’s the Queen of Olympus she’s the Queen of the gods she’s the Ruler of the world and he’s literally just a guy!! she should hit him with her car!!

instead, she finds herself in his car, having been convinced to take a ride with the sun chariot for the first time ever while he’s babbling about… she doesn’t even know, talking horses trying to kill him? because that’s something that happened? apparently? and he has his stupid shades on and she feels like a high school girl actually getting asked to prom.

and for the unhappiest goddess of the Council, that’s a really magnificent feeling.

[briannabrackens]

♛ → THE RIVERLANDS present(s) BRIANNA BRACKEN, the LADY of STONE HEDGE. when the dragons danced in the sky they thought the GREENS would still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. the TWENTY-FIVE year old FEMALE who was LIVELY & COMMUNITY-FOCUSED before they saw the first of the flames, is now SPITEFUL & IMPULSIVE after seeing the last. ( adelaide kane )

lady brianna of house bracken was born in the month of october, when the rolling hills of stone hedge were coloured in hues of red, orange and yellow. her father, lord humfrey bracken, married the lady saoirse of house blackbar and birthed three legitimate children for house bracken - including brianna. growing up, brianna was taught to be weary of the blackwoods: godless vassals that had usurped ancient bracken kings. it were common for knights sworn to both houses to end up dead in duels, and in more severe circumstances, for members of the houses to turn on one another. she passionately denies the idea that the brackens poisoned the weirwood tree within raventree hall, claiming that the brackens would not have been the only house to have qualm with the blackwoods refusing to follow the new andal faith.

brianna bracken is a lady: but hardly, in the sense of having a sailor's mouth and attitude. she is all spirit and passion, being quite crass in the way she speaks with a thick riverlands accent, often using the riverlands old tongue rather than the common tongue. she stomps, rather than walking; often in boots beneath her skirts. the servants of stone hedge and the smallfolk within the lands of house bracken are more than aware of her fiery nature, and yet, the rest of the riverlands do not realise how temperamental the woman is. she was highly aware that the outside world is as accepting of her tendencies, and is in the process of trying to learn how to keep her mouth shut. emphasis on trying.

brianna has a very strong communal spirit, often found within the various villages belonging the bracken rule - including the much disputed village of blackbuttle with the blackwoods, aiding in septs made of wood in serving bowls of potato soup. she also cares for the stray animals in the villages, dogs specifically; it is common to see her roaring with laughter or having an in-depth discussion with the local butcher, swordsmith, baker, laundress. it is something she takes great pride in: knowing the people, beyond political assumptions. this is key in her spirited advice to her older brother ronan, who is master of laws, regarding what the people of the riverlands need. often over bread and more potato soup.

as a girl, her childhood best friend was lady elaena cetigar: the sister of lord maximus and lady lyra celtigar of claw isle. the girl was even a ward within stone hedge for some amount time, in which the girls became incredibly close. as the years passed, she began to find herself wondering whether elaena thought her beautiful too. whether elaena wished to hold and kiss her the way in which brianna wanted her. such girlish fantasies which were ripped away when tensions continued to stir between the blacks and greens, and elaena was sent back to claw isle. the women only began speaking when all were gathered in the north; but it all ended incredibly badly, and she distanced herself from her closest companion.

brianna is bisexual, though it is something she struggles greatly with: believing it to be unladylike in a way that even she could not defend or stomach. it went against the laws of the gods, against nature itself, and so she tore herself away from a pair of lilac eyes.

she is very keen on the idea of the riverlands progressing: becoming a power of their own, and was not entirely opposed to the idea of an alliance with lys, though she never involve herself in such political matters. there were times she would attempt to read the letters to her brother, though it would only end up in her running off. she is very keen on trying to help elevate not only the riverlands, but the position of the brackens overall: if there is one thing she has realised from her talks with the smallfolk and nobles alike, it is that money truly talks.

and thus, it was agreed that lady brianna bracken was to marry within the westerlands - though to who, remains something her brother ronan continues to try and work out. in the mean time, she must work out how to mask and hide her temperament; for she would never fit in within the court of tyland lannister with such a sailor's mouth.

random connections:

her older brother ronan, pending: truly believes they should have been twins, the calmer between the two of them though he is far more conniving and patient than brianna herself. these two constantly make one another laugh, and it is common to see them in good spirits with one another.

the blackwoods: currently she hates all of their guts, she believes benadict's balls haven't dropped and has no understanding how he can possibly be hand when her brother exists, and believes margaret is a daft bore.

lady elaena celtigar: childhood best friend, crush, very highly probable she was in love with elaena at one point. made her realise she was bisexual. completely cut elaena off: she no longer speaks to the woman, and has walked right by her multiple times.

the mallisters: believes zakariya is an honest and deserving man whose soft wisdom is very much needed with such a young hand. the mallister women however, she believes are too high above their station: sticks up their asses. ayca seems intentionally angsty and edgy like a stroppy teenager, meanwhile emira is two faced and foolish.

the blackbars of the reach: her cousins through her mother's parentage. absolutely loves these people to bits, and the alliance with the reach means she is able to visit bandallon more than ever before. they share strong cultural links, and she continues to speak in their old tongue.

the mootons: brianna does not know much of maidenpool as she has never visited, however she has heard of how different it is. seeing qorban is civil, for she does not engage in any banter with him: spies were dangerous, and she was a subject of the king. she was not on the council. her brother is closer with qorban mooton.

lord leo lefford; insert the gif of the three blonde women fainting over gaston. the first time she saw lord leo lefford of golden tooth, she was absolutely besotted with him and genuinely believes him to the best looking man across all the realms. if there is any she would want to marry in the westerlands, it would be him. she knows of his closeness and kinship to the lion king, and is therefore trying to work out how best to catch his attention.

lord omer florent: these two were in talks of being betrothed so many years ago once brianna became of age, and the pressure only intensified during the dance. house florent refused to join a side, and therefore it was called off. their last interaction was a tense one, incredibly comical though.

[ahb-writes]

Book Review: ‘HIGEHIRO’ #2

Higehiro: After Being Rejected, I Shaved and Took in a High School Runaway, Vol. 2 (light novel) (Higehiro: After Being Rejected, I Shaved and Took in a High School Runaway by Shimesaba My rating: 4 of 5 stars Sayu, frantically running away from her past, has run so far and so fast such that she has forgotten to allay herself of the benefits of having run away in the first place. That is not to say she hasn't indulged in the freedom of movement and behavior; rather, she has neglected to explore the emotional latitude one often earns for oneself when finally unshackled by the presumptions of home. HIGEHIRO v2 pivots, holding Sayu responsible for her actions and forcing her to confront the fragility she hides with five different dishonest smiles. Also, Yoshida's work life is getting more hectic. Also, Sayu snags a part-time job and makes new friends. Also, more folks within Yoshida's inner circle are clued into his home situation. Also, an adulterer barges back into Sayu's life. More and more developments layer the precedent, and readers are left to wonder how long it'll be until Sayu, or Yoshida, or any of the supporting cast, breaks down. HIGEHIRO v2 is about surviving the fiery backdraft of emotions left unattended for far too long. The novel isn't a tearjerker, but it's definitely heartbreaking on multiple accounts. It's a reality check, and nobody emerges unscathed. The expanding number of characters with baggage and a hustle and misconceptions about social propriety grows with each chapter. This novel series' premise hasn't changed. The tale of a "nice guy" office worker trying his best in spite of the world's emergent ills remains the primary theme. But the deeper readers wade into Yoshida's life, the more they come to find he's an aberration in more ways than one. In HIGEHIRO v2, Yoshida butts heads with characters whose perception of the world is falsely colored according to what they desire most. Airi Gotou is still the object of the young man's affections, but the woman's pretentious virtue nearly wrenches their whole dynamic off course. Mishima, Yoshida's kohai, still pines for her do-gooder colleague, but her indecisive disposition marks her for one who can never attain what she needs because she never voices what she wants. This is a character study on down the line. New characters are not immune to these clashes with reality. Asami Yuuki, for example, is a casual gyaru and one of Sayu's coworkers at a local corner store. The girl is a brilliant high-school student whose home life is the telltale consequence of neglectful parenting. The connections she makes, and the ruptures she inveighs, are direct consequences of these experiences. HIGEHIRO v2 tips its hand a little, strongly implying that Yoshida has found himself dead center in the most undesirable harem in the history of humankind: a gorgeous prude, a lazy and unambitious sidekick, an immature runaway, and a mature latchkey youth. Whether the man will acquiesce to one of these rotten desires, or fold his cards and walk away, is as of yet unknowable.

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[nickgerlich]

Grrrl Power

It’s funny-sad to watch old television programs and movies from the mid-century. Art truly imitated life, and we saw on our screens the depiction of what was the social norm. American values were what we would call “traditional” these days, often built upon religious doctrine.

Men wore pants, women wore dresses, and gender role expectations were pretty rigid.

When we look back on this today, we may think it was quaint. I’m not going to be dismissive and say, “Well, it worked,” because we may have survived in spite of them, not because. It would also be easy to conclude that, because changes did come, maybe the old ways weren’t so good after all, or at least had lost their relevance.

At the risk of my students retorting with a snarky TL;DR, I’ll cut to the chase: Things are very different now, and women are free to pursue the life they want to live. It’s not perfect, mind you, but much better than before. Take what I say with a grain of salt, because I’m in mansplaining mode right now.

But if you’re in this blog for the long haul, lend me your eyes and ears. For the second time in recent years, there is a distinct possibility we may elect a woman President in seven weeks.

The division of labor within American homes has changed considerably. The notions of “man’s work” and “woman’s work” have blurred considerably, replaced by clearer thinking and a move toward task specialization. That’s another way of saying that the most-qualified person in the household does specific tasks, without regard to tradition or gender.

The change has been refreshing for me, even though I grew up in one of those traditional families. Dad brought home the bacon, and Mom cooked it. She also laundered, cleaned, mended, and did all the domestic things you could think of. Dad mowed, changed the oil, and customized the basement in our first house. They were raised to do just that.

Although I grew up surrounded by the traditional dyad, I was also afloat in a sea of change. Today, I have found myself in love with cooking, something I desperately had to learn after first wife left. I find it therapeutic, much like I don’t mind doing laundry. For that matter, as much as I want the grass to quit growing right now, I rather like spending a few hours on my tractor completely disconnected from everything else. These are jobs that need to be done, regardless of whether a man or woman does them.

I remember when—there’s my catch phrase again—I attended freshman orientation at my undergrad, which was a private Christian college. We met one evening for the Freshman Hike, which amounted to the boys lining up on the left, girls on the right, and then walking toward the huge cemetery across from campus. We had to take the hand of the girl beside us, and then proceed through the usual “What’s you name?” and “What’s your major?” After a minute or so, the leader of the event would yell, “Switch!” The first man would then drop to the back, and we all moved up one, meeting another young lady.

The big joke back then—this was 1977—was that most of the girls were there only to get a coveted “Mrs” degree. You know. A husband, thereby fulfilling her womanly mission. Kids would follow, as well as homemaking. If you picked up a few tidbits of knowledge along the way, good on you.

The liberation of women, though, is not just about career advancement and meaningful jobs. It is a necessity, when you consider that nearly 50% of all marriages in the US will end in divorce. Women, often with primary custody of children, wind up fending for themselves. It’s hard to make ends meet on dead-end minimum wage jobs.

The best way to try to insulate yourself from divorce is to wait a bit to marry. Those marrying after the age of 25 have the least incidence of divorce. Oh, and if you do divorce, be careful remarrying, because second and third marriages have a much higher rate of divorce than first marriages.

Putting this all together—and you knew I had a method to my madness—we see that the composition of American universities has changed considerably. Beginning around 1980, women started outnumbering men on campus. Today, about 58% are women, and only 42% men. At WT, the ratio is 59 to 41.

All of which means, guys, if you came here to find the spouse of your dreams—assuming you are straight—then the odds are stacked highly in your favor.

It’s a very different world from when I was a kid. About 46% of the US workforce is women, seven percentage points higher than the global average, but still only enough to put us at #71 of 180 nations. It’s getting better, and our economy has managed just fine accommodating the influx of new workers. Women have broken through numerous glass ceilings, but there is still room for improvement.

I have seen the changes since I was in grad school at Indiana University. Back then, women wore female versions of a man suit to job interviews and the office, meaning a skirted suit. Today, they can express their femininity with dresses, slacks, and other apparel. And men, don’t be surprised when you find yourself with a female boss. It is increasingly common, and if you have issues taking orders from a woman, you might just want to check yourself. These aren’t the 1950s, you know.

As the father of two daughters with good jobs and even better professional outlooks, I for one am happy to see the change. I raised my daughters to have this mindset, as did their mother. No woman should be subservient to men, in spite of how you interpret the Apostle Paul. His admonitions were written in a very different place and time. This is the 21C, and were he writing epistles today, I bet he would change his tune.

I know I have. And it’s a tune I kind of like.

Dr “You Go, Ladies!” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[thanidiel]

Second-Guess

TW: predatory behavior, vague description of nonpenetrative sexual assault.

There are some things that you only realize well into one’s adulthood. Past the dozen-or-so pats on the back where you tell yourself, yes, you’ve certainly made it, and, yes, you are certainly stronger than you were just a year ago (now imagine twenty years ago). And, honestly, the more people I talk to - the more I realize that there’s a generous slice of that pie of whom only pick up the extracurriculars when they’re silver, and therefore forcibly alone. 

Maybe there’s something good to my mix of forced-and-chosen aloneness in that. I have a whole lot of time to myself and my own thoughts that not many people get the privilege of having, at least without the underlying and ever-present dread that there’s something better they could be doing with their time. That doesn’t exist after you’ve walked back and forth for the last tick of the clock, plus those three and a half laps before mealtime, looking for something to do until you, or rather I, must surrender to the fact that there is really nothing else to earn my keep with so I really ought to just sit down on my ass and read my books.

I think the biggest breakthrough I’ve come upon through that came about five, maybe six, years ago. And it wasn’t very dramatic, nor as heady as those less hefty gates I was opening across the timespan of a foot to my height and several lines to my face. Honestly, it came on a little mutedly, like I caught it one day looking over from where I was sipping my morning tea. And instead of having this tumultuous leap of joy for myself like it were some signifier of my completeness; I felt tired. What did it matter for me to realize that now I know what a healthy life looks like, and feels like? Where was that wisdom when I was younger? I’m not a regretter (though I must admit that I live in the past in spite of all of my work to play the romantic), and I don’t agonize over my mistakes and what things could have been if they were not made - but I do wish that I dealt with certain people less.

I wish I dealt with Captain much less. I wish I had the sense to have told Bogrum and Khargol what happened. If there were anyone upon the Dunehound, after Erissalie who was dead at that point, who could easily throw social covenant to the very winds in the name of justice, then look no further than the Tumnosh twins. Not even Sai, sadly, I think would have found much to do about it aside from reminding me to not be alone with men. She knows the world, frankly, as disappointing. So how else is the world to behave aside from just that? We women have never been the best about that sort of thing; too pragmatic to go further past your collective sigh.

Of course, that wouldn’t have been an easy lesson for me to learn anyway as a child - that you aren’t supposed to be uncomfortable around anyone. Shy, yes. Awkward, to this day. Uncertain, certainly. But, uncomfortable? No, never. A child does not have much of a refined palate at all for the distinct notes of all of these different emotions; silly, silly, me, I should have paid more attention when Hakeesh was seasoning the fish heads.

But it is nice to occasionally indulge oneself in fantasy. I tend to flavor things that way whenever Captain breaches my thoughts, it’s a little less depressing when I can interrupt my morbid rumination of how lifelong and daily that business must have simmered with the image of a little girl, or a cockeyed teenager, or a young woman, all depending, possessing the power to walk away decisively. It’s nice to take those old memories and conjecture to what they could have been, if I did not have that back-and-forth constantly with myself. 

And it really was constant. Every single moment that I spent with him - constant. There are no memories betwixt us in which I was not uncomfortable, in which I am not uncomfortable. Every laugh I gave, every ‘permission’ I readily revised to be as much - I was uncomfortable. But, worse than being uncomfortable, I told myself that it wasn’t that I was uncomfortable at all.

Instead, I was ‘nervous’, I so-labeled. I just didn’t understand his allure, which he clearly had in order to captain such a loyal crew (if not outright kine… perhaps in both meanings of the word in retrospect). I didn’t appreciate his spirit as I ought to; all of my friends respected him. Jhareem and him were so close, why was it that I was the only one who seemed to find some sort of fault in the man? Why was I the only one that innately, so quietly, crumpled at the very consideration of being alone with him, or having his eye upon me?

It must have meant that I was the one in the wrong, of course. Tale as old as time, sex, and power dynamics. The one with the more outward flaws, such as the unreliable narrative of a young girl with no life experience to her name, is the person at fault. Clearly, I was only so ‘nervous’ that even the most mundane of situations made me feel besieged and boarded. And because I was so wrong in my ‘nervousness’, I wanted to love him like everyone else too. I wanted to be grateful such an esteemed gentleman would ever care to check in on me at all.

So I accepted all of the little talks he’d catch me out in the open for (I could not justify not being able to offer just a handful of seconds), the touches that I told myself were similar to how he and Jhareem interacted (how many times could I see his hand on another’s shoulder?). And it would have been nice for me if the little daydreams of walking right past him, staring dead into his eyes when his palm cupped my skin with a firm jaw, set teeth, and a firm spirit, of knowing better than to have come to him that last night, were the truth of the matter.

Alas, fantasies are fantasies, wishes are poppy, and I never threw a good punch in those years anyway. Maybe if things went that way I’d be Verita the Toothless, instead of just Verita. I think I like the level of hospitality I receive by pure virtue of my looks, as it were.

In exchange, I suppose I must admit that there is a silent little roar of anger if you sift just right and just deep enough past my breast. I don’t often say that, it’s crude and a little pointless (multiplied by the time and distance of those times now), but there it is. I’m not fond that, twelve years later, my heart seems to deflate with paper-thin, transparent and slick, walls with the thought of him; the background of his heat running up my stomach like smith’s steel, the obligatory, numb, rolling of my wrist that seemed to last that entire night.

And I’m not fond that, twelve years later, I stare at yet another letter penned by him that I, morbidly, cannot manage to simply leave in the rubbish. All these years later, the lessons learned that I needed to learn - and yet we’ve both also learned too keenly that I am nothing if not a second-guesser. I’m curious about his, their, plans as much as I want to find them absolutely dull. I’m still intimidated as much as I still want to know what Na’jhareem saw in him that I couldn’t, and I’m still held back by those revisions, those forced moments where I thought to write his actions kindly within those murky waters. 

No one else hugged me after what happened, or had the time for me to cry. It counts, in this animal sort of way, as much as it also counts for absolutely nothing. I know that, so I know the answer needs to be— “No.”— just like that. And from there, I’ll just walk away and forget about it. Slippery slopes, and whatnot. A means to an end is still a pretty shitty ride, all in— “...not now. Not yet.”— all— Hey, not like that. 

[bonefall]

Hijacking this particular post to jump into the "Spottedleaf Retcon" conversation happening on the dash right now, because I want every word I add to be prefaced by This.

While Firepaw essentially had a crush on Spottedleaf from the first minute he sees her, I do think the mutual return of those feelings was a "retcon" in some way. It's one of these two things;

The writer didn't initially have them in mind when first having Spottedleaf interact with him, but added them after she had already died during the course of TPB.

The writer had them in mind all along, but didn't properly set them up in Book 1 during Spottedleaf's brief life, and so was made to add them later.

She dies in the first book to provide an emotional loss for Firepaw, so that he and you as a reader have a personal connection to the dead cats of StarClan. Her absence then provides a "place" for Yellowfang as the new medcat of ThunderClan, and her presence as a ghost guides the main character through the story's supernatural elements.

This was her role as a character, her purpose as a narrative element.

(and, personally, it's why im obsessed with her in my personal fanwork. characters who spend more time in the narrative dead rather than alive make me go feral.)

Misogyny in media isn't typically entirely black and white, "bad" and "good" writing, The Right Choice for the story and the Wrong Choice for the story, they're simply connected. The poem Matsuda wrote is uninterested in the quality-- maybe that "plot twist" did pay off. Maybe that was the "very best idea" anyone could think of. At the end of the day, the boy is brimming with life and the girl is dead and it isn't shocking because we've seen this many times before.

Misogyny is mostly about trends.

In WC, important women characters are always given a story involving romance and/or children. Even Hollyleaf, Ivypool, and Twigbranch ended up with male love interests, in spite of their "main" plot being non-romantic-- no matter how nonsensical, sudden, lacking in chemistry, or pointless (fallen leaves) that choice was.

Erin Hunter (as a collection of writers, both pre and post Vicky) are obsessed with women as romantic interests.

So Canon!Spottedleaf, to me, is another great example of that.

She dies and the way they think is optimal for you to miss her is as dead possible love interest. They're not interested in the fact she was groomed by Thistleclaw (if they even realized it before the backlash), or that there's something grim in her seeing a teenager the way her predator once saw her. The irony of her life ending bloody in spite of her running to the role to escape violence isn't even on their radar.

A woman character who dies early in the series and becomes a spiritual guide to the POV... and what the writers find the most fascinating about this concept is how stupid and idiotic she is for loving the wrong men.

Not only is she nothing but a vessel for mutual pining, they disrespect her for it.

So... unlike some others in my orbit, I can understand "the hate" as annoyance with the constant romance that gets dragged onto the screen when she, as a character, is present. They're narrative tools, after all, not real people.

But man, when I think about Canon!Spotty I just get really sad. I can't get angry at her, just the generally misogynistic writing of the series.

for as much as i dislike spottedleaf, it's hard to hate her. she's a plot device designed to revolve around multiple male characters, she's firestar's dead crush, starclan guide, his lover who interferes in his love life, jayfeather's starclan guide. the narrative is so uninterested in her as a character beyond pretty medcat who died young. even her own novella was later said to be more to serve as a set up for how she'll pad after "the wrong men" again and again. the authors are just deeply uninterested in her outside of being a plot device for romance.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

71, afohiko?

holy fucking shit that is horny. are you the horny afo anon by any chance?

71. "I'm [going to] fuck you in front of the mirror, I want you to see how pretty you look when you're spreading your legs for me." | afohiko | wc: ~1.2k

a/n: definitely a canon divergence au. probably set in the first few years after Toshinori's gone to the U.S.? also! brief moment where AFO uses his Quirk w/o consent to glean some Stranger 101 info, and it feels invasive to Sorahiko's senses.

//

In Sorahiko’s defense, he doesn’t mean to distract All for One from watching the rise of All Might in that way. Honestly, Sorahiko shouldn’t even be on All for One’s radar. He doesn’t have an especially strong Quirk, and he is so firmly aligned with the users of One for All, it’s a miracle that he wasn’t assassinated after Shimura’s husband.

It’s a miracle that Sorahiko isn’t dead, even with All for One walking him through a mountain villa in Miyagi Prefecture. Their footsteps echo down empty hallways, the undecorated walls broken by shoji screens and large glass windows.

Sorahiko’s here to buy time. All for One caught him lingering at the Shimuras’ grave, caught him by the wrist in an unbreakable hold and tilted his head, red eyes boring into pale brown.

(“I don’t know you,” All for One says thoughtfully.

“That’s by design,” Sorahiko retorts, the reflexive urge to backtalk overpowering the instinct to play dumb.

“Oh?” A brief pause. Something cold yanks at Sorahiko’s balance, or maybe it’s more of a chill running through the soles of his feet and crawling up the connections to his lungs. He nearly doubles over with a wheeze, and All for One says, “A flight Quirk. Not terribly strong. It uses the air from your lungs, that’s no good… ah. Shimura’s friend.”

“Could we skip to my violent and brutal murder?”

“That would be a waste,” he muses. The cold and slimy sharp feeling disappears, leaving Sorahiko like some integral part of his body had just been clinically searched and discarded. He can’t stop the shudder as it wracks his frame.

“I’m not working for you, if that’s your next thought,” Sorahiko rasps.

“Would blackmail even work on you now?”

“You’d be hard-pressed to try.”

All for One laughs, quiet and eerily personable. It’s a far cry from that smug tone of voice used when he gloated over Nana’s last stand. Sorahiko can almost trick himself into thinking that this is some random stranger, especially as his next words are: “Let’s be civilized, then. Come with me, I’ll buy you a coffee…?”

He runs through several pseudonyms, discards them all for being flimsy, and hesitates.

“You can call me Shigaraki,” All for One invites. “A family name for a family name.”

Sorahiko swallows his trepidation. How truthful can All for One be? Isn’t his whole shtick ran on white lies and blatant manipulation? What connections does Toshinori have to Torino Sorahiko—oh, that’s right. None. Sorahiko had erased the school records (illegally) himself.

“It’s Torino, you bastard.”)

Sorahiko had been caught, and then he’d been courted for something far less serious than crime. Several sporadic coffee dates, and Shigaraki had been honest: he found Sorahiko a peculiar player in this long game, and an attractive one at that.

After Sorahiko processed the fact that he was being considered a potential conquest, he gave it some actual thought.

It’s just a fling. It’s a way to turn All for One’s eyes from the future to the past; Sorahiko represents a forgotten target that’s turned up too late for the culling, and his lack of ‘heroic�� action since Shimura’s sacrifice has piqued All for One’s interest.

“You did slip the mind, after that woman was gone,” All for One says, tugging Sorahiko into the bedroom. There’s a large king-size bed sitting in a bed frame that has slats in the headboard, and four bedposts. Opposite to it, resting against the wall adjacent to the door, is a gigantic mirror.

“Go back to that. It’s more in-character.”

Shigaraki ignores him. He’s studying Sorahiko with a gleam in his eyes. “At first, I thought she might have passed the Quirk to you. One for All users are sneaky and underhanded like that, always finding successors just before I can retrieve it. And it wouldn’t have been the first time a holder vanished from society.”

“But?”

“But,” he drags out, “the more we talked, Torino-kun, the more I realized. She didn’t choose you to hold One for All.”

His blood runs cold, but Shigaraki crowds into his space, hands rucking up Sorahiko’s shirt and pushing him back to the bed.

“She didn’t choose you at all,” says Shigaraki knowingly, and this, somehow, lets Sorahiko breathe again. Shigaraki isn’t omnipotent. He’s just grasping at straws, still trying to see how best to manipulate Sorahiko. (Not that Sorahiko has any kind of upper hand in this situation so long as Toshinori’s identity remains hanging in the balance, but—it’s nice to know that Shigaraki can miscalculate.)

“Her decisions were her own,” Sorahiko snaps, and he slips out of the shirt as Shigaraki starts unbuckling, unbelting, and divesting Sorahiko of his jeans and underwear. All these articles of clothing are flung off to the side.

Leaving Sorahiko lying naked on the bed, waiting.

Avarice lurks in the delighted twist of Shigaraki’s smile, and he says, “Are you in a rush, Torino-kun?”

“Why? You got plans to do anything but stand there?” His brashness is a front; as Shigaraki goes to his knees, Sorahiko pushes himself up halfway so he can see what the hell the villain is doing.

“I’m going to fuck you in front of the mirror,” purrs Shigaraki, and his hands go to Sorahiko’s thighs and urge them apart. The unbreakable hold flicks a switch somewhere in Sorahiko’s head, and he stares at his reflection: wild-eyed and flushed with arousal, naked longing clear in his face. “I want you to see how pretty you look when you’re spreading your legs for me.”

The moan that escapes his throat is guttural, and it breaks into a stutter as Shigaraki drags his mouth along Sorahiko’s cock. It’s wet, hot, messy—as that sinful mouth sinks down on the head, Sorahiko attempts to be selfish for once and thrust—

Shigaraki hums at the futile attempt to push against his unbreakable hold.

“Fuck,” says Sorahiko feelingly, and his fingers curl into the duvet. The teasing up and down motion, easing the slide every time— “Ah, ah, fuck, Shigaraki—!”

Time and time again, he catches a glimpse of himself in the stupid mirror. He’s getting closer to climax, and his legs keep jumping with all the aborted Jets because Sorahiko can’t remember how to fucking breathe. His hips jolt with every encouraging suck. Excess saliva leaves cooling trails down, down—

“Shigaraki!” yelps Sorahiko, as one hand leaves to busy itself smearing drool and precome past his tightened balls, brushing his perineum as it makes a path to his hole. And hey! It turns out that All for One only needed a single hand to hold Sorahiko down. “I—slow down—!”

Incredibly, Shigaraki obliges. He pulls off, tongue lapping at the underside of Sorahiko’s cock and playfully flicking the frenulum so there’s a thick, viscous, translucent white line connecting them still. Shigaraki lets it hang for a tantalizing second, then breaks it.

“Hghk—”

“You’re cute,” says Shigaraki, and uses his thumb to rub that line of saliva/precome against a still furled muscle. Sorahiko helplessly moves into the touch, legs trying to spread wider. A high-pitched keen escapes the stranglehold Sorahiko has on his vocal cords. “Look at yourself in the mirror, Torino-kun. All you need is a little push.”

He looks at the mirror again—wild-eyed, aroused, lips parted in shock and pleasure—and Sorahiko watches, feels, his face spasm around a choked moan as Shigaraki presses inexorably on, the first knuckle of his middle finger delving past any resistance—

Sorahiko comes crying Shigaraki’s name, body wrenching at the force of his first orgasm of the night.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: M for mature. Blood, more blood, heavy language, seriously lots of blood. Literally the bloodiest/most detailed thing I've written. Genre: Super angst with some fluff to ease the pain. We're talking putting honey in your cup of poison to make it taste better. The ending is split, with both a happy and a sad ending. Warnings: Minor surgery (technically?) while the patient is fully awake (that's the reader, btws), blood loss, graphic depiction of a wound and how said wound is taken care of. Possible trigger for self-harm, as the reader is performing part of the surgery themselves. Also brief mention of cannibalism in the bad ending. This may very well be a Dead Dove: Do Not Eat sort of thing. Notes: While I have more medical knowledge than the average person, due to my Girl Scouts training + having a mother as a nurse, I am in no way shape or form a medical professional, and do not suggest that the methods of treatment used in this fic be taken seriously. If you find yourself seriously injured, do not attempt to replicate anything you read here. Only a portion of this is based on a real-ass incident I went through, the rest is based on a dream, and what I experienced was not what you want to do in an emergency.

{Wounded Love}

This was a mistake. Blood stains your leg, your fingers, and bruises start to form all over your exhausted body. And for what? Why had you, a tiny, fragile human, dared to pass through this damned, lycan-infested forest? Because a woman who didn’t even love you asked you to. Now you were going to die, body certain to get left out in the cold or reduced to a pile of gnawed bones. If you had more strength remaining, you might have slammed your hand into the ground in frustration, or screamed until your lungs burned from something other than frost.

But that wouldn’t get you anywhere. Wouldn’t help you get back to the castle, wouldn’t ease the racing of your heart. So you settle for the only thing that might do any good: One quick motion pulls the scarf from your neck, sending a chill down your spine that you promptly ignore. Even with shaky hands and numb fingers, your experience is enough to let you wrap the cloth around your leg, tying the ends in a knot to secure it. The pressure hurts, just not enough for you to prefer bleeding out. A test step reveals that walking is mildly more difficult now.

“I’m going to haunt her,” you muse, under your breath, tears starting to freeze at the corner of your eyes. Still, you are as quietly determined as ever, and so once more you limp down the path. Every time you put weight on your injured leg it protests harder. If not for the snow and ice covering the ground, you might have quickly searched for a walking stick. “What could be so important about this damn package? Couldn’t Doug or whatever-his-fucking-name-is deliver it? Man can practically teleport, and here I am, watching as blood loss and hypothermia race to see who can kill me first.”

Gods were you angry. Why had this happened so soon after you had settled in? Finally you had been comfortable in Castle Dimitrescu, no longer as frightened of the residents, even finding them… charming, in a way. Then the Lady of house called to you for what she claimed to be a simple errand. You had believed her, even when she explained that you would have to leave the relative safety of her home. What a fool you had been.

“What a fool she must be,” you murmur, “to think me safe here. To think I could outlast wolfmen prowling the village outskirts.” Would she even care if she saw you now? Would she be surprised, disappointed? Would she do something to change your fate? There was no reason for her to do so. It didn’t matter how much you had helped her, how much she claimed to appreciate what you did (heavy lifting, repair of clothing, massages). You were as replaceable as any other Maiden there was. And that, that was what made you have a double-take. It came to you in that moment, a thought so painful that you could not deny it was the truth. “She never thought I would survive.”

Bitterness coats your tongue, like blood in your throat, and your brain demands that you destroy your cargo, the very thing that got you sent here in the first place. You almost do it. Feet stopping, arms shrugging the carrying straps off, bloody hands taking hold of it. Tears fall, just two, and hit the package. At that moment your plan changed. This new idea would be far, far more satisfying… as long as you succeeded.

------------------------

Spite was one hell of a drug. Enough of it and you could march your warm corpse right back to the castle, fist banging on the front door with everything you had. The path had been shorter than you thought, thankfully, but it had still taken so much out of you. Now you were leaning against the door, sliding down it, unable to support your own weight. Nothing inside the castle stirred. Were they ignoring you? Was Alcina really going to let you die inches from your “home”? Fuck that, you thought.

“Alcina!” You scream, loud as you can, startling the birds in the distant trees. The word echoes around you and rattles inside your ribs. It’s not enough. “Damn it, I am seconds away from dying, get out here now so I can look you in your fucking eyes!” Something tears a little in your throat, turning the last of your words into a hellish screech, leaving you to gasp and croak in the snow. You go to wipe your tear-filled eyes with your hands, only to remember just how much blood they’re covered in.

Sobs overtake you in just a few moments. You’re blinded by tears, deafened by sorrows, and numb from all the cold. In the aching seconds before you black out, you can only barely make out the silhouette of someone rushing to your side…

------------------------

The first thing you feel when you wake up is mind searing pain. You try to jolt upwards, only to find a pair of strong, gloved hands holding you down. Someone shouts something, but you can’t make it out, and you feel another hand gently squeeze one of your own. Pained gasps escape your throat one after the other, but whatever is hurting you doesn’t stop. It takes a full minute for you to adjust enough to make sense of where you are. At last, you understand what’s being said.

“-it’s okay, shhh, please, we’re trying to help,” says none other than Lady Dimitrescu herself. She’s the one holding your hand, doing her best not to hurt you with her grip, trying desperately to calm you down. One the other side of you, Cassandra is positioned to hold you down. There’s a tight-lipped scowl on her face, and her brow is furrowed, but she’s not looking at your face, but rather eying somewhere in the opposite direction. Following her gaze, you find her older sister is sitting near your injured leg, and is undeniably the source of some of your pain. In one hand she holds a bottle of alcohol (notably not the wine her family produces), the other holding a wet cloth to your wound. No wonder it stings so much.

“Shit, shit, stop,” you growl, barely getting the words out. But all anyone does is look at you. Alcina’s mouth opens to speak, only for you to cut her off. “I’ve got medical training, for the love of Mother Miranda let me help! How long have I been unconscious?” This time Bela stops, glancing at her mother for direction. The grip on your torso grows looser, with Cassandra evidently heeding your words, and you take the chance to sit up, careful not to move your leg. At this point you realize that there’s a needle of sorts in your arm, attached to a tube, which trails up into a blood bag. It’s clearly been improvised with equipment from the “wine-making” part of the castle.

“Fifteen minutes at most,” a new voice chimes, from somewhere behind you. “I got that cloth you wanted, mother, but something tells me I’m not done fetching things.” Ah, Daniela Dimitrescu. Was the whole family helping you?... Why? As much as you wanted answers, there wasn’t (currently) time for questions. Not when one glance at your leg tells you that some of your flesh is rapidly decomposing. The wound was made only an hour ago, and already it was getting deadlier than you could even process.

“I need a sharp, clean knife, a needle with thread, a glass of water, and someone needs to put a metal tool, sterilized, on the stove, right now,” you said, finding it easier to talk now that no one was cleansing your wound. Without hesitation Daniela dispersed into a cloud of insects, heading towards the kitchen, while Cassandra stood up and moved towards the stairs.

“Guess I’ll get the needle,” she said, sounding rather unenthusiastic.

“What are you planning?” Alcina asks, more concerned than you had ever heard her before. Attempting to reassure her, you manage a small smile before explaining.

“Got scratched and slobbered on by a lycan. Whatever they have, it’s infectious. If I want to save my leg, or at least have a chance at surviving, I have to take measures to reduce the likelihood of an infection,” you say. Now Alcina is slowly stroking her thumb across your hand, eyes narrowed with concern. There’s a look on her face that you can’t quite parse, something she’s not saying. For now you ignore it and continue going over your plan. “The best thing would be to amputate. The tourniquet might have helped prevent the saliva from getting further into my body- and I do mean might- but I can’t keep it on forever. Problem is… I don’t want to lose it. God, I’m terrified of that, and with what we have in the castle I… I’d be more likely to die of shock than not. So, well, forget that idea.

“I’m just going to remove the wound. By making a bigger wound. It’s crazy, I know, but this will kill me if we do nothing. It will probably kill me if we do. The technical term is some shit like ‘de-bride-ing’?... No, debridement, I think. Except normally the poor fucker getting cut open is asleep for the procedure.” By the time you’re done, Lady Dimitrescu is looking at you with horror. Yeah, you had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the idea. “Look, if this is too much… if it’s not worth saving me, if you’d rather give me a quick death, I understand. If I were-”

“Don’t be foolish, dear. You will not die, not as long as something can be done about it,” Alcina replies, quickly, eager to stop hearing you talk about dying. It’s… strange to hear her sound so confident about saving you, even stranger to realize what she called you. As if reading your thoughts, she shifts in her seat, avoiding your gaze for a moment. Shyness didn’t suit her, and you imagined it was more about her finding the right words. When she speaks, she’s looking right at you again. “I have hesitated to tell you the truth, and now I find the world playing a cruel trick on me, trying to take that which I adore. But I don’t want to aggravate your stress right now. Please, think nothing of what I have said.”

Before you could reply, footsteps reached your ears, and soon enough Daniela returns. In one hand she holds a large pitcher of water. In the other? Several knives, of various sizes, one of which you’re pretty sure you’ve seen Cassandra playing with before. As soon as you see her your face lights up, glad to be able to start the procedure.

“Oh thank fuck- or, I mean, thank you, Lady Daniela,” you stutter, reaching out as she offers you the items. Thankfully Bela had already made room on the table at your side, where she had set the bottle of alcohol down. For a moment you had forgotten that she was there. Had she already known about her mother’s feelings? Based on her lack of reaction, you could only assume that she was well aware. “I’m gonna scream, B-T-dubs. Just, uh, cover your ears?” You offer, already holding your chosen knife (big enough to be effective, small enough to offer precision).

“So… you’re going to do this yourself? Didn’t think you had it in you, red. Try not to cut anything important. Wouldn’t want to have to clean that mess up,” Daniela teases. As soon as she’s finished she has to shift into a swarm, as Bela flat out throws a knife at her. For a moment you freeze, watching as Alcina rises to her full height, staring her eldest daughter down. Behind her, Daniela reforms, clearly using her mother as a shield. “I was just trying to relieve the tension, jeez. It’s like you think she’s already dead.”

“Don’t speak another word!” Alcina snaps, sending a frightening stare towards Daniela. You cough, awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Meanwhile Bela is pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers, clearly tired of dealing with her sister’s sense of humor. “No one will speak a word until this is finished, unless my dear needs something, understood?” Both the girls nod at that, neither feeling a need to risk any further ire.

“I’m just going to start working now,” you awkwardly chime, taking a deep breath before leaning in towards your injured leg. On closer inspection you can see a strange, dark residue in the wound. They’re specks, scattered along the length of it, and they seem more common the closer you look to the gash’s center. Gross, you think. Half curious, half checking for legitimate reasons, you bring your other hand to the cut and gently spread both sides apart. It hurts like hell, and you have to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from screaming. But sure enough, the residue is practically solid at the deepest point of the wound. “Those lycans really should be on leashes.”

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Daniela exchange looks with Bela, but neither of them disobey their mother (yet). Shaking the thought away, you finally get to the brunt of the task at hand. Your hand moves slowly, reluctant to inflict such damage against its own body. As soon as the tip of the knife touches your skin, you start to doubt your ability to do this. It takes looking at Alcina, seeing the way she watches you with equal parts concern and tenderness, to remind you why you’re doing this. Death just wasn’t something you could accept right now; not after what she had said, what she had implied.

The knife is fantastically sharp. Hardly any pressure is needed before your flesh gives away, cells letting go of their neighbors like it was a casual affair. You start at the left side of your injury, digging down a little, trying to only go as deep as you needed to. Tears formed in your eyes but you quickly blinked them away. As the first of many screams leaves your mouth, you turn and twist the knife, cutting to the right, then up. Like scooping the seeds out of a pumpkin. Fresh blood springs from the wound, starting to fill up the crevice. Quickly you discard the skin you removed by tossing it into the same bowl that Bela had put a bloody towel in earlier.

“Yes,” you shudder through gritted teeth, “this hurts so fucking bad. No, I don’t need someone to take over yet.” At this point neither of the present sisters are looking at you, seeming oddly uncomfortable at the sight of you cut up like this. Hadn’t they done worse to your fellow Maidens?... Whatever, the thought couldn’t last long when you still had work to do.

Next you take a fresh, damp cloth and dab at your injury, ignoring how it throbbed beneath your touch. Then you resumed cutting, forced to press the knife deeper in order to remove the spreading residue. If you had been a scientist, this would have been utterly fascinating to observe. Whatever had been in the lycan’s saliva was slowly eating at your flesh, but not outright dissolving it. No, it simply left the skin where it was, but killed and rapidly broke it down. Yes, it would have been fascinating, if not for the fact that there was a chance you wouldn’t be able to outpace the bacteria.

With this in mind you force yourself to hold in your next scream, hoping to make it easier for you to focus. The knife continued to cut, going lower, setting nerves alight as it did. Your vision starts to blur, and for a few seconds you think you’re going to black out. Someone says something you don’t hear, and then suddenly there’s a hand on top of your own. When your vision clears you see Bela is responsible, her grip keeping you from dropping the knife. She doesn’t let go until you give her a clear nod. Even then, she seems reluctant to let you continue.

Around this time is when Cassandra returns. Her footsteps catch your attention (it’s your understanding that carrying objects is much harder in swarm mode), and you spare her a quick glance before getting back to work. A few moments later she’s placing a set of needles and a long spool of thread next to you. Ironically, they’re the same tools that you’ve used to repair and adjust Alcina’s dresses over the past year. Hopefully they work just as well on flesh, you think. Your next thoughts are canceled out by unbelievable pain. More cries leave your lips, and your hand starts shaking. Panic is settling in fast, your movements getting sharper, leading you to make a brash decision: Time to care less about precision and more about speed.

“Distract me, please,” you gasp between grunts. No one responds at first, and you know they need clarification. Speaking is getting harder by the second, but you do your best. “Brain can’t process many stimulants, same time. Just- fuck- trace skin around wound, touch hair, anything.” Somewhere between your semi-broken sentences and screams, Alcina gets the message. She’s moving closer, now, behind you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other rubbing gentle circles on your undamaged leg. Across from you Daniela is too busy pacing to help, though you can hardly blame her.

“Should I get the metal thing from the stove?” Cassandra asks, silently hoping that Dani hadn’t assumed someone else was going to handle that part. You’re still in too much pain to talk, so you half nod half grunt in response. Not bothering to say anything, the middle child takes off, swarm moving at what might be a new speed record.

As much as your hands are shaking, you still manage to cut away another strip of flesh, tossing it aside with even less care than before. This time Bela wipes the wound for you, practically reading your mind. The moment her hands are completely out of the way you start cutting again, crying out, throat shredded to pieces from all your screaming. Alcina sounds like she might be close to sobbing, but she doesn’t stop her movements, doing her best to distract you just like you had asked. Even Bela helps, now, tracing spots around your injury whenever she knows she won’t be in your way. The effect is minor, in the end, hardly making a dent in how much pain you’re processing.

If you survive this, though, you’re hugging every daughter as tight as you can and showering them with affection… but only after you finish doing the same for their mother.

“You are so brave,” Alcina murmurs next to your ear. It’s even clearer now how close she is to crying, her voice seconds away from cracking. Hearing her like this almost hurts as bad as the initial lycan attack did. “You are so strong. No other mortal could ever be your match. Do you understand, my dear? You are blessed, divine, and I love you so much.”

In any other setting, her words would leave you melting in her arms, radiating affection so strongly that you might as well have been radioactive. Instead, you are unable to respond, or even look her way. All you can do is press the knife to your skin again, showing your own feelings by destroying yourself for her.

The blade is starting to find more resistance, and you’re having to pause more often, spots appearing in your vision. Going faster only makes things worse, your hand threatening to slip. You’re determined to finish this, no matter what, but your need to control the situation is gradually making things worse. Alcina notices this before you do, and acts before you have a chance to protest.

“Bela, the knife,” she says, then tightens her grip on your waist. Your confusion shifts to panic as your arm is carefully, but forcefully, pulled away from your wound. “Can you finish the job?” It takes you a few moments to realize that Alcina isn’t talking to you. No, she’s speaking to her eldest daughter, who doesn’t hesitate to take the knife away from you. It’s so easy for her, between her strength and your weakness. “Don’t struggle. Let us finish this.”

Protests rise from your throat and die in your mouth. Pain flares harder now that Bela isn’t distracting you. Once more your vision goes dark, but this time there’s no pause, no hesitation. You are suffering, horribly, and the Dimitrescu family refuses to make you hurt longer than necessary. It’ll be over soon, you think, not knowing whether you refer to your pain or your life itself.

Something wet drops onto the back of your neck, then darkness overtakes you…

------------------------

“Damn those lycans, I should string Heisenberg up myself! They’re his responsibility, after all,” Lady Dimitrescu snarls, trying to ignore the tears in her eyes. Now that you’re unconscious, unable to hear what ails her, she feels free to voice her thoughts. “The damn things should never have come close to the path to the village.”

“What if she strayed from the path? Wouldn’t that explain it?” Bela suggests, even as her hands work to remove what seems to be the last piece of dead/infected flesh from your leg. She hates how the words feel in her mouth, hates suggesting that you of all people might have betrayed her mother’s trust. But it makes sense. After all, this whole mess, with you leaving the castle to retrieve a mysterious package, was all a test to see if you would try to run. It hadn’t been her idea, and Bela admitted to herself that she thought it was unnecessary.

“On the way back? Why would she bother getting the package if she intended to run?” Lady Dimitrescu asks, right as Cassandra returns. The middle child is practically juggling the metal spatula she’s carrying, irritated (not harmed) by the heat it produced. One of her brows perks up when she hears the conversation, but she keeps any thoughts she has to herself.

“Just a thought, mother, I didn’t quite believe it myself,” Bela chimes, after a pause. With that said she holds up her hand with pride, clutching between her fingers the last of the decaying flesh. The way the others react, one might have thought that a miracle had been performed. Daniela clapped her hands together, giggling a little, and finally stopped her pacing. “Don’t celebrate too much, now,” Bela reminded her, taking the spatula from Cassandra as she did. “There’s still plenty to do. It’s a good thing she’s not awake for this part.”

A good thing, indeed. She uses her fingers to spread the remaining skin a little, giving a quick examination, then deciding that she had successfully removed all remaining residue. Keeping her fingers where they were, she pressed the side of the spatula to your skin, putting the most pressure at the center of the wound. Three seconds passed, then she lifted her hand. A pause. She pressed it back into place, keeping a close eye on the affected area. This repeated several times, the gaps being necessary to prevent unintentional damage. Once the wound seemed properly closed she set the spatula aside.

“Is that it?... Did we save her?” Daniela asks, opting to finally sit down in a nearby chair. Something about her word choice makes both of her sisters scoff.

“I could sew it closed, as a precaution, but there’s no way I’d do it the way she had intended. It might be best to just give her time to rest, and see what she thinks when she gets back up,” Bela answers. For a moment her words hang in the air, but eventually Alcina gives a little nod and a hum.

“Very well. I shall carry her to my quarters, where she won’t be disturbed. Please, let one of the Maidens know to bring some food up this evening,” Alcina says, gently taking you into her arms as she does…

------------------------

BAD ENDING: It’s been six hours, with no sign of you waking up. Your other wounds had been examined, cleaned, and bandaged. Food had been carefully prepared and brought up to you, though it now remained on the bedside table, untouched. Alcina has gone to call Mother Miranda, intending to speak to her about the growing unrest of the lycans, as Heisenberg hadn’t answered his phone. For the first time since you returned you are alone. It is now, of all times, that you awaken. A gasp sends you into a coughing spree, forcing you into a sitting position. The space around you feels like it's moving, and your vision blurs. Blood spills from your mouth as you finally regain the ability to breathe.

Seconds later your vision clears, but what you see is enough to make you wish you couldn’t. The blood that spilled onto the sheets is a dark red… with even darker spots scattered throughout it. All at once you know what happened: Residue had hidden from you, or gone deeper than your wound, infecting you before you ever stood a chance. Tears threaten to spill from your eyes, but something deeper starts calling to you. Something older. Darker. It drags you to your feet, ignores the pain of your wounds, and sends you out the bedroom door.

Your mind is racing, thoughts never quite clear enough for you to understand. It doesn’t feel like you’re in control of your own movements. Was something else in charge, or were you operating on an infection powered autopilot? Answers weren’t coming, just bloodshed.

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed yet!” A voice calls out to you, making you turn to investigate. On the other end of the hallway is a maiden, one you instantly recognize. You’ve worked with her before, plenty of times, tag-teaming more tasks than you could count. She was like a sister to you. When she sees the blood staining your clothes, she gasps, then moves to support you. “Please, Lady Dimitrescu will be so upset if you-” her words melt into a blood curdling scream. For a moment you don’t understand.

And then you swallow, a chunk of hot meat slipping down your throat, and the scream dies down.

“What?...” You whisper, finally tasting the blood in your mouth, watching as your friend’s body falls to the floor. There’s a chunk of flesh missing from her neck, and the dots connect themselves in your head. You did that. Every part of you wants to scream, wants to cry out and beg someone to come kill you. Instead you fall to your knees, hard, uncaring. Your hands move themselves, grasping at the still warm corpse. Something has made you stronger, or at the very least removed the mental limits that kept you from destroying yourself. Flesh gives under your touch, tearing like paper, and you start crying as it reaches your mouth.

Footsteps approach, thundering fast, and you want to warn whoever it is. When you turn to look, you feel your hands let go of your meal. Your gaze meets that of a stunned Cassandra Dimitrescu, then drifts to the sickle in her hand.

“Kill me,” you growl, voice distorted, practically echoing. “Kill me now!” Not needing to be told a third time, Cassandra moves lightning quick, swarm-jumping forward before manifesting behind you, sickle dragging across your throat in one smooth motion. But it’s not enough. She realizes this, though, and slams her foot into your back, sending you tumbling forward. It’s enough to prevent you from countering, which gives her time to advance again, this time pulling a knife from her boot and driving it into the center of your back. When you scream, it’s not with your own voice, but that of a monster.

“Fucking fuck, what the fuck, red?” Daniella asks as she rounds the corner, eyes immediately landing on your bloodsoaked mouth. She’s quick to take in the scene, drawing a conclusion easily, even if it breaks her heart a little. Your vision fades as she approaches, and you know that it’s finally over. If only you had expired a few seconds earlier… because the last thing you hear is the startled cry of your would-be lover.

“No! No, darling, what happened-” Alcina finishes her sentence, but you do not hear it. You do not hear anything, anymore. You do not know it… but there will be hell to pay for your death.

------------------------

GOOD ENDING: When you awake, you find yourself in the softest sheets you’ve ever touched, a warm and familiar presence next to you. The first thing you see is Alcina’s sleeping face next to your own. She’s on her side, one arm around your waist, the covers pulled up to her hip. Warmth fills your chest as you take in the sight. For a few moments you just… appreciate this. Never before had you imagined that you would get to wake up next to the woman you loved so much. A sigh, one of bliss, leaves your lips. Slowly you move forward, gently placing a kiss to Alcina’s cheek. Seconds later her eyelids flutter open, and she tiredly takes you in.

“You’re… awake,” she murmurs, hardly awake herself. But her fatigue doesn’t last long. As soon as she’s fully processed the situation her eyes go wide. Then she’s pulling you closer, careful not to hurt you, and peppering little kisses over your face. “I’ve been so worried, dear. You scared us so much.” The hurt in her voice leaves you restless, making you curl up against her, desperate to soothe her worries. Moving hurts a little, but not enough to dissuade you from your goal.

“I’m sorry, love,” you say, tears pricking your eyes. “I’m okay, I’m alive, the plan worked out. You don’t have to fret for me anymore. I won’t leave you, I promise.” Slowly but surely, Alcina calms, exchanging kisses for softly running her fingers through your hair. There’s such love in her eyes that you can hardly believe you aren’t dreaming. “You’re amazing, Alcina. I could stay like this all day.”

“Maybe we should,” she offers, chuckling a little. Once again you give her a quick kiss, unable to resist the urge. “I should have never asked you to leave. I should have just trusted you.” The words give you pause, and you tilt your head in confusion. Realizing that you still didn’t know the full story, Alcina frowns. “The package is worthless, just a bundle of straw and a few rocks for weight. It was never what I cared about.”

Tension builds in your chest, and for a few seconds you have no idea how to react. It takes a minute for you to think, to connect the dots, but once you do it’s a tad bit easier to breathe. A scowl twists your lips as you think of what to say.

“If I had known that Heisenberg was forgoing his duties, I never would have sent you outside,” Alcina adds, the silence taking its toll on her.

“You shouldn’t have sent me either way,” you respond, bitterly, thinking of all that you had seen and heard on your journey. “I would have done anything to prove to you how I feel. There are other ways to show devotion- far less dangerous ways, at that.”

“I know, dear. You have every right to be angry… and watching you suffer has taught me all that I need to know,” Alcina says, still playing with your hair, trying to ease the tension. As upset as you about this recent revelation… it’s not enough to change how you feel about her, and you want her to understand that, fully and completely.

So you lean into her touch, let your eyes drift close for a moment, then softly place one of your arms around her as best as you can.

“We’ll need to talk about this more… just not right now. Right now, I need you, Alcina. I need to hold you, and be held by you, and just know that you’re here. That I’m here. That neither of us are going anywhere,” you say, resting your forehead against hers. “I need to feel safe, and your arms are the safest place I can imagine. Stay here with me?”

“It will be the easiest thing I have ever done.”

[incaensio]

the president speaks beautiful words, yet another proof he is magnanimous and intelligent enough for the position he holds. if once she'd have been able to joke about how purity is not something belonging to someone in charge for so long, that surely this man has more cunning than he'd like to appear, today she does not let her mind wander to any possible flaws coriolanus snow has, nor all the horrible things he must have done — not unless she wants to be another possible ignored casualty (she doesn't). the stylist exhales, smile more certain in her lips. "of course, you are more than right, sir. these.. rioters from the districts can not be led to believe we will stray from our values and stoop down to their level of barbarity. the capitol can never not be stunning." she is not scared to appear simply futile. glossing imperfections has always been something the capitol has done, something that she has enjoyed doing — why would someone show something other than their best, their beauty, to the world?

she is quiet as he lists those she will work on, but it's not without some struggle that she keeps the smile on her lips. she had not seen cecelia, but it was easy to assume the woman would be lying low, or perhaps had taken the opportunity to escape to her tiny district — she's heard eight has been rowdy, but she's never thought cecelia to be the revolting type. she's always been eager to come to the capitol, to wear her clothes, pose for the cameras. her husband is another story. could it be that he has doomed her? men! and then, there's thea. thea, whom domitila had become assured to be with the rebels, because she'd never abandoned that phony of a smith volunteer; now, domitiila knows she's not in some rebel district, nor is she dead. for nine years they've known each other, and for longer domitila has admired that stunning victor and, now, domitila can not begin to think how she must be. half a ghost thea, taken from all that truly matters to her, kept in safety from the rebels but trapped in a city she so detests.

the stylist tries to keep her façade unmoving as she threads through the feelings. at least both thea and cecelia are alive, and have not been stained by the rebellion. isn't that a good thing? she will even get to see them soon. yes, yes. her tongue itches to query more, ask about their whereabouts, but she knows better. she will figure it out soon enough. "i believe they shall comply, sir. cecelia has a way with the cameras, as we know." she doesn't speak of thea. the president has known the victor longer than domitila has, and it's unlikely he wouldn't know thea has a penchant to be contrary for the sake of it, but domitila hopes that the former mentor would at least use that spite to keep herself alive rather than to defy the capitol. "of course. i am always eager to take on new clients, sir and my seamstresses have plenty of time. as long as we have some information on them, i shall fashion whoever you'd like the way you'd like." it's nothing different than an usual order — nay, it's better. this is for the president. the stakes may be higher, but so are the gains. maybe this is not something she can say no to, but it's not like she'd want to say no, not truly. the smile returns to her lips, more honestly than in days, brighter too. "you've honored me greatly, mr. president, i can not wait to begin. will i get to meet them? i wouldn't want just some seamstress doing all the finish work." in a way, she doesn’t want to be robbed of anything that is hers, it’s what is implied.

" it's a fundamental need within people: the truth. people have spent lifetimes searching. that drive long predates our great nation of panem. and as people of significance, it's our responsibility to serve and ensure our fine citizens receive the truth. for without truth, there cannot be peace, " he explains to the stylist before him. when domitila vacates the property when this meeting resolves, the president might chuckle with livia about the implications that a stylist has significance at an even remotely similar level as them. no matter, he also finds the absurdity that his wife feels significant comical as well. at least domitilia creates artistry with her designs.

she's very calculated, and that coriolanus can acknowledge with a sense of respect. the young woman appears to be working tirelessly to ensure her reactions are contained. he'd seen her interact with panem's court jester. is she one or the other ? perhaps her genuine self is neither. a survivor can recognize a survivor. or as many have lamented in what they thought were private conversations: a snake can recognize a snake. very rarely do snakes turn on one another, unless to eat the other. the president doesn't see that occuring when both have a use for the other.

" that pleases me. with the ugliness that looms over our country, i think our people are lacking a great sense of beauty. they need a reminder of that along with truth. and what a way to show insurgents that they cannot take either from panem, " it's second nature to speak the way a politician does. this side capitolites see often. to the public, snow prefers to appear benevolence and to care for panem as a whole. it's all a means to an end. those who have questioned the sincerity, usually don't do anything about it. ( they're often silenced by fear or by permanent mean. ) snow had no preference. both were surprisingly effective.

" it'll begin with a few standards, my dear. i know you've worked with thea ellis and cecelia whitvale in the past. it's important we show panem that our victors and other crucial members of the hunger games do not applaud the actions of the detractors. however, i will expect you to take any client i refer. you'll have time between i can assure you. your assistants will receive documents and any other important details regarding each client. " sweet smile is deciding. intention lingers in the air. it's like he asks if she understands but not having much of an actual say in the matter.

[merakiaes]

Hate You, Hate You Not - Armitage Hux

Pairing: General Armitage Hux x reader

Requested: By anon. 

Prompts: #1 & #58 from the fluff-list. 

Warnings/notes: (SHOULD I MAKE A PART 2 WITH MORE ROMANCE IN IT?) This ended up being much longer than I planned so it's most likely very boring and dull😭 Might be a bit, if not a lot, out of character since this is kinda my test-run for Hux and Star Wars in general. Getting the characters mannerisms in might take some practice. Not proofread so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. This is the first time ever that I write for Star Wars and the first time in like 5-6 months that I’m writing in general so I’m a bit rusty. Please reblog and leave comments to keep my motivation going and let me know if you’d like to be added to a Star Wars taglist <3 

Wordcount: 5632

Summary: One of Kylo Ren’s many tantrums results in your room being inhabitable for a night, which in turn results in you having to share a room - and bed - with the person you hate the most. 

Everyone who had ever, at some point in their lives, worked alongside Kylo Ren in his quest to bring the Order to power, knew how much of a hassle and inconvenience his temper, or lack thereof, could be.

Not much was needed for him to lose his cool and it happened on a much too frequent basis than what was considered normal for a man in his early 30s, at least according to you.

Of course, however, you couldn’t actually tell him that, nor could you think it, with the risk of him probing your mind.

So every time he came back from a failed mission and completely obliterated your hard work, you could do nothing but bite your tongue, clear your head and repair the damages like you’d done oh, so many times before.

That’s what you got for being one of the highest-ranked engineers of the Order, you supposed.

But on this day you would’ve, for the first time in your life, very much preferred to repair the damages left behind by your tantrum-prone leader like you always did. Because if that punishment had to be compared to the one you were now facing, you would’ve chosen the former without even a shadow of a doubt.

But, unfortunately, that was not an option this time around, as the room that had fallen victim to the sizzling beam of Kylo Ren’s lightsaber was your bedroom.

Well, not originally, of course, but sparks had flown from the totaled control panels and a piece of supposedly fireproof metal scrap had caught on fire before you and the other engineers reached the room for a damage-control, starting of as a small flame and then proceeding to spread like wildfire as fire did, in ways completely unbeknownst to you as, like already mentioned, the place was supposed to be safe from fires.  

The licking flames had managed to melt through several walls before you got to the scene, and one of those walls was the wall to your bedroom.

It was late when it happened, only fifteen minutes before you were supposed to end your shift, and as you were on the verge of having a mental fucking breakdown, you personally requested an audience with Kylo and were granted permission by him after a very carefully-worded explanation to start early in the morning.

But that only took care of one of your problems, and only temporarily at that. Now you were left with the issue of finding other sleeping accommodations since your room was currently not habitable. You had no choice but to ask for another room and, of course, Hux thought that to be the perfect time to crack a sarcastic joke about throwing you into one of the prisoner cells.

You had never, in all your years of being alive, glared so fiercely at another human being as you did then. And in your moment of anger, you accidentally let your walls down and let your thoughts run freely through your head – your annoyance directed at the General, but also at Kylo Ren, being exposed.

You felt it before you saw it – that little prickle in your head, that little sting of your mind being probed – and only a second later, Kylo Ren turned his masked head in your direction, walked up to you with patronizingly slow steps and spoke:

“I think you’ll find that General Hux’s quarters will suffice for the night, until repairs can be done to your own. He has more than enough space for both of you.”

He turned his head to look at the baffled man standing behind him, all of the attitude he had previously been harboring against you now completely melted away.

“Isn’t that right, General?” Kylo continued asking, giving him the time he needed to regain his composure.

The general in question had never been very good at holding his tongue, not even when receiving orders from superiors, and was quick to protest.

As anyone would’ve been able to guess, that didn’t go very well, and you weren't even gonna try hiding the satisfaction you got from seeing Hux be force-choked against a wall for speaking out of turn.

No matter how good both of you were at hiding your spiteful thoughts toward him, Kylo knew how much the two of you hated him. And more than anything, he knew how much you hated each other.

Kylo had become very predictable to you during the time you had been there and you knew his ways good enough to know that he wouldn’t have wasted petty energy in putting the two most hateful people he knew in the same room if he hadn’t been pushed to do so.

You knew that you weren’t the reason in this scenario, despite the fact that he had probably felt your spite directed towards him, which only left one option; and that option was the bitter, infuriatingly stubborn ginger currently walking by your side.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye and glared, clenching and unclenching your fists at your sides in the same manner you had been doing ever since Kylo had ruled his decision final and dismissed you for the night.

His eyes remained trained on the metallic corridor that seemed to be stretched out for miles in front of you and your blood boiled at the sight.

You would’ve lost your shit if he’d had the nerve to even consider looking at you after putting you in this situation, but at the same time, you were also on the verge of losing your shit about him having the audacity to ignore you.

You wanted to scream at him like you’d never screamed at anyone before, but you knew that doing that would only fuel the petty grudge Kylo had against the two of you and give him more ways to cause you torment. The only thing you and the general would ever have in common was not wanting that.

But still, what harm could a tiny bit of friendly banter do?

“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you, Armitage?” The question you’d been sucking on for the past few minutes finally slipped out into the air, making your anger known.

“Don’t call me that.”

“My apologies.” You sarcastically shot back with a dry laugh. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you, general?”

“No, it was awfully tempting.” Was all that he replied, his eyes not once flickering and neither his stone-cold scowl nor fast-paced stride faltering.

Well, you might have absolutely despised each other but in the very least, you never bothered lying to each other. That had to count for something, right? Not that either of you cared.

No more words were exchanged, and that was probably for the best. Engineers and stormtroopers all moved out of your way as the two of you marched through the corridors, side by side, knowing better at this point than to get on your bad sides when you were together and this obviously angry both with each other and in general.

Soon enough, you finally reached the corridor in which Hux’s sleeping quarters were located and once the mechanic doors slid open, you pushed yourself past him into the room before he even got the chance to react.

He fumed behind you as he watched you make yourself at home, dropping your dirty jacket on his perfectly made bed.

“You’ll take the floor, then?” You asked as you turned around, crossing your arms over your chest and shooting him a forced smile.

“Hardly.” He spat, eyes narrowing, and you scoffed, rolling your eyes in return.

“You must be a real hit with the ladies with those manners.”

At that, he stepped further into his room, allowing the sensory-triggered door to shut behind him, successfully shutting the two of you in together.

“I don’t have time for fooling around with women.” He spat out the last word with such malice that you automatically raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that explains it.” You mused, the corner of your lip tugging upwards ever so slightly.

“Explains what, exactly?” His eyes narrowed further, and this time it was his turn to cross his arms.

“That stick you have up your ass.” You wasted no time in shooting back, and before he got a chance to reply, you continued. “I know this might be news to you seeing as you’re, well, you, but gentlemen are supposed to sacrifice their comfort and offer themselves to take the floor when a lady, due to unfortunate circumstances, is forced to stay in their room.”

You sarcastically smiled at him and sank down his bed, something that he, judging by the snarl overtaking his face, didn’t appreciate.

“You, a lady? That will be the day.” He scoffed. “Even calling you a woman is a stretch with your mannerisms.”

You could only roll your eyes.

“Well, I’m not sharing a bed with you.” The glare that had temporarily been exchanged for a teasing smirk returned to your face. “I’d rather share a bed with Millicent.”

As you said that, you picked up a single strand of cat hair from his bed, held it up for further inspection and raised your lip in disgust.

He stared at you dead serious, hands clasped behind his back and eyes burning holes into the side of your face.

“You’re allergic to cats.” He pointed out, making your head whip back around to face him with a glare equally as fierce as the one you were met with.

“Yes, that’s my point.” You deadpanned. “But it would seem that said point just went right over your thick-skulled head.”

“Do you think I am any happier about this than you are?” He scowled, and you stood up, slowly approaching him and coming to a stop right in front of him.

He took a small step back, a move that made your lip tug upward ever so slightly. The fact that he was so obviously not as tough as he wanted people to believe gave you a special kind of satisfaction and he knew it, judging by the way he only turned stiffer after that.

“You should be.” You smiled sweetly at him, keeping your eyes connected to his. “Because you’re sure as hell lucky I haven’t choked the life out of you yet for getting us into this situation in the first place.”

He glared and you glared right back, challenging, no, daring him to fight back. You knew that he wanted to, you could see that he wanted to, but in the end, not even he was that stupid.

So he said nothing, and once you realized you had finally managed to successfully back him into a corner, you backed away from him again and plastered on another forced, overly sweet smile.

“Now, I need to take a shower. I reek of burnt plastic.” You stated flatly and pushed past him, making a beeline for the one extra door in the room that you could only assume was his bathroom.  

You heard the squeak of his shoes rubbing against the floor as he quickly turned around behind you, and then came the determined steps and the proximity of his body closing in on you. However, before he got the chance to object or reach you, you entered his bathroom and slammed the door shut in his face, smiling contently to yourself as you listened to the muffled string of curses that followed.

You didn’t spend any more time thinking about it, though, not wasting any time before doing what you came in there to do.

You got out of your horrid-smelling clothes, released your equally as nasty-smelling hait from its ponytail and stepped into the shower.

If there was one thing you appreciated a little extra about living at the Starkiller Base, it was that everyone used the same scented soap. Because that meant that you wouldn’t have to go around smelling specifically like Hux, but rather just like you always smelled.

Once you finished washing your hair and body, you had to stop and think for a bit.

Your clothes obviously still reeked and needed a proper wash before they could be worn again, and you obviously couldn’t go naked.

After much thought back and forth, you finally settled with your own leggings as they were the one piece of clothing from your previous attire that smelled the least of smoke, and a plain black, long-sleeved undershirt that you found in a pile of Hux’s clean laundry.

Once you vad gotten dressed, braided your hair and re-entered the bedroom accompanied by a stream of steam, you found it to be empty, Hux nowhere in sight.

You couldn’t deny that you wondered where he’d gone off to, but you shook your head free of his face pretty quickly, settling with believing that he just went to take his frustration out on some poor stormtrooper or low-rank intern like he so often did when things didn’t go his way, much like Kylo Ren beat the shit out of any control panel he could get his hands on.

While you awaited his return, you occupied yourself with going around the room and lighting the small night-lamps like you normally did in your own room before going to bed.

That obviously didn’t take long, however, so you were soon enough once again left alone with your boredom and started walking around the room, inspecting all of Hux’s belongings.

You realized pretty quickly that he was not a person to whom inanimate things had much sentimental value, as he definitely didn’t have much to his name aside from the basic interior that all of the sleeping quarters on the base had.

He had a ring on his drawer, a few books in one of his two bookshelves while the other stood empty, a small bed in a corner for his cat, clothes in his wardrobe, and that was pretty much it. He had no pictures of family, no real personal belongings that could signify any kind of emotional value.

But then again, who did in these parts?

“Is that my shirt?”

You jumped when you heard the sudden voice behind you, quickly turning around where you stood twirling the ring you had found in the light of the lamp standing beside you.

Your eyes found his form immediately, shocked meeting stern.

“Why are you wearing my shirt?” He almost instantly repeated himself when not getting a reply the first time, slowly beginning to walk in your direction with his hands clasped behind his back.

You quickly put the ring back down on the dresser and turned towards him, regaining your composure.

“Well, if you hadn’t noticed, my room and everything in it was burnt to a crisp. The smokey smell on my clothes was giving me a headache and kind of would have ruined the purpose of taking a shower so when I just so conveniently noticed a pile of clean clothes, I helped myself.” You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, and to you, it wasn’t.

Hux, however, didn’t seem amused in the slightest.

“Yes, you seem to have a habit of thinking you’re entitled to everything you want.” He spat back at you, coming to a stop while there was still a good amount of distance between the two of you.

Any chill you had previously had melted right off and your annoyance quickly returned at the sound of his words.

“Oh, do excuse me. I just thought one headache would be enough.” You retorted and rolled your eyes, before sighing and crossing your arms over your chest. “So, how are we doing this? It’s late and I need to be up early to see to the repairs.”

“I thought that I made myself clear.” Hux was quick to scoff, his glare not faltering for as much as a second. “I’m not giving you my bed.”

Once again, all you could do was roll your eyes. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to suck it up then.” You stated flatly and sat down on the bed, wasting no time in starting to divide the pillows into two piles rather than one.

You took a few seconds to adjust the pillows to suit your needs before looking back up, eyebrow raised at the fact that he had yet to say or do anything.

Your eyes once again met his and you almost laughed out loud at the sight you were faced with, but thankfully managed to control yourself and avoid making the situation even harder than it already was.  

Long story short, Hux had never looked more horrified than he did in that moment.

He basically looked at you like you had killed his cat, and that was putting it lightly.

You took a few seconds to just enjoy watching him squirm and silently scramble to make sense of the situation, but even you knew when enough was enough and raised a questioning eyebrow at him in an attempt to get him moving.

“Well? What’s it going to be?” You asked. “It’s either this or the floor, just like it was for me.”

Hux opened his mouth, hesitated, and then closed it again. He obviously hadn’t been expecting you to actually agree on sharing his bed with him and now that you had, he was left at loss for words as he clearly hadn’t been preparing for anything other than you sleeping on the floor.

But after a good moment of just standing there and looking like an idiot, he finally picked himself back up, squared his shoulders and walked around the bed to the other side with frustrated strides and a snarling lip.

The feigned confidence melted right off, however, when he reached his destination and awkwardly shuffled into bed while simultaneously avoiding your amused and mocking stare, silently grabbing the extra blanket that was folded upon his bedside table.  

Both of you laid down on your backs and a heavy silence fell like a thick blanket over the room. The only sound you could hear for a few moments were each other’s breaths and your own heartbeats. For a moment, only for a microscopical moment, you were actually on your way to admit to yourself that it was kind of nice.

But that thought went flying out the window just as quickly as it had knocked on the door of your mind when Hux broke the silence by beginning to adjust himself to get ready to sleep, and in the process of doing so made the active choice to tug the pillows from right under your head.

The back of your head hit the mattress with a soft thump and you closed your eyes, your lips pulling into a straight, tight line and one, sharp breath being released through your nose as you attempted to keep your cool.

You took a moment to calm down, before you turned your head to his side of the bed where he now laid with his back to you and tugged the pillows back – maybe with a little too much force than necessary.

Hux had quickly rolled over to his other side to take them back and in anger and an eagerness to get to sleep, you exclaimed: “Stop stealing the pillows!”

He met you with a stare cold enough to have anyone else shaking in their boots and spat back. “They’re my pillows.”

You grumbled under your breath and let go of one of the two pillows, letting him pull it back to his side while you held on to the last one.

You stared at each other for a moment, both of you eventually coming to a silent, mutual agreement that you were too tired to fight and therefore he'd let you keep the pillow you were holding on to as if your life depended on it.

He, once again, laid down and turned his back to you, his hands holding on to the pillows under his head while you struggled to get comfortable again, this time with only one pillow.

“Why is your bed so damn hard?” You muttered under your breath as you angrily shoved your elbow into the mattress in an attempt to make it more comfortable – as if that was ever going to help.

“Stop complaining.” He only snapped back.

“How could I when I’m stuck in a bed with you?”

“You could’ve asked for other accommodations when you had the chance.”

“And what, be the next victim of Ren’s lightsaber?” You scoffed. “I’m the one in charge of the repairs that are needed every time he throws a wobbly. I’ve seen the kind of damage that thing can do and I’m not in any hurry to find myself at the receiving end of it.”

You muttered the last part under your breath as you finally managed to get relatively comfortable, plopping back down on your back and folding your hands over your stomach.

“How did you know I’m allergic to cats, anyway?” The question spilled out before you could stop yourself, and before you could even register that it was on the way.

Where did that even come from? Cats weren’t even close to being the subject at hand.

Hux didn’t seem to care much about the random change of subject, however, simply muttering back a reply. “You start sniffling and scratching your arms every time you’re in the same room as me for more than five minutes.”

He was clearly tired. Tired in general or just tired of you, you didn’t really know, but you guessed that it was a mixture of both since that was the case for you.

“Maybe I’m just allergic to you.” You muttered back with a shrug, even though he couldn’t see you, and he scoffed at that.

“Had that been the case I’m fairly certain it would go both ways and, unlike you, I don’t go around oozing snot everywhere I go.”

“I don’t go oozing snot everywhere.” You calmly protested, throwing the back of his head a disapproving glare before turning to lay on your side so that your back was now turned to his.

He didn’t say anything else and neither did you, sleep coming in and catching you completely by surprise and having you knocked out within the next two minutes.

When you woke up early that next morning, Hux was unsurprisingly already gone, Millicent instead laying in his place and looking right at you.

With a disgusted snarl and hesitant movements, you reached over to the other side of the bed and awkwardly patted her head twice, probably very much in the incorrect manner as you had no experience whatsoever with animals.

You got out of bed after that, put on your jacket and shoes, and wasted no time in getting to work once you’d gotten some food into your system, your team joining you in the damage-inflicted area to start on repairs like you’d done so many times before.

Everything was going fine and dandy, just a light-reckon day that started off like any other – if you didn’t count waking up in Hux’s bed with his cat – but a few hours into your workday, the unmistakable sound of Kylo Ren’s heavy steps could be heard echoing through the entire corridor you found yourself working in.

A big share of the Order’s pilots had been either killed or badly hurt a few days prior in an ambush. No one had expected any pilots to be needed for at least a few days but Kylo had gotten a sudden lead on the map that would take him to Luke Skywalker and was now walking around the base recruiting anyone capable of helping him get what he wanted.

Unfortunately for you, you were not only a highly-ranked engineer, but also a pretty decent pilot, and couldn’t say anything in protest when you were whisked away to a ship.

As anyone who wasn’t driven by an unhealthy obsession would have been able to guess, the lead was just too good to be true with a way too simple access.

Just like the last lead, this one fell through when it was revealed to be another ambush. You weren’t completely sure what happened, but over the comms, you had heard something about Leia Organa and some scavenger. 

You didn’t have time to think about retired war heroes though, no matter how much you’d love to pry and the get in on the gossip, as you had to shoot yourself through a big fleet of Resistance starfighter corps, barely getting through with your ship intact.

Your fellow pilots were shot down one by one, only a small amount of you managing to get out of there. And even then, you were met by more starfighter corps just as quickly as you’d gotten away from the last line.

Everything was just a mess after that. You weren’t able to get through to anyone over the comms, only barely being able to make out a “pull back!” before your comm system was blown to pieces along with one of your main engines.

Along with several other ships, you were forced to crash-land on a small planet filled with thick woods and when your ship collided with the ground, your head slammed into the controls, rendering you unconscious for who knows how long.

By the time you came back to it, you were hanging upside down, the only thing preventing you from falling down being the seatbelt keeping you strapped in.

You struggled to get out of there but you managed, and had to take a moment to get your surroundings to stop spinning before moving forward to look for survivors as well as a ship that wasn’t completely beyond salvation.  

You weren’t sure who you’d find, but the person you’d shared a bed with the previous night was definitely the last person you’d expect to have crashed in the same place as you. 

And still, you recognized his ship immediately. After all, you were the one who had personalized it to fit his liking.

Lucky for you, his ship seemed to have gotten a pretty soft landing. As you circled around it, you were able to determine that no major engines had been blown out. Damaged? Definitely. But they looked intact enough to at least be able to put some more distance between you and the Resistance pilots and get you to a safer place. Hopefully, the inside would be as untouched as the outside.

The ramp was lowered to the ground but didn’t look broken, so you wasted no time in jogging inside.

The lights were out completely in the entrance area, and just flickering in the ceiling when you came further in.

The first thing you noticed when you entered the piloting pit was that the pilot was not breathing. How could you tell from that far a distance? Well, let’s just say that something that was not supposed to be stuck in his eye, was stuck in his eye.

Upon further inspection, you noticed another body on the floor. However, this one was very much alive.

You would’ve expected to be met by a desperate “help me”, maybe even some begging and pleading or in the very least a “please”, but instead, even when in the process of bleeding out on the floor, Hux narrowed his eyes at you as you approached him and asked you with ragged breaths:

“Is that my shirt?”

You panted as you dropped to your knees at his side, still pretty shaken up from your own crash. “What? No.” You replied in a breath, and you wasted no time in starting to inspect his injuries.

“Yes, it is.”

“Why would I be wearing your shirt?” You asked simply, struggling to see in the dark as the flickering lights weren’t providing much assistance by means of light.

“That’s my shirt.” He kept insisting, and flinched when your hand made contact with his lower abdomen.

Only then did your eyes register the glimmering piece of metal through your blurred and disoriented vision, sticking out of his side.

You flinched at the sight, not needing any more light than you had to know that it was really bad. 

Your heart suddenly picked up in speed in your chest, and your hands began shaking as they became covered in his blood.

You had never been in the middle of the action before now, you’d always just been surrounded by metal and electricity. The most exciting thing you’d ever experienced was when a new engineer circuited a control panel the wrong way, resulting in it blowing up right by your workplace.

But it wasn’t the action in itself that had your heart about ready to burst through your chest, nor was it the blood in general, but rather the fact that it was his blood covering your hands.

His life was completely dependent on you at this moment and you had absolutely no idea how to behave accordingly.

But if there was something you knew, it was that the last thing you were supposed to do was to show a dying man your panic, so you took a deep breath and tried your hardest to steady your racing heart, going back to the conversation at hand.

“How could you tell the difference, really?” You asked. “All of our shirts look the same. All black, all equally as sufficient when used to stop blood flows.”

As you said that last part, you released another breath and ripped off a big chunk of the lower part of the shirt you were wearing.

A shirt that was, in fact, Hux's.

The man in question let his head fall back against the wall that he was propped against and his eyes squeezed shut when feeling your hands return to his side.

“Do you always wear shirts several sizes too big?” He managed to get out through clenched teeth and you replied without missing a beat.

“There was a mix-up in the laundry room.”

“So it isn’t your shirt?” He continued to be persistent and despite the seriousness of the situation, you couldn’t help but to let a small smile slip.

“Do you want to keep fighting about whether or not this shirt is mine or would you rather maybe, oh, I don’t know, focus on getting the hell out of here?” You asked him lightly and at that, he raised his head to meet your eyes with a distrusting glare.

“Why are you helping me?”

You raised your eyebrow at him, sparing just a second to meet his eyes. “You have a piece of metal stuck in your side, why the hell would I not help you?” You asked and as quickly as you had looked up, you looked back down at your hands to see what you were doing.

“You hate me, and I hate you.” He deadpanned, and you couldn’t deny you felt your heart tug in your chest.

“Who told you I hated you?” You asked, and listened as he let out a dry, struggling laugh.

“You did. On countless occasions.”

He hissed when you accidentally bumped your hand against the piece of metal. You quietly apologized but didn’t stop, knowing you didn’t have much time before the enemy would catch up with you.

“Thinking that I’m entitled to everything I want isn’t the only bad habit I have. I also have a tendency to overexaggerate.” You joked with a smile. “I do find you insufferably infuriating, though.”                                              

Another chuckle left his lips. “Likewise.” He said and dropped his head back against the wall.

You said nothing more, ripping another two pieces off of the shirt, tying them together and wrapping it around his waist like you had the first piece. You tightened this knot significantly more than the first one, though, right above the piece of metal, and just as quickly as he had relaxed, he jerked back forward with a yell.

“I need to stop the bleeding, you need to keep still.” You hurriedly scolded and sternly pushed him back down by his chest.

He muttered bitterly in return, but didn’t protest.

“I bet you’re enjoying this.” He seethed, and you raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on your lips.

“Whenever I’m feeling down, I just think back to the multiple times I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing you being force-thrown across a room by Ren. Puts a smile on my face every time. But that doesn’t automatically mean I want you to die. So stop wallowing in your internalized self-hatred and put your hand over mine.” You told him, trying your hardest to keep a lighthearted attitude, more so for your own sake than his at this point as you were literally about to pass out.

But he did as told, contributing with the strength he had left when you got to your feet and started pulling him up and into one of the seats that were still intact.

He put a trembling hand over yours and in turn, you put your other one over his and pushed down. He hissed and you gave him a moment to adjust, and when you were sure he was pressing hard enough with his own hand, you slowly removed both of yours and fastened his seatbelt.

“Keep pressure and hold on tight. This is most likely going to be a rough ride.” You warned him, and he slowly looked up at you through a mess of ginger hair.

“It can’t be any worse than the ride here.” He retorted and you nodded, taking that as a “go ahead”.

You wasted no time in getting into the pilot’s seat after pulling the previous pilot out, as well as the thick tree branch on which his head had been impaled, and started up the controls. It took a few tries to get out of the hole the ship hade gotten stuck in when crashing, but soon enough you were up in the sky.

With a bit of dumb luck, you eventually reached your destination and got brought back in to the base by your team of fellow engineers, all ready to repair the wrecked ship.

Hux was immediately taken to the medical bay while you stayed behind to help with the ships, and from two ends of the base, the two of you silently and separately came to realize that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t hate each other as much as you thought, after all.

[wolfstar-myotp]

Ok, I’m going to tell everyone all the reasons why I hate Severus Tobias Snape, here we go:

He tormented children for literally no reason?? To everyone that’s saying “oh Harry looked like his dad, and James bullied Snape” — so you’re telling me that Snape ruined several years of Harry’s life because of genetics?? Something that is completely out of Harry’s control and is irrelevant to the fact that Snape targeted Harry??? And that still doesn’t explain why he bullied Neville! What has the adorable plant child ever done to him?? NOTHING!! And yet this man who is meant to be a role model completely terrorises a boy whose parents were literally tortured into insanity by his death eater buddies. Not only that, but throughout the entire book franchise, Snape shames Neville for being poor at a subject, rather than helping him become better. The fact that Neville is so bad at potions reflects Snape’s lousy teaching skills. ALSO, this man literally threatens to kill a child’s pet if they don’t get something right, then proceeds to punish that child when they don’t fail! He has no reason to be horrible to Neville— oh, wait, silly me, I forgot that Neville was a Gryffindor, because that totally validates the fact that Snape is his biggest fear, as opposed to the woman who tortured his parents. He is prejudiced and should not be allowed anywhere near children!

Secondly, this man was happy and excited about the possibility of two innocent people getting their souls sucked out, simply because of one (1) thing that happened SEVENTEEN years ago, which, by the way, he doesn’t even know the full details of, and when someone tries to object/inform him of his mistake, he yells at them and abuses his power as a teacher by ordering them around so that he can essentially murder someone in peace. Snape also ruins a coworker’s life on purpose, just because he’s spiteful. He reveals a secret that he was trusted to keep, because of something that had nothing to do with the person he wants to hurt. He can paint himself as the victim in his retelling of The Prank, but he’s only doing it so that people will villainise a completely innocent man.

Thirdly, he literally destroys the memory of James Potter. He tells Harry that his dad was a bullying, obnoxious, swine and that he was poor ickle Snivelly who had done nothing wrong ever. . . well, ding dong, he’s wrong! In his first year, after knowing James for about 0.03 seconds, he mocks the house he wants to be in and calls him dumb (Yes, I know James is prejudiced towards Slytherin, I’m not ignoring that or downplaying it — but James grew out of that, Snape didn’t). Literally everyone says that Snape bullied the marauders just as much as they bullied him. He literally cuts James in one of his memories! Snape is using the fact that Harry knows nothing about his dead father, and is instead feeding him lies and comparing him to multiple adjectives for “not very nice”.

And lastly, the thing that bothers me the most, SNAPE DID NOT LOVE LILY. He was obsessed with her. He literally drops a tree branch on Petunia and his only response is “oh well”. Lily was nice to him and put up with his creepy prejudiced ways, and because of that, Snape thinks he’s entitled to her love. Like in that disturbing moment in book 7 — Snape literally takes the photo of Lily laughing and her signature. Lily was laughing at her husband and son, two people she loved, but Snape took that so he could pretend that she was laughing with him. Lily had signed a letter to her friend, her husband’s best man and the literal godfather to her child. She had signed it with “love, Lily” and Snape took that for himself. And he calls her a slur, then still thinks Lily is obliged to love him, before joining a cult that wants to murder her, simply because she had fallen in love with a kind boy who had proved himself over and over and actually loved her and cared about her. All he’s done is walk past the corpse of her dead husband to hug her lifeless body and ignore her CRYING BABY who is injured.

Finally, Snape forcing Harry to look at him is not romantic. He is forcing a traumatised child to stare at someone he has known for several years and watch them die, just because he wants to see Lily’s eyes again.

In conclusion, Snape is a disgusting, prejudiced, creepy arse hole who is just plain petty and I despise him. I honestly have no idea who can like a man that terrible.

[narrators-journal]

Illumi's family arranged for him to marry the daughter of a famous murderous family, his fiancee has the personality of Violet Evergarden, they have a son together, but before Illumi finds out about the child, she breaks up the marriage! 5 years later he found out about the prodigy son, what would his reaction be? Would he try to get custody of the child or would he force the reader to remarry and start a family? (Illumi Yandere obsessive)

So, I had a bit of fun and made this a little scenario! Though, to answer your question, he'd force reader-chan to remarry him and play family. I hope you enjoy this little ditty!

To be fair, betrothal had a track record for being somewhat fickle in the longevity department, Illumi could admit that. He'd wanted his marriage to you to take after his own parents' relationship, long lasting, happy, stable. However, you had been stubbornly independent from the first day he'd met you when he was 12, all because you had come from your own well off, assassin-trained family. That fact had pissed him off as a child, it'd annoyed him the most as a teen, because at 16 you were particularly enthusiastic with your defiance of his rules and commands, and it hadn't sat well with him when you finally officially married him, but he'd tried to negotiate with you and keep the peace. You obey him, he won't use his needles on you, win-win.

Guess not, since about a year into the arrangement, you'd been able to worm your way through a loophole that let you divorce him. Hence why you were currently playing a nasty game of tag.

That was something of the last straw for Illumi. He could learn to manage you going against his rules, he could put up with your stubborn personality and spiteful refusal to give up birth control, but he would never allow his wife to just walk out on him. So, when you'd vanished, he of course went looking for you, which was a hassle and a half since you were trained to work in his line of business. So, he tried not to be annoyed when his hunt lasted for a few years, but it really did eat at him.

I'm about to just declare (y/n) dead and find a new wife. He thought one day, five years into his hunt, while he trudged around a shop with his mother's list of demands in hand. As time had gone on, Kikyo Zoldyck, Illumi's mom, had made a habit out of sending him personally to grocery shop so he would stop fuming around the estate. So, dressed in one of his sweatshirts and some shorts, Illumi was standing in a store, grumpily musing over what to do about his runaway wife while finding the stuff his mother asked for. Suddenly, just as he turned down another aisle, he spotted a strange child all alone in the pathway, looking down at some candy.        "Where are your parents?" he asked, and when the boy looked up at him, his eyes narrowed. He was looking back into his own dark, bottomless eyes. "Where is your mother?" he asked again, his voice somewhere between calm and tense, but the child acted as if he didn't hear any of the malice in Illumi's voice, just turning and running off down the aisle with his chosen candy in hand.

Swiftly, Illumi put his own shopping down and went after him, following the young boy down a few aisles before losing him in a small crowd. So, the man huffed, clenching his fist and repressing the hot rage coursing through his veins before returning to his shopping and just going to buy everything he had, his mother would have to send a butler to finish the list later. However, while standing in line, stewing in his frustration, confusion, and wrath at the potential answers he was thinking up to explain the odd child, the long haired assassin struck a gold mine of luck. Out of the corner of his eye, walking towards the exit, he spotted the familiar puppy-patterned shirt of the toddler he'd seen earlier, but this time said child was holding onto the hand of a woman.

So, acting quickly, he put his things down again and went after the duo, catching up to them and grabbing the woman by the wrist when they were outside in the parking lot.           "Hey!" you snapped, whirling around to face Illumi, that sickly familiar look of aggression instantly giving you away,           "(y/n)." Your name was curt and rather inexpressive, but Illumi's aura held all of the underlying meaning and threat he needed for your narrowed, (e/c) eyes to flit through a multitude of emotions. Terror, anger, back to fear, than back to anger, and finally, a cold, hateful, calm.           "Can the Zoldycks really not afford a dictionary? We're divorced Illumi, you have no right to bother me." you hissed, yanking your wrist out of his bruising hold while inching your son behind you.           "We can talk about the 'divorce' later, as for my rights, I have quite a few when it comes to my child." He pointed out, glancing down to the dark-eyed child behind you, getting an evil look in response,           "He isn't your kid, fucker. You're not the only man I've slept with, stupid." you shot back, barring your teeth at the murderer-for-hire.

For a long moment, the two of you stared one another down. Both were obviously pissed and full of malice, but with a small child that could likely be Illumi's so close, neither could express that aggression, whether it be through their auras or a vitriolic fight. So, they were somewhat stuck in a stalemate until Gotoh broke the tension,           "Master Illumi, would you like some assistance?" He offered, bringing to your attention that you were caged in by two butlers and Illumi. To make things worse for you, Illumi caught that realization in your body language and relaxed a bit knowing he'd finally got you back.            "Let's just go home. Gotoh, call the doctor for a DNA test, I'll need it for the kid." Illumi said, breaking the hateful staring contest he'd been in with you to once again look at the small, (your hair color) boy you were doing your best to keep from him.           "Fuck off, Illumi, I'm leaving." You snapped, refusing to give in without at least a tiny fight, which the man understood, but he refused to let you go again.           "That's where we're going, (y/n), home." he assured, and before you could argue again or attack him, Gotoh put a hand on your shoulder and firmly led you to the car, letting Illumi follow, in a far better mood now.