#seren's superior stories

[gricean-sphinx]

Seren’s Superior Stories

Bone-Carver Aludar

Waste not, want not is a pithy motto, but there’s not much use for the remains of a felled foe… unless you are Bone-Carver Aludar. You need a new walking stick? This fellow was tall, Aludar can make do with the femurs. Oh, you snapped your lock pick? No worries, Aludar just caved this bully’s skull in, so all the fine bones are intact, and he can carve a new one in a flash. A flute you say, finely pitched an tuned? I, Seren Urlinklefr, still carry the bone flute with me, and what a wonderful jig it performs! If I were slain by a bugbear, I hope they have half of Bone-Carver Aludar’s talent—and, gods be merciful, half his ferocity—, and that my bones may make merry music forevermore.

[astrolocherry]

Birthday Venus-Saturn aspects ~ "Your Daddy Loves You..."

Written by Astrolocherry

Venus conjunct Saturn, Venus sextile Saturn, Venus square Saturn, Venus trine Saturn, Venus opposite Saturn

The individual born with Venus forming aspect to Saturn is gifted a double-banded commitment ring from Saturn. Therein contains a promise that while partnership may be potentially timeworn and difficult to find in this lifetime, when the love eventually comes it will be greater than anything she could have imagined. She may have distant fantasies or longings about her ideal partner, but never completely entertains these as actual possibilities, often due to an inherent sense of worthlessness or being undeserving with matters of the heart. Something happens during the developmental phase of life that breaks this heart before it has fully formed. It is sensitive, scarred, and often bandaged in the protective defences that cut her off from accepting the affection and attention that she can’t admit is much needed. In traditional astrology, Venus is the portion of our consciousness that beholds our eye of beauty, femininity, aesthetic, and style. The shadow of Saturn leering over Venus often produces an apathy and at worst, a revulsion regarding her own self-image of beauty. 

Despite feeling so disconnected and detached from her feminine side, the individual with a Venus-Saturn aspect is divinely feminine in its most timeless, antiqued, resiliently elegant, and everlasting archetypal form. It is a lifelong reunion between the inner Fairy Godmother, and the little girl inside who is enslaved to those leftover feelings of being defective, unattractive, and impossible to love. It is until this reunion occurs, or in the worst case scenarios when the inner work has been left incomplete and it never happens at all, that the individual experiences the traditional Venus-Saturn suffering in love that we would expect. These conditions may result in a choice of relationship partners and dynamics that reflect and play-out the sentiments of the little girl inside rather than the woman, and may involve themes of relegation, power imbalances, mistreatment, and re-casting father figures. There may also be some form of self-imposed entrapment in relationships, something inside that stops her from walking out an open door.

The traditional Venus-Saturn age-gap in love and attraction to older people may be one relationship theme that prevails through life. However, as she grows older and wiser, she will often come to recognise this attraction being shaped by different needs and desires that are more authentic and ultimately satisfying. As she becomes less beheld to old conditions, the need is less for paternal fulfilment and redemption . This could be a young soul or an old soul - her attraction to older people has never been about that. It’s rather about a depth that this heart possesses, a serene, dewy, alluringly tragic wisdom and insight that is decades older than its years, searching for somebody who could possibly understand this, at times confusing age for inner experience.

With her poised and intriguing interactive style, she is often readily complimented and admired by friends, colleagues, superiors, and strangers alike. And while she hears the sentiments quite clearly, she barely absorbs a word. She appreciates the genuineness, but she cannot feel a thing, and she won’t until that girl is back in the arms of the Enchanted Elder inside. Breaking their spell of separation repairs her broken heart. She slowly embraces her femininity, and a pageant of Feminine Priestesses embrace her back, and once she starts seeing and styling herself in this way - the real show of Who She is really begins. This is also often when the first chapters of life’s true love story only just begin. A growing comfort and confidence, a silver Saturn glow that may have seen its shadows, yet there blooms a Venus rose that is everlasting and can never die without sunlight.

Cherry

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Errors, “Errors,” and Sci Fi

@strawberry-crocodile

tvtropes calls stuff like the wolf example "science matches on" which I think is a pretty fair shake

This.  This is what’s got me thinking so much about errors.  There’s a certain danger, here.  A certain way that this particular effect — delicious dramatic irony — tempts the mind when reading old stories, even true ones.

What do you know about R.M.S. Titanic? I ask my class every year, and the first hand rises.  “It was unsinkable,” the student inevitably says, and everyone is nodding, “or so they thought.”  I write the word UNSINKABLE on the board, underneath my crude drawing of a ship with four smokestacks.  It will be crossed out before the end of the hour, but not for the reason they expect.

“I find no evidence,” Walter Lord, preeminent biographer of the ship’s survivors, wrote, “that Titanic was ever advertised as unsinkable. This detail seems to have entered the collective mind so as to create a more perfect irony.”  Indeed, historians’ examinations of White Star Line documents show the shipbuilders themselves worried it would be so large as to risk collision; they stocked several more lifeboats than 1910s regulations required.

The War to End All Wars (deep breath, satisfied exhale), also known as World War ONE. Chuckle.  Shake of the head.  What if I told you that this phrase, used primarily in American newspapers after the fact, wasn’t meant to be literal? Nowadays we’d say The Mother of All Wars, or One Hell of a Fucking War, but we wouldn’t mean literal motherhood, literal intercourse.  What if I said the armistice and the Lost Generation and the Roaring 20s were all braced for another outbreak of European conflict, and yet we still failed to prevent it?

Did you know they were so confident in the safety of the S.S. Challenger that they put a civilian schoolteacher onboard? I do, because I’ve heard that one repeated many times.  Only, see, it’s got the cause and effect reversed.  Challenger launched on a day the shuttle’s engineers knew to be dangerously cold, because the first civilian in space was on board. And NASA knew its shuttle project would be cancelled entirely, if they couldn’t get that civilian’s much-delayed entry into space in the next two weeks.  So they launched on a cold day, and killed her instead.

These are all what cognitive science calls Hindsight Bias on the personal level, what sociology calls Presentism on the cultural level.  Social psychology’s a little of both, is primarily interested in why you’re sitting on your couch in a Colonize Mars shirt watching PBS and chuckling at the fools who believed in El Dorado.  It wants to know why the mind flees straight from “marijuana will kill you” to “marijuana will cure cancer” without so much as a pause on the middle ground of its real benefits and drawbacks, its real (mild) risks and rewards.

And they can paralyze the sci-fi writer, if you think too much about them. Jetsons is futurist one decade, retro the next.  “There are no bathrooms on the Enterprise,” the creators of Serenity say smugly, as if Gene Roddenberry should’ve simply known that decades later it’d be acceptable to show a man peeing in full view of the camera, nothing but the curve of the actor’s hand to protect his modesty.  “No sound in space,” the Fandom Menace says, “No explosions in space,” and “A space station can’t collapse in zero-G.”  Only then NASA burns a paper napkin outside of atmosphere, transmits music using only the ghost of nearby planets’ gravities, and logs onto Reddit long enough to point out the Death Star would implode in its own gravity field.  And now we’re the ones pointing, the ones laughing, at those earlier point-and-laughers.  Self-satisfied, smug in superiority.  As if we did the work to find out ourselves, instead of just happening to be born a little later than George Lucas.

[saranilssonbooks]

100 Moby-Dick covers ranked by your's truly. Thank you so much to all those of you who sent in contributions and helped make this completely out of proportion project a thing. Jars of angelic spermaceti for everyone! 🤍

As for the ranking, it is purely the result of my own personal taste in aesthetics and heavily influenced by my perception of the story. Add to that a generous amount of sentimentality, as shall be apparent.

What I have been mainly looking at in judging the designs is as follows...

- General appearance; is it attractive? 💕

- Does it help sufficiantly communicate the nature of the story (theme, genre, mood, plot)? ⚰️

- Is it canon? (Meaningful creative licence perfectly allowed!) ✅️

As for the tiers themselves, we have...

Topmost Greatness: this is something out of the ordinary, possibly genius and also I neeeeed it for my collection!

A: Good, good stuff, but might lack that very extra special something

B: Gets the job done, agreeable, totally okay.

C: It's not exactly bad and I'll let that oopsie over there slide, but I probably wouldn't pay much for this one.

You Had One Job: Yeah, you did.

Should Never Have Surfaced: Makes the Pequod tragedy look like a merry holiday.

Art thou ready?

TOPMOST GREATNESS

1. The most beautiful Moby-Dick cover I've ever seen. I was almost tempted to create a tier higher than Topmost Greatness only so that I could place it there.

2. Brilliant composition and color choice, despite its simplicity it hits me straight in the soul.

3. I remember drooling over this in the book store back in the day and considered reading it only because it was so gorgeous. Manages to be both crowded and clean at the same time. Story instantly recognizable.

4. The classiest of all time? Forever a winner!

5. I show the image of this one to people to make them understand the creative brilliancy that thrives within the Moby-Dick community.

6. Captures the mood in a fittingly crooked, awkward way that makes my heart beat faster. (Also reminds me of my copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest for some reason.)

7. Another sort of awkward one, but I love the style, I love the surreal combination of drama and stiffness, pretty fitting the story itself. Makes 'Hab look a bit like the Grim Reaper.

8. The erratic painting technique gives me the perfect kind of crazy vibes.

9. Moby-Dick, a bibliophile's dream, topmost mood nailing, superior dark academia accessory... what more could anyone wish for in a book?

10. So well thought out and the claustrophobic feel helps to create an unsettling mood despite the otherwise quite cheery colors. Sorry, Madagascar.

11. Look, my two main areas of Moby-Dick interest is Ahab and rhe psychology, so... y'know.

12. Mood certainly set.

13. Guess I have a thing for harpoon/eye symbolism. Again that claustrophobic feel by leaving only a sliver of crowded surface.

14. First physical Moby-Dick copy I ever bought. All the books in this Penguin series are gorgeous, but to me this is one of the design winners regardless of the contents.

15. Unsettled in all this tropical serenity yet?

16. The boldness in color choice and to focus on the fire theme is as unusual as it is exciting, and the very modern touch makes it even more interesting!

A.

17. Not normally a style I'm drawn to, but somehow this manages to capture my interest. A successful nod to the painting at the Spouter Inn, lovely line work. My sibling got me this one as a locket for my last b-day.

18. My beloved companion, by now containing almost as much tape as paper. The 19th century poster design is irresistable to me. A white tail would've been even cooler though.

19. It's not that unique looking, yet the worn feel and harpooned Moby Dick simply gets to me somehow.

20. All the crucial elements skillfully and effectivly forged (no pun intended) together.

21. The way the psychology has been captured and the missing leg detail is yum!

22. Kind of busy but so unique and interesting! Yes plz.

23. Another classic! How could Kent's iconic whale ever fail?

24. Aiming for the adventure theme, it appears, and successfully so. Unusual color choice which I happen to be all about. Total vintage feel!

25. Again, not that much is happening, but the ropes, the character design, the inking... I love you, cover, and I need you in my life!

26. An often used scene, but the style gets to me so, so bad.

27. I'm not that much about the washed out color, but the rest is love.

28. Very basic, but also very nice and display friendly and I enjoy the vibe so much.

29. Almost made it to Topmost, but the positioning of the illustration gives off a cheap feel to me. Why couldn't you have used that gorgeous theme depiction to better advantage? Can one order a remake? Or a cropped poster?

30. Love the composition so much but the technique simply doesn't do it quite enough for me to move up one full notch. Still want it so bad for the collection though.

31. Runny ink on pure white is something I associate with Moby-Dick, don't know why. The blotchiness is a really great touch.

32. The design doesn't say much concerning the content, but nevertheless it is so pretty and am I correct when I say there's harpoon vibes?

33. Had that been a white whale, it would've ended up under Topmost!

34. My first reaction to this was that it's a really interesting piece of art, but I wasn't so sure I liked it as much in book cover form. The more I look at it, the more intrigued and enamoured I get. I want more of this.

35. Ahab and Moby Dick from Ahab's POV? Love the distorted psychedelic atmosphere, but another one with missed full illustration use potential.

B.

36. Brings back the menory of cigarettes and fear. Granny the Gregory Peck fan owned one of these and it freaked me out where she kept it on display ever after I'd been forced to watch the movie at age 6. Now I want one just for the hell of it.

37. Okay, so hear me out. I know it's a children's book, but the illustrator obviously knew the story. Love the tangling rope and that Ahab's prosthetic leg seems made out of whale bone rather than wood for once.

38. Nice modern touch, but that's straight up the New Bedford whaler statue, which kinda ruins it for me.

39. Lovely, lovely design, but I simply don't associate it with a story about suicidal tendencies, gore, and mass death.

40. A somewhat unusual character choice to pose on a cover, but hey, I'll take it! :D

41. Doesn't pop, but I do like me some traditional Japanese art vibes!

42. Elegant, but the huge M obscures the title text and the harpoon looks as if crossed with a sewing needle.

43. Basic, but the feel is there and I like the color combination for this story.

44. Love the art and it's impossible not to identify which story this is, but I have several Ahab design choice questions which won't leave me.

45. This whole thing is odd and busy, but I also really like it!

46. Speaking of Japanese traditional art. The lines and the moodiness is much to my liking.

47. Simple, spot on, nothing that extra.

48. If only he hadn't looked so damn happy about it as if Ahab was about to throw that harpoon like a stick for him to fetch. Untold plot line??

49. There is this whole sub genre of Moby Dick balancing the Pequod, a concept that certainly works, but by now it has to have that little extra something to seem truly special.

50. We have a less erroneous whale, folks! It may be a stock image, but Ishmael gave this one thumbs up, and so how could I possibly do differently? Nicely done!

51. First, I get strong The Old Man and the Sea impressions. Second, what kind of whale do you intend to kill with that thing, my dude? Points for canonical end game beard though.

52. I assume this is meant as a traditional Polynesian art style nod in honor of our dear Queequeg. The sports wear lining texture in the title letters confuses me though.

53. There certainly are plenty of canon here, but also, this is some odd mayhem and where are you aiming, Captain? Yay, ivory leg again!

54. Basic, works perfectly fine.

55. This is a really odd scene choice to pick for a cover, but I love this edition and its illustrations to bits. In fact, I'm planning on posting a review of it soon.

C.

56. I haven't peeked into Melville's mind, but I'm pretty sure the Pequod looked quite different. The story is unmistakable though.

57. Nothing wrong with it, I guess, but way too messy for me to be comfortable with.

58. Not much to say here, but a perfectly nice-looking cover for any book.

59. Gets the job done, but not that inspiring.

60. Despite seemingly little effort behind it, this design based on a 19th century (erroneous) whale drawing could have gone straight up to A. You see, in the original image the (erroneous) whale has his penis (erroneous?) in full view, but on this cover it has been erased. How could I not have given a Moby-Dick book cover depicting dozens of (erroneous) whale dicks A? Alas.

61. Good, professional-looking cover, but judging by the illustration only, I would have guessed this was a children's book about the adventures of a jolly porpoise named Toni.

62. No spoilers to see here or anything. Is that a gold prosthetics??

63. This looks so much like a academic book on psychology. Not too far off, I suppose, but I wouldn't be able to figure out which famous story it is.

64. The Temple toggle harpoon was invented in 1848. Do with this information what you will.

65. Hey! That other cover from before! Have to say that the color alterations and helm sihouette wasn't an improvement.

66. A bit extreme for me.

67. I call this excessive simplicity. If you need a copy of Moby-Dick, you will recognize it at once, but it might not attract new readers merely in itself.

68. Just because it's a children's book doesn't mean the vibe has to be off, but I think it is in this case. Recently posted an example of this illustrator's adorable Ishmael here.

69. Where's the title? Confusing for a cover, but I would love this for a poster of mug! Also, the biggest words are Ahab, Queequeg, and Pequod, which I find mildly insulting towards a certain someone. What was he called again?

70. Cool whale picture which I really like, but the accuracy for Moby-Dick isn't really there.

71. It's blue.

72. I understand the idea and the illustration is awesome, but for me, the vibe is strangely all off and I get almost a comedic feel. Again, that's just me.

73. I often feel like an Ahab apologist and can often be somewhat harsh on the whale, but holy shit! A sort of red herring situation meant to make the reader think Ahab will be the winner?

74. It looks full of action and Scrooge's Ahab cosplay look is really neat, but I have... concerns.

75. I don't remember the scene playing out like this and Ahab is clearly not having it.

YOU HAD ONE JOB

76. The exact face I made the first time I saw this kind of cover.

77. After all the people I've heard at the museum mistaking the sperm whale skeleton for an orca, I'm honestly surprised these fails aren't more common. The snowy setting is a nice touch.

78. Hast seen the white beluga?!

79. First shark Moby-Dick I ever saw and during my first week on Tumblr even. The nostalgia is real, shipmates.

80. Cool scene. Where is it from?

81. Come on! This is a fucking Wordsworth's edition!

82. My sentiments exactly.

83. No, it isn't.

84. At first I seriously thought this was some interesting modern sci-fi/fantasy take on Moby-Dick. Nope.

85. At least the person who did this one bothered to give it a traditional nautical flair.

86. The ocean is canon.

87. *screaming shark mode*

SHOULD NEVER HAVE SURFACED

88. Someone's dad is balancing on top of a fire breathing eel whilst ravens are flying around and a poor guy has dark thoughts in the bottom right corner and... I dunno, man. "Whaling voyage turns fatal obsession" apparently. Moby-Dick the Prequel?

89. Whoa, dude!! I know you're angry, but holy shit!

90. "Captain Ahab? He went that way. Me? Just your average cliché 18th century pirate. If you don't mind me asking, sir, what sort of creature are you?"

91. By "annotated" they mean the truth about Wild Bill Hickok's one time side gig as a whaler. There's a fan fiction idea for ya.

92. What in the everloving AI fuck is happening here?

93. Friends, your guesses are as good as mine.

94. In the early 2020s, the ghost of Melville Herman set out to find the ghost of Moby Dick.

95. I guess we never learned what Ahab's dad died from back in the 18th century. Runs in the family and all that.

96. ?????????

97. If you download a public domain work to sell on Amazon for a possible extra buck, taking one minute to check the basic plot before slapping a stock image on it for a cover will be an actual long term investment.

98. "Lol! U overbite!"

99. Well, he is clearly a zombie whale, so maybe this is the sequel then?

100. And thus endeth MOBY D CK.

[parlerenfleurs]

In the notes of the previous post I've reblogged I saw a discussion about why Ringo isn't considered (by the fandom) as a romantic interest for Mizu despite treating her better than all the other men in her life, and how this is tied to fatphobia. Also the fact that the fat character is often the comic-relief and the fact that if he is indeed intended as platonic why make him the only fat (="unattractive") man among the three (others being Taigen and Mikio) that can or have been considered love interests for her?

And that's really interesting because indeed, I never considered Ringo a potential love-interest for Mizu... And so I have to wonder if it's because he's fat. But I also never saw him as a comic-relief character, and I want to expand on why first.

He is indeed funny, and brings levity. But it's not "comic-relief", it's "positivity-relief", in my eyes. I don't feel like we're supposed to take him unseriously at all. Characters take him unseriously, sure, because of his social class, his disability, his seemingly naïve and weak character (never his size, in any case).

But the story shows, and Mizu comes to know, that he's anything but weak and naïve. We know right from the start that he's endured a terrible childhood and life up until meeting Mizu. He doesn't have hands, his father is abusive both physically and psychologically. The way the flesh-trader mistreats him in the first episode isn't anything unusual to Ringo. Everyone despises him and feels free to exert force against him. Taigen in his arrogance, deigns offer him a menial job in his household with the condescension reserved for a nobody who is also a child, or mentally a child.

Ringo was forged at this cruel relentless fire and what came out is a formidable strength. It doesn't manifest itself as obviously as Mizu's but it's, in my opinion, superior, and also extremely great and loveable. Ringo is neither naïve nor stupid. He knows when he's being beaten and condescended to. He's like that because, in spite of everything, he wants to see beauty in everything, and enjoy the good things in life, and he chooses to be kind. He CHOOSES to be kind. With an unbreakable, fluid, infinitely bending strength.

I am not well-versed enough in Japanese culture to make a meaningful comment about this, probably, but my personal reading of Ringo is that he might be a Buddha figure. East of India, the Buddha is fat. The Buddha smiles serenely, even in adversity, because he's reached a state of zen. His ego isn't touched by insults and beatings. Of course Ringo prefers to be treated well, like anyone else! That's why he follows Mizu around! She's an outcast and "deformed" like him, but she's also able to hold her own against physical violence, against the tyrants of the world, and that obviously appeals to him.

He kills, he has sex, he likes good food, he's obviously not detached from the world at all. But still, like a Buddha, his sense of self cannot be shaken by outside mockery or hostility. He's incredibly persistent once he has a goal, but he doesn't bother affirming himself to others for the sake of ego. He's the polar opposite of Taigen in that respect. Taigen's background has made him desperate for outside sources of strength - admiration, prestige, money, social standing...

On the other hand Ringo is really similar to Mizu, a thing he sees immediately but she does not. Hers is an inner unbreakable strength, too. The same fluid, adaptable, water-like strength. Can't break water. It will shape itself around you and your obstacles without ever losing its nature.

But contrary to Ringo, Mizu feels all the pain, the slights, the shame, the self-hatred. Ringo is pure love, or water, not poisoned by betrayal. Perhaps, or even probably, he has been betrayed but he hasn't let it poison his love, his water nature.

Even when Mizu betrays his love (respect, admiration, regard), he's no pushover, he lets her know that he won't stand for it, but still he rescues her because... despite everything his love is still pure. His love is the agape kind. He loves life, he obviously loves himself. There is no shame or shrinking of the self in him. No shame of his body, among other things. He's the only one in the main cast who doesn't wear a mask. What you see is what you get, and it's only people's own preconceptions that blind them to his depth and merit.

On the subject of fatness, I'm not sure he's even really... considered fat, in-universe? Or not negatively so, in any case. When Akemi has to serve her first client, HE is called fat by the characters. Fat enough to crush someone, and to hinder his own libido - the fatness of being extremely rich and eating too much rich food while being extremely idle. This one has the prostitutes reluctant, and his fatness is viewed in a negative light. Ringo has a very pleasant and cordial interaction with the two prostitutes who service him, and sure we're not privy to their thoughts on the matter, but I bet they found him cute, polite, not troublesome at all to service, and I feel like his size wasn't even a question that was posed. We see him naked, running around, carrying things, and being extremely active. His is a common build, sturdy, not a hindrance to his libido, his health, his self-image, or anything. What I mean is, he's not presented to us in a negative way on account of his fatness, and isn't viewed negatively for it in-universe.

All of this to say, I might indeed be blind to his potential as a love interest to Mizu, but I'm not sure it just has to do with the fact he's fat? It might be! I don't know. The first thing I think about on why I don't ship them is they show no romantic or sexual interest in each other that I see. Except, perhaps, that it might be significant that she's the one to arrange his first sexual experience and that it's the framework he has when seeing her naked. But as his attitude remains strictly the same and he shows no change in the kind of interest he has for her, it didn't feel significant to me. I might be wrong, I don't know. But again, Taigen is the opposite: he might be bi, but let's say he isn't, or at least isn't aware of it (I would be sad if he's not but it would better serve the parallel if he's straight) - the guy shows unmistakable chemistry with, and attraction to Mizu without even knowing she's got peaches underneath it all. (I love that he feels attraction to her at the precise moment where she's her playful self again: wrestling, battling and winning, while laughing and having fun... everything that Mikio couldn't handle is the very thing Taigen feels attracted to, aaah so good.)

When I think about it, the loyal, protective role Ringo has, where he saves her physically and emotionally, cares for her, protects her secret, admires her for who she is as a whole, his place as the person who sees the most of her without rejecting a single part of it, should indeed make me feral....

But if he's the opposite to Taigen in so many ways, he might be in this too, in that he has no attraction to Mizu, and they've no such chemistry between them. It's also so lovely as a platonic relationship! For once it is! He's her apprentice, after all, and she takes on the Swordfather role for him as Swordfather did for her (she even used the same persistent-as-hell-I-will-stay-look-I'm-useful method as Ringo did on her - when I say they're so similar...). She used to make noise to signal things to Swordfather and she makes Ringo make noise so that she can keep track of him, too. It's very cute! He uses her kitchen knives and she makes him start to fight with that just like she started to forge by forging them. To me, they're firmly in this master-apprentice dynamic. And friends.

I've said repeatedly that he's not naïve but actually in some ways he is, and that's what Mizu needs more of. She needs to reconnect with that younger, less hurt version of herself. And Ringo helps her with it, because she does ask for his help, does recognise she needs it (healing!) when she asks him to write on her back. He literally has her back. He's his own character, his own person, but they mirror each other a lot, and in some ways he's her master too. A master in gentleness.

Oh. I've said that Ringo's love/water is pure, but that it HAS been touched by the poison that affects Mizu: he's a better sword, has a better strength because he let the impurity be a part of him, didn't push it away or let it consume and change him. No wonder she must learn from him/needs his help to forge her new sword.

IF the story started signaling attraction between them, I don't think it would occur to me that Ringo is fat or anything (or it wouldn't have before, now I'll pay attention to that). It didn't occur to me when he was with the prostitutes, I was only thinking about the fact he has no hands, but the prostitutes shrugged it off with grace, and it made me happy.

[ofbreathandflame-archive]

i haven't read the acotar series but yeah there are...SO many issues with it. I was about to say I'm not surprised that people wanted the racism to be more violent so they could acknowledge but actually, y'know what? No, I am surprised. I'm concerned that people want characters of colour to be dragged through the dirt and be the victims of horrific acts before they can acknowledge the racism of the author. I cannot emphasise how crestfallen, how upset I felt when I searched up what Illyrians were for the first time. Like...oh. They are brown, like me. But they are also a whitewashed version of what white people want them to be: a violent, primitive nation that treat their women awfully, just so that white people can come in and save them, as if they weren't the ones ramping up that kind of misogyny in the first place.

I look across the YA sphere and I see white authors constantly say, through their writing, that poc are violent, that we are backwards, that the women should not exist and do not have lives unless they are attached to white people. I feel that the only time this has kind of been challenged in a mainstream YA fandom has been the grishaverse, and even then, the rep for brown peoples is muddled and vague at best, and the rep for Black people feels like there was no exploration of culture at all.

What I'm trying to say is: it's not great in the YA market, but SJM is by far one of the most racist authors out there. White fans shouldn't be begging for the violence against characters of colour to be ramped up so they can decide when they can step in and say enough is enough.

ugh! this was so beautifully put!

thiis will be a long discussion!

i really want to preface this by saying i would really implore everyone in their free time to read toni morrison's playing in the dark! it's a deep dive into the ways blackness (and in this case minority status) is defined by white superiority; how the very presence of the non-white is always used to reiterated the inherent superiority of their white peers! poc are used as conduits to uphold beliefs of white supremacy - the very existence of the nonwhite existing to boasts the intelligence of their white peers.

sjm's work moves in such racist territory that it so easy so see these mentalities etched into her work. every single poc that is included in the story is relegated to this ideology; their very existence speaks to the power of the main character. the primary function of the interactions deal in shame, humiliation, and cowardice (see: tarquin, nehemia, thesan, helion, tarquin, cressida, nesryn, lucien, the unnamed enslaved @ endovier, baxian, unnamed illyrian population etc).

morrison opens up her novel by asserting that we should be conscious of the way the author's imagination expresses itself:

“Both [reading and writing] require being mindful of the places where imagination sabotages itself, locks its own gates, pollutes its vision. Writing and reading mean being aware of the writer’s notions of risk and safety, the serene achievement of, or sweaty fight for, meaning and response-ability.”

morrison also posits that author's intenionality and/or bias are unfortunately apart of the creative process of imagination, reiterating:

“The imagination that produces work which bears and invites rereadings, which motions to future readings as well as contemporary ones, implies a shareable world and an endlessly flexible language. Readers and writers both struggle to interpret and perform within a common language shareable imaginative worlds. And although upon that struggle the positioning of the reader has justifiable claims, the author’s presence—her or his intentions, blindness, and sight—is part of the imaginative activity.”

this initial opening builds an understanding of the creative process, in a wholesome way. what i mean is - morrison is establishes that the creative process is informed by our own perceptions and understanding. the way our the narrative voice reconciles normalcy vs. unknown says something about the author. or what the author has put to page. the reason i am even discussing this is to make a similar point: sjm's writing oftentimes subconsciously asserts the dominance of the 'main, white character,' in conjunction with a ethnic, poor, nonwhite individuals of the story. when we meet celaena, we are immediately aware of aelin's 'superiority' over the slaves in endovier. the function of her slavery is to relate her power, while the story views the enslaved as dump, hopeless, individuals whose only goal is to die for their liberation in an endless cycle. aelin even complains that she 'finally' can talk to compotent people with assumption that the enslaved at endovier were somehow too dumb to adequtely communcate with her.

a court of thorns and roses invents an entire culture whose only cultural practices seemed be filled with violence, misogyny, and brutality. then the story argues that only three (3) out of thousands of brown men actually have common sense. that they're so dumb and brutish that they'd absolutely choose to have barely any resources out of spite of their benevolent high lord. cassian, rhys, and az are the strongest in history. and to relate their power, we get these dumb brutes who just seem okay for fighting for a country that would not even be allowed to enter....that's actually some crazy racist writing lmaooo. or the fact that nuala and cerridwen are trained spies, who up to this point, make so much money they'd probably be able to retire...and they just choose to be also the handmaidens...for five-hundred year old fae. like...immediately after acotar, there back working. rhys and feyre can still be reeling from that experience but nuala and cerridwen can just serve because that's just what they like to do.

the next notable quote states:

“These speculations have led me to wonder whether the major and championed characteristics of our national literature—individualism, masculinity, social engagement versus historical isolation; acute and ambiguous moral problematics; the thematics of innocence coupled with an obsession with figurations of death and hell—are not in fact responses to a dark, abiding, signing Africanist presence”

“The fabrication of an Africanist persona is reflexive; an extraordinary meditation on the self; a powerful exploration of the fears and desires that reside in the writerly conscious. It is an astonishing revelation of longing, of terror, of perplexity, of shame, of magnanimity. It requires hard work not to see this.”

in this way, the nonwhite becomes the site of a descent into darkness, hypersexality and power for white people. think of the way in which feyre's darkness is often times heavily associated with the nonwhite (see: court of nightmares). this sexy, liberated, dark woman using south asian culture to establish superiority while eschewing the people who are the originators of said culture.

but - really want to move this away from a discussion on individual characters and really focus the subject on sjm's role as the write. ultimately, feyre, aelin, nehemia, rhys...aren't real. they are reflections of the author's own internal dialogue. i actually really resonated with this observation/ assumption morrison's makes and that is:

“I assumed that since the author was not black, the appearance of Africanist characters or narrative or idiom in a work could never be about anything other than the “normal,” unracialized, illusory white world that provided the fictional backdrop.”

ultimately, i believe the racism comes from the fact that, although these are fictional worlds born from sjm's imagination, a lot of the racism comes from the fact that sjm is writing what she believes to be normal. and so - that's why the problem ultimately persists. violence against woc and poc are justified already. it doesn't matter that rhys slaughters hordes of illyrians because the assumption is that they're probably horrible, brutish people who ultimately deserve to die; nevermind, they could have had complex reasons, just like rhys. it's okay that the illyrian women are oppressed because...that's just the way things have always been. the only queen who helped rhys and feyre is humilated, murdered, and has her head shaven. we get one sentence about her and the story moves on. nehemia planned her own brutal murder, awoke dorian's power, and as a reward....her entire country is burned to the ground and the liberation of ellywe is delegated toward one sentence about maybe going to visit. , sorcha gets her head cut off (and its treated as a joke by the fandom) and dorian blames her for essentially being 'too fragile' or something like that. poc are already being brutalized in these stories, we're just positioned not to care.

and im not saying that ya isn't extremely racist - but i think sjm is by far one of the worst racist authors i have come across. not even ms. bardugo or aveyard or her other peers have this many racial problems by comparison and boy are there still problems even in those stories. like damn even george rr martin has like...semi-better writing (but he's actually another author that really exemplifies what morrison was talking about and id love to one day talk about that. but it woul take me quite awhile. i do like like asoiaf obvi, but it just has a lot of problems that i cant ignore). lmaooo even armentrout made some attempt to rectify her representation issue and thats saying a lot.

[spockiguess]

The Evangelical Counsels || Laszlo Kreizler x Fem!Reader || Chapter 2 - Another Meeting

Divider Credit: @cafekitsune / Chapter 1

Summary: The reader returns to Kreizler's Institute, but the meeting does not go as planned.

Warnings: Descriptions of Abuse, Mentions of Poverty, Homelessness, and Starvation Regarding Minors, Criticisms of Organized Religion, Mentions of Religious Grooming, Arguments, Romance Involving Nuns, Age Gap (~20s/~40s), Eventual Smut

Pairing: Fem!Nun!Reader x Laszlo Kreizler

A/N: Laszlo is depicted as an asshole in this because, well, he is one! I love him a lot, but he needs to work on some things...

The days that followed after your confounding encounter with the blunt Dr. Kreizler were slow and uneventful, which you came to realize over the years was a small blessing in your line of duty. Excitement in an orphanage wasn’t always positive, and it was better for the children if they were able to predict–and follow–a safe routine. It provided much-needed structure in their lives.

Nevertheless, you found your mind wandering in the few moments of solace throughout the day. Cleaning dishes was paired with meditations on the complex interactions you and the Good Doctor had shared, whereas changing sheets brought on vivid memories of his piercing eyes and scathing words. The wires within you became more fraught with each passing second you spent in your cramped bed. In those twilight hours, you would focus on one of the candles that dotted your equally diminutive room, absently watching the ember flame dance in the breeze that flowed from your open window. The fire provided the serenity your head needed to think about how the time you spent with Dr. Kreizler had forced you to question everything you knew while inspiring a searing heat to spark in the depths of your core.

This warmth that spread deeper and farther than any hearth might cause was wholly new to you. Not once had you experienced something like this, but due to the newfound sensitivity between your legs, you knew that it was something to vehemently detest. Mother Superior Ida had been encouraged on many occasions by St. Vincent’s Abess to violently discipline your peers if need be, with you only escaping by mere hairs. Watching the older nuns of the convent be flogged for “inappropriate behavior” around the men of the Church who happened to visit from time to time kept you dutiful on your path of pureness. You never touched yourself, let your thoughts stray, or even looked at your most private areas unless absolutely necessary. After that day, though, your discipline waned.

Dr. Kreizler was challenging, utterly unafraid of your position, and according to the stories you heard, cold towards most. The man countered your faith at every turn, intent on proving you wrong. He wasn’t the type of man you thought you would find yourself attracted to, if you could even act on those desires. No, Dr. Kreizler was difficult. He had a tendency to provoke people, much like he did to you that day, and ignore one’s feelings. And yet, Kreizler regarded children with a familiarity that was uncommon for men of his status. In the few hours you spent at his Institute, the alienist’s care for the wellbeing of his patients was made plain. Dr. Kreizler, at his heart, was a gentle man, and that is perhaps what drew you to him so much in the first place–his defiance of your expectations.

This all culminated in a flurry of emotion that pushed you to leave St. Vincent’s Orphanage on one of your off-days and make the trek to the Kreizler Institute once again. Without the fear that urged you to take this path originally, you were able to mull over your actions, causing you to stumble into strangers on the sidewalk and nearly pass the Institute altogether. Once you righted yourself faced the creme-colored steps of his facility, a wave of hot shame flooded your senses: what were you doing? To allow any sort of attraction in the first place was already an ample mistake, but to seek the object of your attraction out like this was deplorable. You were already wed to Him, any other being should pale in comparison. Despite this, you still had questions that needed to be answered.

Just as you began to make your way up the steps, one of the enormous wooden doors to the Institute swung open, a tiny woman appearing just behind it.

“Oh! You must be Nunny!” she proclaimed in a mousy English accent.

Pausing, your brows knit together in a tight line as you stammered, “I’m sorry, you’re one of the staff here, correct?”

The woman was wearing the garb you found common amongst the staff who worked behind those doors, and she swung her head down to look at the uniform, too, “Yes. I apologize, Sister. Dr. Kreizler said that’s a nickname the children often refer to you as.”

Another type of embarrassment painted your features, and you huffed indignantly as you drew your scapular up again, “It’s alright, the children find it easier to remember.” You weren’t sure if Kreizler using the name to describe you was supposed to be demeaning, or if he genuinely didn’t remember your name, but it stung, nonetheless.

The woman who stood behind the entrance pushed the heavy door further, waving a hand to welcome you in, “Would you prefer I call you something else?”

Now indifferent to the title, you relented, “No, Nunny is fine,” and continued into the building.

Unlike the previous time, there weren’t any children to be found playing inside, nor did you see any staff surveying the space. It felt oddly empty, and you shuddered at the silence.

“Where are the children?” you asked hesitantly.

The woman who was currently leading you down one of the main paths to Dr. Kreizler’s office pointed down a branching hall you passed, “Everyone’s gone outside to play, Sister. They’re happily enjoying their weekend activities.” You sighed a breath of relief before resuming your route.

Eventually, you were met with Dr. Kreizler’s office door, the opulent gold plaque freshly lacquered since your last visit. The woman knocked twice before twisting the similarly gold handle, leaving you to confer with the alienist who waited inside.

Kreizler sat at his desk, furiously scribbling in one of the many notebooks that cluttered the surface, “Is something the matter, Lottie?”

Unsure of how to respond, you waited until Dr. Kreizler glanced upwards, taking pause at your unexpected presence.

“Have you just arrived?” Dr. Kreizler queried.

Nervously running one hand over the other, you explained, “Yes. I was already at the entrance when one of your staff greeted me.”

The man squinted his eyes, something you now figured a tic, “How convenient. I had just sent Lottie to retrieve you.”

You swallowed, stepping back a pace, “I’m assuming Mona requested a visit?”

“Indeed. She’s in the courtyard with the rest of her peers,” Dr. Kreizler waited a breath, “You came here for a different reason?” The air in the room began to still, and part of you wished to leave in that very instance.

“I apologize. I know you’ve only allowed my presence for visits with Mona, or if I need help with another child,” you paused as well, this time for different reasons, “I’m not here to preach gospel, Doctor.”

This only further intrigued Kreizler, his diligent fingers pensively stroking his beard as he pressed for more information, “Then I must ask the same question as I did before: what is the purpose of your visit?”

You were cornered, literally and figuratively. The lining of your throat dried uncomfortably while you struggled to form a coherent response, “I’m not sure how to classify this visit, Dr. Kreizler.”

Kreizler beckoned you to sit with a single hand, “Indulge me, Sister.”

That single sentence reignited the flame you had been feeling ever since you left the Institute before, and without much thought, your feet carried you to one of the velvet chairs opposite his desk.

Carefully sitting down, you adjusted your tunic to retain as much modesty as possible, despite the vulnerability you felt in this moment. All the while, Dr. Kreizler raptly studied you like one of his patients, the very act feeling immodest itself.

“So, why did you seek me out, if not for Mona?” The question came from him easily, as if there wasn’t a double meaning to his words.

You didn’t dare meet his gaze, instead picking at the skin that surrounded your nails, “I do not know where else to go,” Dr. Kreizler waited as you collected your thoughts, “You have inspired questions that I do not know how to answer, which has only brought about more questions.”

Kreizler’s voice was an octave lower as he leaned back in his chair, resting a hand on one of the armrests, “You can’t consult your superiors?”

“They would punish me, Doctor,” you admitted shamefully.

A deep hum resonated from Dr. Kreisler's chest, “That must be the reason behind your change in demeanor today. I remember a quite brazen young woman from our last visit.”

A tense silence permeated the room, suffocating you under its weight. Dr. Kreizler was right, which added to the immense guilt you burdened yourself with. You've come all this way from St. Vincent’s to satisfy a foolish infatuation and seek guidance over something he despised with his entire being. How could a self-proclaimed atheist possibly help you reconfigure your relationship with God?

“I should have waited for Lottie,” you said to yourself, voice trembling.

Kreizler clicked his tongue in annoyance and stood without warning, quickly making way to the door behind you, signaling for you to leave, “Then you are wasting my time, Sister. If you have nothing of note to share with me, please wait with one of the staff for Ms. Walker.”

You were confused, how could he turn from addressing you with some modicum of kindness to treating you like a disturbance. Overwhelmed, salty teardrops began to fall into the open palms of your hands. Feeling lost again and in desperate need of understanding, you looked up and out of the shimmering window that sat behind the doctor’s desk as you questioned, “Did I really choose this life for myself?”

Another pregnant silence followed before you heard the door abruptly close. Soon, Dr. Kreizler was behind his desk and waiting for your next confession like the men of the cloth you had run to previously. Perhaps Kreizler’s unique disposition might be what you need in this moment, rather than the absolution the men on the other side of the confessional booth urged you to seek.

“You were right. I had never questioned His teachings. I hadn't thought that possible. But when you exposed such a blindspot in my beliefs, it led me to doing that very thing,” you avoided Dr. Kreizler’s stare, too raw to face it now.

“Now, I am unsure if my choice to take the vows was entirely my own, or just a symptom of being raised by the very women I have become.” A weight lifted from your shoulders and the bind suffocating your heart eased with the admittance. Even voicing your doubts to someone who wouldn't punish you for doing so was relieving.

Ever serious, Dr. Kreizler spoke evenly, “You must not have had many choices, Sister.”

The title of Sister was blistering now, and you recoiled at the sound, “When I began my teachings, it was with the motivation that once I was of age, my health and safety would be guaranteed. I had no other skills to depend on.” The rosary that laid beneath your tunic began to burn your skin, the cloth which covered you only intensified the feeling.

“You acted out of survival, then? Not out of an innate devotion to God?” Kreizler asked.

Tears blinded your vision, “I think so.”

“What would you have done if your needs were satisfied?”

You stayed silent, only speaking when you were certain enough you wouldn't burst into pathetic sobs, “I would have liked to work in an orphanage, just as I am now. I've always loved children.”

Dr. Kreizler tilted his head slightly, his eyes regarding you with the utmost pity, “And to think your life wouldn't have been so different had you picked a different path.”

Swallowing a hard lump, you blinked the remaining tears away and swiped the evidence of your pain from your hands, “Perhaps, but there is nothing I can do about it now. As much as anyone else, I am still burdened with the duties of my service, and it would be selfish of me to abandon them.”

The alienist leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, “Would you leave your convent, had you the opportunity?”

Color drained from your face and you clenched at your stomach, praying for the visceral sickness that boiled there to go away. You would be shunned by your Sisters, the only family you’ve ever known. You wouldn’t be able to continue your work at St. Vincent’s, where so many children are in desperate need of your help. The Lord would rebuke you as His wife and cast you to Hell once your life creeped towards the inevitable.

Startled, you fought back, a distinct sadness plaguing your voice, “I can’t do that.”

Kreizler, a man not ashamed of his ability to inflame, pestered, “”You can’t, or you won’t?”

“My Lord would abandon me, just as I would do to him if I entertained that prospect. I’d be a disgrace to the people I serve,” you argued, clinging to what you’ve been taught over the years.

“The only thing that restricts you from living the life you want is shame? You criticized others for using religion to justify their own despicable behavior, now you are doing the same!” Kreizler’s voice began to rise, the conversation flipping on a dime as his own frustration became evident.

“How am I the same, Doctor?” You asked indignantly, offended at the accusation.

Dr. Kreizler stood up, perching a hand on his desk to loom over you, “You are living a life of shame for a God you don’t even love–that is pathetic! You are no different from a starved animal clawing to survive.” His words dripped with bitter venom, and it stung against your flesh.

“I did what I had to do! I help people, Doctor! That is my freedom!” You stood, too, stepping closer to the edge of Kreizler’s finely carved desk.

“And what freedom is that, Sister? I help people, as well, do I not?” Kreizler’s accent thickened with menace.

You snarled, closing the gap between you and the Good Doctor even more, “You have always had the means to do such a thing! No matter what, you have been afforded protections that people like me are forced to live without–how we choose to live our lives is none of your business!”

Kreizler ignored your rebuttal, “These are fickle excuses and you are smart enough to know it, Sister. Do you want to live this life?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” you said in an instant.

“I will ask again, do you want to live this life?”

“Of course not!” You yelled, inches away from Kreizler’s face.

An eerie silence followed before you found the confidence to speak again, voice broken, “I have given up so much, Doctor. I have lost the future I always dreamed about–and while I would help people in any lifetime–I want a family. That is the life I want to live.”

Kreizler, still maintaining the short distance between you, spoke gently, “Then why not go after it?”

Backing away somewhat, you issued a deep sigh, “I do not know how I would do that, and I am too much of a coward to face the wrath of my superiors, should I make a mistake.”

“So you will do nothing?” His words were foreboding, like thunderclouds reigning above crashing waves, eager to swallow you whole.

You didn’t allow yourself to speak on the subject anymore, having already said far too much, “I’m going to wait for Mona, Doctor. Thank you for your time.” In a second, you were out of the office and retracing your steps to the hall Lottie pointed down earlier, your smile bittersweet once the courtyard came into sight.

Soon, you were reunited with Mona, who was thrilled to see you. Already, she looked livelier than before, the hollows of her cheeks beginning to round out. The two of you spent most of your visit playing all of Mona’s newly-favorite games, most of which included some theming around horses, and you couldn’t have been luckier. Keeping your attention on the girl brought you back to your usual, joyful self, and you were able to momentarily ignore the humiliating spat you shared with the Institute’s resident alienist.

Eventually, Mona led you back to the dormitory she now inhabited, her bed occupied by a certain furry friend while her chest brimmed with clothes and toys. She urged you to sit on the edge of the mattress while she went through each toy she’s received, finally making way to the plush rabbit that rested against her pillow.

“And this is Nunny. She’s my favorite one,” Mona said through a big grin, holding the rabbit out to you.

Your heart clenched and you took the stuffed animal in your hands, brushing its floppy ears from its face, “You named it after me?”

Mona bobbed her head, holding her hands behind her back in the cutest way possible, “She’s a bunny, and bunny rhymes with Nunny.”

Gobsmacked, you sat the bunny to the side and brought the girl up to place on your bouncing leg, “It rhymes? You must have learned a lot since being here, sweet girl.”

Mona giggled, “Uh huh, he’s been teaching me himself!” In the farthest reaches of your hearing, you picked up on the sound of a doorknob twisting ever so delicately, followed by a soft creak. You reckoned it was a door just outside of the room, ignoring it for now.

With a knowing hum, you questioned the girl, “Dr. Kreizler?” Mona nodded again, situating herself closer to lay on your chest.

“That doesn’t surprise me. He’s a very caring individual–I knew he would look after you,” you didn’t entirely know why you were speaking the man’s praises, but you couldn’t help it, even with what transgressed earlier today.

Dr. Kreizler might be hard on you and most others, but he had a painfully obvious soft-spot for children, no matter the guise he might put on.

“He even plays with me. A lot of my friends say he doesn’t do that often,” Mona’s voice began to get quieter, and sneaking a glance downwards, you could see her eyelids become droopy, no doubt a warning your visit was coming to an end.

“Well, you’ll have to thank him for me, Mona. I’m extremely lucky to have gone to him when I had the chance.” Mona didn’t respond, and you could only guess she had fallen fast asleep.

Leaving her there for a moment, you glanced around the room, intently studying the crude drawings that lined the walls. When your gaze fell on the door, you noticed it was left ajar, and you faintly wondered if you had forgotten to close it before you came in.

[weemsfreak]

Midnight Miracle

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟMerry Christmas/Happy Holidays to those who celebrate! I wish you all a midnight miracle this season :) ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Jane Murdstone x Named fReader

A short Christmas story with our favorite victorian red flag ~2k words

Warnings: Talk of religion and the Anglican church (not in detail)

Wrapped in your ebony cape, you shielded yourself from the biting winter breeze that sent shivers down your spine. Usually the cold didn't bother you, but the wind was extra frigid tonight.

This Christmas Eve, the gaslit streets were adorned with an extra twinkle, buildings and shops aglow with an abundance of candles and festive decorations.

You weren't avoiding spending Christmas Eve with your family; rather, you sought a way to keep yourself occupied, and organizing your books provided a diversion.

The care of your books in your quaint store was where you spent your days. You assumed no one would venture to your store at this hour, dinner time on Christmas eve, still, you left the door unlocked. Amidst the aromatic embrace of cinnamon and pine, you immersed yourself in the quiet world of rearranging décor and organizing shelves, the dim light casting a serene ambiance.

Yet, your thoughts were consumed by a mysterious presence, a certain someone lingered in your mind despite the attempted distraction.

You couldn't stop yourself from wondering about her, you never could. Does she share your passion for books? Does she delight in the written word, perhaps poetry or prose? If so, what about? Does she spend her time writing like you?

You wondered what she could be occupied with now. You envisioned her partaking in a familial feast, while you longed for her presence, a wishful dream in the quiet corners of your mind. Your heart carried the weight of unspoken admiration for her, alas, you couldn't bring yourself to say a word to her, her cold yet enchanting demeanour both unsettled and exhilarated you.

You knew her through shared pews and hallowed hymns at the church, you observed her movements as she entered, sat, listened, prayed, sang - captivated by her every blink and breath.

She was a dark enchantress, her aesthetic seamlessly entwined with yours. Curiosity stirred as you wondered about the facets of her life that mirrored your own and the untold tales hidden behind her mysterious gaze. Perhaps she liked books, perhaps she lacked a husband, perhaps she preferred the company of women.

But alas, such thoughts remained in the realm of wishful thinking, your desires weaving through the fabric of a Christmas Eve both magical and elusive.

✧✧✧

You recollected the first time you saw her. Freshly settled in Blunderstone, you decided to venture to the Anglican church. Running late, you had no choice but to occupy a seat in the back. You leaned awkwardly to the side, nearly falling into the pews edge in an attempt to see the presider.

To your astonishment, a far superior sight unfolded—a raven-haired woman draped in black.

In the midst of prayer and hymns, you found your gaze drawn to her graceful figure, an enigmatic figure. Her dark curls were nestled beneath an even darker bonnet, adorned with silk ribbon. Instantly enchanting, her alabaster skin and, as you later discovered, azure eyes captivated your being. Despite the allure of her elegant stride and the way the corner of her mouth would occasionally turn up into a small smile, you dared not approach the subject of your admiration.

Yet, you dared to indulge in stolen glances, each soft gaze kindling a warmth within your heart.

Sundays held newfound anticipation for you, a shift from previous motives of seeking solace in the congregation.

However, on a recent Sunday, you were left devoid of joy and motivation when she failed to grace you with her presence.

✧✧✧

The ticking of the clock echoed in the shop, and before you knew it, the hands pointed to nearly 11 pm. A sense of joy and fluttering anticipation filled your stomach as thoughts of the impending midnight mass danced in your mind. The magic of Christmas enveloped the church, casting a spell that you could feel.

Heading to the back of your store, you stole a glance out the window, greeted by a gentle snowfall that blanketed the world.

You began extinguishing the candles one by one when the bell on the door rang, breaking the stillness and signalling an unexpected visitor.

You froze, who could be seeking books at this hour?

Slowly peaking through the shelves, it was far too dark to see. Creeping closer, you heard the soft shuffle of someone exploring the books.

You peered around the shelf and there she stood- the woman of your dreams, adorned in a black talma.

A gasp escaped your lips, prompting a swift retreat to the safety of the opposite shelf.

Memories of a previous encounter flooded your mind. Before one Sunday service began, you had ventured out early to pray. You stopped dead with trembling hands when you caught her kneeling with a grace that matched the intricately stained-glass windows. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on her profile, enhancing the allure that captivated you and lived in your imagination.

As she navigated the shadows of the books, you swooned, waiting with bated breath. Why had she chosen your shop? Shouldn't she be with her family, joining the congregation? Then again, you should have been with your own.

"Hello? Are you open for business?"

Her voice, a demanding melody, reverberated in the void of your shop. Your heartbeat quickened, torn between fleeing and standing your ground. This was your shop; you had to summon your strength.

Carefully, you stepped out from behind the bookshelf and surveyed the dark. When your eyes met hers, the unspoken connection between you became a silent dance, a tapestry woven with stolen glances and the shared sanctity of the church pews. You noticed the lack of warmth in her eyes and the metaphorical wall that she had up changed when she saw you. Your heart swelled with agony of unexpressed emotions and the delicate joy derived from the mere proximity of her ethereal presence. In a way, you mourned the unspoken connection, for there was no other option but to abandon it.

"Hi, I-I am open. How can I assist you?" you squeaked, attempting to mask any uncertainty or fear. The woman looked down at you, tilting her head in surprise.

"Amelia? This is your bookstore?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but your words eluded you. She spoke with less arrogance and gentler than you had known previous, but even more, she knew your name?

Of course, you were well aware of who she was, she and her brother were somewhat known in this town as the Murdstones—or, as some whispered, the Murderstones.

Perhaps she could be cruel, perhaps she was deceiving, yet she exuded a sickly sweetness, a captivating beauty in your eyes.

"Well I, yes I do" you nodded.

Jane stood tall, her eyebrows raising. You watched as a smile stretched across her face, and you couldn't help but think that this was the first time you saw her smile, a real smile; it was glorious.

"I must express my relief. I had no doubt that I would be greeted from behind the literature by a man." Jane released a small huff of laughter, and you suppressed a giggle.

"No, it's solely me" you replied with a smile.

Jane continued her exploration of the works, her long, slender fingers delicately wrapping around the spine of each one, caressing them lightly. You were entranced as she moved, perhaps she was a lover of literature after all.

Suddenly, Jane turned to you, furrowing her brows.

"Why are you open at this late hour?"

It was a valid question, why were you open at this hour? Well, for her, of course. But you pondered the same about her—why was she out so late?

"I sought fresh air after dinner, and I found myself here. I've been here for several hours" you chuckled, shrugging in embarrassment.

Jane smiled once more, averting her gaze and running her hand over the cover of a book.

"I'd love to spend several hours in a bookstore."

Silence enveloped you as she opened the book and flipped through its pages. Caught up in the enchantment of her presence, you failed to notice the book title, as your attention was wholly absorbed by the proximity of her features. She stood closer than ever before, her lips twitching as she silently mouthed the words her azure eyes scanned. The soft glow from the festive decorations cast a warm hue upon her, accentuating the grace of her features.

Jane's gaze shifted from the book to you, pulling you shamefully out of your trance.

"Do you plan to attend midnight mass?"

You nodded your head yes. "And you?"

Jane closed the book, cradling it against her chest.;

"Indeed. May I purchase this work?"

As Jane placed the book on the counter, revealing the cover and title, you paused. Running your hand over the leather, memories flooded back, reminiscent of the first time you read it. Unpopular, not for the story's shortcomings, but for its rather...unique allure—it was your favorite.

"Is this title familiar to you?" you questioned.

Jane shook her head, "I have not perused it, no."

You collected her payment and passed the book to her, long fingers grazing against yours. "Thank you."

You smiled and bowed your head, "Thank you for your purchase."

Jane's teeth shone through her smile, and genuine amusement sparkled in her eyes.

"Would you care to accompany me to the midnight mass?" she unexpectedly proposed, catching you off guard.

You blinked with surprise, was she serious?

Jane heard no reply, but she didn't budge, and you hopefully determined that she was.

✧✧✧

You and Jane embarked on a walk down the snow-covered cobblestone streets. You thought about the birth of Christ, the miracle of the season. You thought about the Anglican church and worship, you thought about Jane.

Your eyes sought out Jane's, the only eyes that captivated you, and you realized how lucky you were, for she was your sole companion in this moment. Her gaze met yours, a subtle recognition sparking between you. Jane fluttered her lashes, holding the book against her body with both hands. As you walked side by side, the snowflakes seemed to dance around you, and you longed to hold her gloved hand in yours.

As the midnight hour approached, the distant sounds of Christmas carols reached your ears. The Anglican church awaited, its doors open to those seeking solace and celebration. Together, you and Jane entered the sacred space, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the ancient walls.

As you knelt in prayer, Jane's presence beside you added an unexpected grace to the sacred ritual, it embraced you. The air was charged with a sense of belonging, a connection that transcended the unspoken desires of wishful thinking.

✧✧✧

After the mass concluded, the two of you stepped out into the crisp night air, the world adorned in a fresh blanket of snow. Jane's gaze met yours under the glow of the moon, and a shared understanding lingered between you. The magic of Christmas had intricately woven a fabric of connection, and the possibility of your souls uniting felt more real than ever.

"This selection is commendable. It happens to be my favorite," you whispered, the words carrying a warmth that defied the winter chill.

Jane's eyes gleamed with a quiet delight, and a genuine smile played on her lips. The church bells chimed, marking the arrival of Christmas Day.

"Perhaps you'd like to take another stroll?" Jane asked, her voice soft against the stillness of the night.

As you and Jane navigated the mysteries of the night, she took a chance and let go of the book with one hand, carefully reaching out for yours.

In that moment, as the world held its breath in anticipation, you realized that the enchantment of the season had not only brought you a magical Christmas Eve, but also the mysterious beauty of Jane Murdstone. It was a midnight miracle.

[antispopausandstuff]

debated on talking about this, but i figured why not, so

.

it's been on the shelf for a while, but i have another SPOP universe titled "She-Ra: The New Era" that's set approximately 150 years in the future after the war, with a new She-Ra named Seren, Adora's granddaughter and 2nd descendant.

i will admit, "The New Era" follows the same basic plotline of the original story ( OG show and reboot ), where invaders take over Etheria and bring corruption and domination to the homeland, but i want to handle it and make it my own in execution.

as to who the invaders are, they don't have anything to do with the Horde and are instead of a species i made myself, but are currently unnamed ( i'm looking through demon lore and whatnot for inspiration on name and lore ), so they're simply called 'invaders' for right now.

the plotline . . .

"The New Era" follows Seren through the path of redefining She-Ra's legacy and making a name for herself, fighting evil, discovering secrets of the past, and mending bridges long broken.

inspired by ATLA and LOK, especially in their parallel theming, Arcane, The Dragon Prince, and several other media relating to war, coming of age, past vs. present, etc.

.

the main protagonists . . .

Serenity ( Seren ) - Adora's Granddaughter, 2nd Descendant, She-Ra, 18 years old ( beginning ), She // He ( Trans Bigender ).

she is very matter-of-fact, having a tendency to come off as blunt and brusque to strangers, often unintentionally. but when people come to understand her, Seren shows she is compassionate, friendly, and protective for the innocent.

raised in a community that trained and prepared her for any future hardships, Seren is a highly-skilled fighter, seen as a prodigy of her time for how quickly she adapted to and developed her abilities, and is knowledgeable in a variety of weapons and magic. a lot of people tend not to think about it, but she is, in fact, a bookworm.

Voice Claim - Nakia ( Black Panther )

Trivia . . .

Main Color - Blue

Best Friend - Valkya ( dragon )

Favorite Pastime - Art

Favorite Food - Sweet-Spicy Glazed Ribs ( inspired by soul food )

Quirk - Nail Biter ( usually when busy or nervous )

Has a stepdad ( relationship is awkward )

-

Amlok - Hordak's Son(?), King of the Light Zone, 19 years old ( beginning ), He // They ( Trans Non-Binary ).

forever haunted by the past, Amlok strives to be better than his predecessor and remain kind, even in the face of those who heavily mistreat and abuse him. because of this, he's considered foolish and pathetic by many, even his people.

he doesn't know how to fight, at all, typically relying on words, taking the hits, or running away when in confrontations, but Amlok is determined and hardly knows when to quit, which helped him with finding his own ways to apply spells ( due to being a Horde clone // experiment, he cannot naturally have magic ).

Voice Claim - Rin Okumura ( Blue Exorcist ) ( Japanese )

Trivia . . .

Main Color - Black

Best Friend - Khaspian ( Prince of Salineas )

Favorite Pastime - Harp Playing

Favorite Food - Homemade Fruit Bread ( inspired by soul food )

Quirk - Levitates 24/7 ( very rarely on feet )

Animals are his family ( Disney Princess type beat )

-

Khaspian - Mermista's Grandchild, Prince of Salineas, 18 years old, They // He // She ( Trans Genderqueer )

they're a handful, to put it bluntly. with only one friend ( Amlok ), Khaspian drives most people away due to their patronizing attitude and constant need to be the best. but, despite the rumors, they did not form a connection with Amlok out of pity or other ambiguous reasons.

beneath all of their bravado of superiority is someone who is aimless in life and doesn't know how to be more than their title. Khaspian has no hobbies ( that they know of ) and has their life entirely centered around being future King and trying to gain magical ability, which is a very sore spot for them. needless to say, they're not a people person.

Voice Claim - Amir ( The Two Princes )

Trivia . . .

Main Color - Gold

Best Friend - Amlok ( King of the Light Zone )

Favorite Pastime - Technological Science ( they have no idea )

Favorite Food - Suki ( inspired by Thai cuisine )

Quirk - Hair-Fidgeter ( dead giveaway to nerves )

Has a twin sister ( Cora ) ( they hate each other )

-

Lunar - Glimmer's Daughter, Princess of Brightmoon, 18 years old, She // They ( Non-Binary )

adventurous, bright-eyed, and keen, Lunar desires exploring Etheria and beyond over becoming Queen, which puts her at odds with her mother quite often. like Seren, she is a prodigy, particularly in magic, but this leads her to be impulsive, a little insensitive, and seeking independence above all else.

in spite of her confident, daredevil attitude, Lunar is easily spooked and can be seen napping and // or sleeping for hours after her anxieties finally crash down on her. she's rivals with Khaspian, partially because they love to scare her.

Voice Claim - Nobara ( Jujustu Kaisen ) ( Japanese ) ( i do not support JJK )

Trivia . . .

Main Color - Pink

Best Friend - Kowl ( owlcat-looking thing )

Favorite Pastime - Sports

Favorite Food - Ma's Glazed Dango ( inspired by Japanese cuisine )

Quirk - Hummer ( struggles with quiet )

Has a little brother ( Starlight ) ( the siblings ever )

-

the main antagonists are still going through conceptual writing progress ( so are the main protagonists, but less so ), and i'm working on the lore for the invader species, so this project will take time.

important to note! i referenced cultural irl foods, but i'm most confident in referencing African American dishes, as that is half of my ethnicity and soul food is very common. another part of the reason why this project may take a lot of time is because i want to figure out how to incorporate inspirations into my work without potentially offending others or generalizing too many details.

this is a high fantasy story at the end of the day, so i don't want to put too much pressure on myself to represent 100% accurately, but i want everything to feel authentic and inspired, not like throwing the diversity sticker on the cover for views.

unlike "To Be Loved", "The New Era" will take a much longer time to be produced and online, if it even gets to that point, but i will try my best to share the process, including concepts ( writing and art ), character designs, lore, etc.

thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy all future content of my kiddos and their journeys!

[gricean-sphinx]

Seren's Superior Stories

Inquisitor Parsley

I met Inquisitor Parsley before he went by that name. He was just Parsley at the time, but it is no wonder Helm the Vigilant One, He of the Unsleeping Eyes, himself bequeathed the title of Inquisitor onto him. Indeed, Parsley’s vigilance must have caught Helm’s attention, for he could sniff a hag no matter how pristine her disguise. We met an old woman who asked for help and invited us into her home. Parsley scrunched up his nose, and before we followed her inside he held my arm and shook his head. “Hag,” he said under his breath. But when we asked how he knew, he said, “just do.” We told him to take it easy and went inside. We all sat down for tea at the old woman’s house. Parsley remained standing. When the kettle screamed, and she left the room, Parsley said, “keep your guard up, she’s a hag, I can smell her.”“That sweet old thing?” We said, “think you’re being a bit paranoid.” But he was right. After we defeated her, the clouds parted in a beam of light that washed over Parsley, “well is Inquisitor a better title than Witch-hunter?” He asked aloud. The beam dissipated, and that’s how Inquisitor Parsley earned his name.

[homestuckreplay]

EOA2 - Character Opinions

Just like at the end of act 1, I’m rounding up all the characters and how I feel about them so far, to see if my opinions change over time. There are a LOT more characters in Act 2 than in Act 1, so here’s hoping I remember them all. If I’ve forgotten anyone, let me know!

Love ♡

John Egbert – Still my most favoritest character. I love his facial expressions so much. He’s really going through it, but despite the horrors both immediate and hovering, he finds joy in the small things, which is a trait I love in both characters and real people. His excitement over making the pogo hammer is a highlight of the act, and his movie referencing so hard he breaks the box and his trying to be a paladin with the Slimer pogo as his faithful steed are excellent too. I love how John uses his very specific areas of expertise, like movies and magic and his other interests from the start of the story, to solve problems that don’t at first seem related. I love how he’s openly scared and reluctant and how he rises to challenges anyway. I love how he knows he doesn’t know things and is willing to experiment. I love how he has strong emotional responses often for no apparent reason. I just think he’s neat.

Rose Lalonde – I have so much fun reading anything Rose says. Her GameFAQs are so unintentionally hilarious but she’s also got a great intentional sense of humor, like her fake-mustache W and her trying to create the Colonelsprite. I do think she plays a little fast and loose with John’s life, expecting him to navigate combat on narrow platforms and stairs above an endless void, but I can cut her some slack because she’s having to balance her responsibility over John with trying to save her own life. All of her scenes so far have been based around her game connection with John – either actively playing the game, or trying to reconnect her laptop – and my hope for act 3 is for Rose to get a story of her own. Ideally one that involves summoning one of those sick ass creatures from the grimoire.

Zazzerpan the Learned – He is a twenty foot tall wizard, and as such, is the only Homestuck character I would describe as ‘hot’.

Wayward Vagabond – Easily the best mayor Can Town has ever had. Started off as a rude tyrant yelling at John, but it ended up just being cultural differences, and they’ve really worked on communication. I love how creative WV is, how ready they are to take enjoyment in life where they can get it, and how much they care for their non-edible possessions. They’re in this very structured, somewhat antagonistic, Sburb-mediated relationship with John, but I actually think the two of them have a lot in common, and if they could just sit down together with a big train set they’d have a blast.

Serenity – Not only is she glowing and sparkly, but she’s smart and good at taking responsibility in an emergency.

Like

Nannasprite – Ghost? Harlequin? Game construct? Loving grandmother? Nannasprite is all these things. Sure, she’s going way overboard on the cookies, but she doesn’t know John well enough to know he’s not into baked goods. And she really got him with the bucket on the door. That was a great prank. Mostly, I like her for giving me the Good Lore. Please Nannasprite, I will eat as many cookies as you want if you will infodump to me about Sburb for hours on end.

Rambunctious Crow – An absolute scamp who’s just doing what crows do. Made even cooler by the addition of a sword.

Neutral/Mixed

Dave Strider – I still think Dave sucks, just like at the end of act 1. I think his insistence on irony is exhausting and his raps are a chore to read, I hate how dismissive he is of other people’s interests and how superior he is about his own, I think he’s way too quick to resort to violence and way too slow to do any kind of self reflection. But. Having learned more about his bro and his living situation, I understand why he sucks so bad, and I don’t think he’s really to blame. I hope that Dave’s bro is kidnapped by imps soon, in Sburb or otherwise, because I think that’s the only way Dave could become someone I actually like.

Dad – I’m harsh on parents in fiction. I think Dad seems like an awesome guy, I love his Serious Business app, his preparedness re: shaving cream, his bucking of gender roles by always being in the kitchen, and his refusal to go quietly with the imps. But despite the external trappings of a father and his obvious love for John, he seems unwilling to meet John where he is and be the dad John actually wants and needs. I wish he would do more to get to know John as a person, to perhaps offer him some tasty roasted vegetables, to perhaps buy him the Nintendo DSi instead of a harlequin doll, to open up to John about his own life and to take him on some trips into Seattle. I wonder if he regrets not doing all that now that they’re separated.

Uncertain

gardenGnostic – I want to like GG, and I hope I will end up liking her, but Act 2 has built up so much mystery around GG that even though she’s had a few further pesterlogs I feel like I know less about her than I did at the end of act 1. She really plays up how she ‘can’t’ tell people things but still insists on mentioning them, which is an annoying trait, but I like her positive attitude and the fact that she’s so encouraging to her friends.

Peregrine Mendicant – I like that they are collecting mailboxes, as I am a huge fan of the postal service as an institution, but I do not have a sense of them as a character.

Mom – First off, we should eat the rich and redistribute Mom’s wealth. Her millionaire status aside, I don’t think she’s a good parent, or that exchanging passive aggressive notes with your daughter or ignoring her suicide threats is in any way healthy. But, it seems from WV: Ascend that her role in the story is bigger than raising Rose. Whether that goes towards redeeming her or makes her even worse, only time will tell.

Dislike

Sburb – I’m deeply fascinated by Sburb and I love to analyze it, and the story is making it increasingly clear that the game Sburb (2009) is just a small part of the larger entity Skaia (~4 billion BC). As a story element it’s amazing, but as a force acting on the characters it’s nothing but sinister. Willing to sacrifice the whole continent to achieve its secret goals, many of whom haven’t elected to play the game, and keeping its nature hidden from players until it’s far too late, it’s like a form of extreme gamer Darwinism allowing only its best players to survive. Its use of mind control and its impact on real life means it can’t even be fun to play, arguably the worst sin for a video game.

Sweet Bro & Hella Jeff – I would not hang out with these guys.

Midnight Crew – These four spent a hundred pages stuck in a bunker and all they were able to do was inflict violence on each other and fail to play 52 pickup. WV managed a skilful escape 32 pages after getting stuck. Case closed.

Hate

Bro – Just the worst guy imaginable. Anyone who controls a child through violence and fear, withholding food and a safe home, is irredeemable in my book and bad enough that I can’t even enjoy reading about him. There’s nothing wrong with being into puppets, or porn, or puppet porn, or even making a career out of puppet porn and ventriloquist rapping, but there is something wrong with forcing these things on people who aren’t comfortable with them and aren’t able to say no.

Lil Cal – He is bad to look at.

[deathbxnny]

HSR!Yanqing x a Lin Zhaoyu!EXP!Reader bc we can agree that OG/HI3D!Yanqing was not a good person and Zhaoyu deserved a better version.

"Lin Zhaoyu is a very serene, soothing and polite person, able to address situations without overreacting or panicking. She is obedient, listening to every order her master (Fu Hua, or in HSR Marshal Hua) asks, but despite this she still questions if those corrupted (Honkai in OG, Mara in HSR) can have mercy. She is also kind, buying gifts for her fellow peers, and helping others even though she has no reason to help them at all." <– Her personality ^^

-----♡

A/N: Admittedly, I barely remember that part of the story arc, because it's been a very long time since I've gone through it. So I'm very thankful for your description! And I also thank you for the request!<33

Content: Fluff, established relationship, mentions of battle/fights, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!

((Not fully proofread))

-----♡

Yanqing was always so impressed with everything you did. You handled everything with care and peace, never once losing your composure. He always admired to be more like you, even if you told him that there was no need. You fell in love with him for who he was and didn't want him to change, which just made him appreciate you more.

You always followed your given orders, always followed the rules. You were so different than him and yet also fit him so perfectly. You two completed eachother in the best ways possible, something many people saw and complimented you two on. You kept him in check and out of trouble, whilst he reminded you to take more breaks and have fun every now and then.

He especially respects your skills and morals on the battlefield. He loves how strong, yet honourable you are. You are merciful to even your enemies, a level of inner peace and serenity Yanqing could only ever dream of reaching. And so, he always supported and agreed with your decisions and opinions, even going as far as defending them to your superiors. You were always right to him, how could you not be?

Yanqing is so thankful, whenever you get him a gift and it usually being a rare sword he wanted to have so badly. He'd return the favour by practically spoiling you with his allowance. He doesn't care, if he has no money by the end of it. In his mind, it's worth it, if it's you. You're always so willing to help him out with everything, even with training. He doesn't know what he has done in life to deserve such a kind and peaceful soul like you, but he is definitely never losing you either.

-----♡

A/N: I hope this was okay! Thank you again for the request!<33

[jumbled-messy-confused]

The Dusk of a Long Day

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

A leader’s fragile recovery unveils the depth of his people’s devotion. Amidst heartfelt reunions and tender care, the bonds of loyalty and affection are poignantly revealed. Resilience, camaraderie, and unspoken emotions define a journey towards healing.

Notes:

While this story can stand on its own, I highly recommend reading “Bearing the Burden” first for a deeper understanding and richer context. (Warning: This story is cheesy and pointless, but I wrote it anyway. And I have no regrets. 😆 )

The dusk of a long day settled over the Little Palace, casting a serene glow on the weary faces of the Grisha as they returned from their laborious task. They had spent the day constructing a makeshift bridge to mend the lifeline of their community. Residents of Os Alta had also lent their aid, and both Grisha and townsfolk, their hands and hearts working in unison, had been able to restore a semblance of normalcy after the disaster.

Ivan, whose dedication to General Kirigan had kept him by the injured man’s side throughout the night, had reluctantly torn himself away at dawn to oversee the efforts. And although the Durasts had taken the lead with their expertise in construction, it was Ivan who had initiated and coordinated the entire operation, seeing it as his duty as Kirigan’s second-in-command. He knew that the General would never have left the residents of Os Alta to face such a task alone, especially since, although the Tsar and his soldiers might have eventually managed it, the Grisha were far better suited to take charge.  His mind, however, had remained with Kirigan, replaying the harrowing moments of his collapse and the horrific helplessness he had felt while fighting to save his leader’s life over and over again. Kirigan had not regained consciousness throughout the night, and although Ivan knew he was out of immediate danger, the entire day had been a blur of anxiety and tension for him. The exhaustion from the previous night weighed heavily on him, making it difficult to focus on the task at hand; all he really wanted was to return to the infirmary to check on his superior.

Now, as the evening sun wrapped the Inner Court of the Little Palace in its warm embrace, the weary Grisha began to unsaddle their horses, their movements slow and heavy with exhaustion. The atmosphere was quiet, almost somber, as the events of the past two days weighed heavily on them. The worry for Kirigan still hung over them all like a dark cloud, sapping their energy and spirits.

Yet, just as Ivan was handing the reins of his horse to a stable attendant, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Pausing mid-action, he looked up in disbelief: General Kirigan and Alina had entered the courtyard. The sight of them was not only completely unexpected but downright extraordinary.

The petite woman had looped the General’s arm over her shoulder and held his waist, steadying him as they moved together with careful steps. Kirigan’s appearance was a stark contrast to the commanding figure they were accustomed to. Clad only in the soft, simple clothes of the infirmary, his tall and inherently slender form was even more pronounced. The absence of his customary layers of Kefta and tunics revealed a delicacy that was usually hidden, his lean physique now starkly apparent. His face was pale, the kind of white that spoke of blood loss and bed rest, casting him in an almost otherworldly light. The General’s usual aura of invincibility had been replaced by a fragility that stirred a protective instinct in Ivan and all who beheld him; this man, who had always seemed larger than life, now walked among them with a vulnerability that was both jarring and endearing. Yet, the intensity in his eyes was undiminished, the same fierce determination that had always been his hallmark.

Having been shaken to their core twenty-four hours earlier, witnessing Kirigan’s harrowing battle with death, the Grisha watched his unsteady yet determined movements in silent astonishment, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and quiet joy. For a moment, they simply stood there, absorbing the sight before them, letting the reality of his appearance sink in. Then, one after the other, they approached him; not in a rush, but with a gentle eagerness, each expressing in their own way the depth of their gladness at seeing him on the mend. Their faces were alight with a happiness that had seemed so unimaginable a day before - and that was the moment Ivan realized that Kirigan had made a conscious decision to come to the courtyard. Despite his weakened state, his primary concern was, as always, the well-being of his people. He knew his presence would help alleviate their worries; this was a deliberate act to comfort them after the unease he had caused. And his plan worked perfectly. However, there was one thing he had not foreseen.

Kirigan, for all his intelligence and strategic brilliance, seemed unprepared for the depth of emotion that met him. The smiles, the nods, the quiet words of encouragement—while receiving them, there was a sense of wonder in his eyes, as if he were seeing his people for the first time.

Ivan sighed. As their General, Kirigan bore the weight of command, the relentless burden of impossible choices that carved chasms between duty and humanity. Ivan understood the solitude that accompanied such a role: the sleepless nights and the constant choices that tore at one’s soul. Kirigan, respected and more often than not even feared, had surely always been aware of the regard of his Grisha. But here, in this quiet courtyard, where smiles bloomed and hands reached out, he discovered a kinship that transcended mere duty. It was a heartfelt connection, an understanding that he was truly valued and cherished by those around him.

And perhaps, Ivan mused, Kirigan had needed this revelation. For he gave tirelessly to his people, day after day, yet obviously hadn’t fully grasped how deeply they recognized and appreciated his unwavering commitment. The weight of responsibility often obscured such truths, leaving those in charge isolated in their decisions. But now, surrounded by his Grisha, Kirigan obviously realized that their loyalty was intertwined with deep affection; a truth that had always been present but had apparently just now become unmistakably clear to him. Ivan hoped that Kirigan now finally understood that he belonged, and that this realization would help him feel less alone in his burdens.

After a few minutes, the interactions began to take their toll; Kirigan’s strength started to wane. Ivan noticed that while the General still smiled warmly, his energy was fading, and he grew quieter and paler. He could also sense an increase in his heartbeat, indicating how it became harder for him to stay upright. Ivan considered discreetly alerting Alina to Kirigan’s exhaustion, but the Sun Summoner, ever vigilant, had picked up on his growing fatigue as well. With an apologetic smile, she gently guided her charge away from his people and led him toward a nearby bench. Ivan’s fellow Grisha immediately stepped back, giving the injured man the space he needed. Only two remained nearby, clearly ready to assist if necessary. But that wasn’t needed; Alina had everything under control. He noticed the subtle tightening of her grip around Kirigan’s narrow waist, a silent promise to hold him steady should his strength falter. The setting sun cast a warm glow on her face, highlighting the determination etched into her features; her gaze was fixed ahead, yet there was a tenderness in her eyes that spoke volumes of her concern and steadfast devotion. As they reached the bench, Alina and Kirigan settled against the wall of the Little Palace, basking in the remnants of the day’s light. Kirigan leaned back against the wall, the weariness from yesterday’s ordeal was evident in the way his body sagged. His eyes closed for a few precious moments of rest. Alina, looking weary herself, leaned gently against him, mindful of his injured chest. But he drew her close, signalling that her proximity brought no pain, only comfort. He rested his head against hers, both of them savouring the warmth of the sun.

The Grisha looked on, their spirits buoyed by the tender scene, a beautiful testament to the healing power of closeness and care.

After a few minutes, as the sun dipped below the courtyard walls and the evening chill began to settle, Alina whispered to Kirigan that it was time to return indoors. The General, who had still been resting with his eyes closed, slowly opened them at her words. His weariness was almost palpable when he tried to straighten up and, after taking a deep breath, attempted to rise. But his strength betrayed him—a rare moment of helplessness on display. Ivan was at his side in an instant.

Kirigan looked up at him, exhaustion etched into his features. “It seems, I have to be a burden again, old friend,” he murmured, his voice tinged with frustration and fatigue.

Ivan knelt beside him, his eyes filled with unshakable determination. He placed his hand on Kirigan’s forearm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You could never be a burden, General,” he insisted gently but resolutely. “I am here for you. Always.” With Alina on one side and Ivan on the other, they carefully helped Kirigan to his feet. They draped his arms over their shoulders and encircled his waist, providing the strong support he needed as they made their way back to the infirmary. Kirigan’s steps were now slow and labored, each movement a testament to his sheer willpower. His face, though set in a determined expression, could not hide the pain that flickered more and more in his eyes. Ivan’s heart ached with concern, yet he couldn’t help but admire Kirigan’s resilience. Anyone else would likely still be confined to bed, unable to even rise, but here was their General, pushing through his exhaustion and discomfort to walk among his people, to reassure them.

As they entered the infirmary, Ivan and Alina guided Kirigan straight to his cot, helping him to sit down. At this point, the extent of his debilitated state became evident; the injured man, by now trembling with exhaustion and pain, couldn’t manage to lie down by himself. Without a word, Ivan gently clasped Kirigan’s shoulders and carefully lowered his upper body onto the pillows. At the same time, Alina supported his legs, cautiously raising them onto the bed. Kirigan, too weak to resist, simply gave in to their assistance. His eyes fluttered shut, and with a weary exhale, his body went completely limp. His head lolled back, and he became a dead weight in their grasp. It looked as if he had lost consciousness there and then.

Alina’s worry was palpable, but Ivan, ever attuned to Kirigan’s heartbeat, was quite sure this was not a critical incident; the General was simply overwhelmed by exhaustion. Yet, before he could assuage her concerns, a pair of healers, who had been standing by patiently, approached them. “We’re glad to see the General has decided to grace us with his presence again,” one of them remarked with a wry smile. Her tone, however, quickly shifted from one of loving exasperation to genuine concern. “Now we need to make sure he’s stable after this unexpectedly long walk and quite sudden collapse,” she added softly.

Ivan couldn’t help but let out an exhausted, dry sigh. “Only Kirigan could nearly die one day and have the healers worried about an extended stroll the next.” The female healer smiled warmly at his comment. “He is truly one of a kind. But we wouldn’t have him any other way, would we?” Ivan nodded, not able to hide a mixture of affection and concern in his voice. “No, we wouldn’t.” With that, the healers began their examination.

The female healer carefully pushed Kirigan’s shirt up, exposing his lean torso. With practiced precision, she placed her hands on the General’s chest, softly palpating different areas and letting her magic flow. She took several minutes to assess the state of his internal injuries and ensure there was no fresh bleeding. Then she moved to Kirigan’s abdomen, pressing gently on his flat stomach, methodically probing every part to identify any signs of pain or discomfort, moving her hands in intricate sigils. She was thorough, ensuring that no area was left unchecked. As she did so, it became evident that her magic was not only assessing but also alleviating his pain. The tension around Kirigan’s eyes began to ease, the tight lines of discomfort softening visibly. Simultaneously, the male healer encompassed Kirigan’s flanks, holding them for several moments, his hands moving in sync with Kirigan’s breaths. Since the devastating injuries from the previous day had caused a respiratory arrest, the healer spent considerable time monitoring Kirigan’s chest movements, ensuring they were steady and his lungs were functioning properly. Finally, the healers exchanged nods of approval, their faces lighting up with optimism. “His progress is extraordinary,” the male healer announced, turning to Ivan and Alina. “He’s recovering at an impressive pace. He still needs time, of course, but he will achieve in a fortnight what would take others at least a month.”

Meanwhile, the female healer had carefully pulled Kirigan’s shirt back down and looked up, satisfied with their examination. “Would you like us to settle him in, or would you prefer to do it yourselves?” she kindly asked. Ivan quickly responded, “We’ll take care of it.” The healers nodded in understanding, their expressions affectionate and approving. They exchanged a few final murmurs before quietly retreating to give Ivan and Alina space.

The both of them wasted no time, and immediately stepped back to the bed. Ivan meticulously adjusted the pillows under Kirigan’s upper body, ensuring the resting man was comfortable while Alina draped a plush, thick blanket over his slender form, carefully tucking it around him to keep him warm. Kirigan let out a quiet sigh at that and visibly relaxed; the warmth seemed to do him good. His features softened in a way that made him look almost youthful. At the sight, a tender smile spread across Alinas face.

By the time they finished, Kirigan was in a deep sleep, his breathing steady and even; yet, the sight of the most powerful Grisha Ivan knew, so utterly defeated by exhaustion, was both alarming and telling. It spoke volumes about his current state and the severity of what he had endured. But it also highlighted his incredible strength and resilience - it was astonishing that he had managed to walk outside just minutes ago.

However, Ivan felt a pang of sorrow, realizing that once again, he had failed to notice how badly Kirigan was struggling, as he had succeeded to conceal the extent of his condition too long too well, just like the day before.

The steady rise and fall of Kirigan’s chest drew Ivan away from his dark thoughts. For a few minutes, he simply stood there, observing the soothing motion. The sight was a stark contrast to the previous night, and it brought a sense of relief that Ivan hadn’t felt in hours. The gentle rhythm of Kirigan’s breathing was almost hypnotic, pulling Ivan deeper into his own fatigue.

“You should rest now.” Alina’s voice startled him out of his trance. She had taken a seat by Kirigan’s side and gently placed her hand on top of the blanket, near his shoulder. It was clear she intended to stay the night. She looked up at Ivan, her eyes still filled with concern, despite the healers having just confirmed that Kirigan was on the mend. “I only managed to get some sleep last night because I knew you were here with him and would alert me if anything happened,” she continued. “This time, it’s my turn. I promise to let you know if anything changes.” Ivan, despite knowing better, considered staying by Kirigan’s side nonetheless, but Alina wasn’t finished. “It’s enough that one of us doesn’t know when to take care of their own needs,” she insisted softly, her voice tinged with both tenderness and sadness. Her gaze briefly flickered to the resting man before returning to Ivan. In that moment, he realized her concern was directed at him. And he had to admit she was right. He was exhausted. With a sigh, he nodded to her and, after a final, lingering look at the peacefully sleeping Kirigan, quietly exited the infirmary.

Outside, the Grisha were still gathered in the courtyard, their faces filled with anticipation. They had clearly been waiting for Ivan, their expressions a mix of hope and lingering concern. The atmosphere had noticeably relaxed since Kirigan’s appearance, but they had also seen him falter as he tried to return inside, and were now anxiously awaiting Ivan’s update.

Ivan addressed them, his voice steady and calm. “The healers are very pleased with General Kirigan’s progress. It will take several days, but he will make a full recovery. He fell asleep quickly and is resting now.”

The news brought another wave of relief over the group. Smiles spread across their faces, and murmurs of gratitude and joy filled the air. Some nodded to each other, while others clasped hands or patted shoulders in silent celebration. The last remnants of tension that had gripped them since the incident began to melt away, replaced by a quiet, collective happiness.

Slowly, the Grisha began to disperse, making their way towards their quarters. Ivan watched them go, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. He, too, turned to head to his own room. As he walked, he felt a renewed sense of hope, confident that the General’s improving condition would allow them all to rest easier tonight.

[lordkingsmith]

14) who we are by the waves of time; DC media story. Third in a trilogy. It’s about Orm Marius, Harley’s brother Barry, and Cisco. It is very very much an au lol

Here’s a little snippet :) I need to finish it and get it up lol.

Arthur had a long fuse but as Marius knew very well, it could and would run out. And when it did, the snarky, fairly easy going but intimidating gentle giant vanished. It was then people tended to see exactly how much of a king he really was.

Marius for his part, and it looked like David as well, were quite enjoying not being on the receiving end of the righteous fury for once. Vulko, however, was not so lucky.

“So how did you figure this out?” David asked as Arthur continued rounding on an increasingly frayed Vulko. Calmly, for the most part, but with his patented icy point fury.

“He kept trying to push me which I found rather suspicious, however mostly it was Barry and Cisco. They made a comment some days ago when they were with me during a meeting, that made me wonder. So I went to see Hila a week ago.” It wasn’t entirely wrong nor entirely a lie. Barry’s commentary had made Marius simply more sure it was Vulko.

“And Hila just…told you?”

“Of course not. I got her very very angry first.”

Hyde looked at him with some apprehension. “….how?”

Marius waved him off, feigning flippancy.

“Oh don’t worry it wasn’t anything to do with you or your family or mine. I wouldn’t use any of you as bait or otherwise.” Not anymore and he was proud of himself for the self restraint. David just continued looking at him however so with a faint sigh he elaborated.

“I threatened her with letting Lex look at her since she’s an exile as I am and technically on my turf. I have rights over her fate.”

“That worked?”

“I kept escalating it until she started screaming at me. We didn’t get quite to genetic hybrid child, but we did get as far as DNA in general.” He paused thoughtfully for dramatic effect. “I thought she’d break just at the mention of letting a human study our biology through her. Unfortunately I had to continue to the logical conclusion when she didn’t.”

Arthur grimaced and Hyde just shook his head “Glad he was good for something in that regard.” Hyde responded dryly. “Thanks for stepping in with this. You didn’t have to.”

“Yes I did.” For reasons he couldn’t say but that didn’t really matter, there were other reasons too. “Consider it an early wedding gift. You and Arthur hardly deserve starting matrimony with people trying to take him off the throne in the worst ways.”

Hyde shook his head again, sighing. “Right…thanks?”

“Don’t worry, that’s not a threat.” He smiled at David before getting up to stop Arthur from murder. “Brother” he started calmly though a little strained as he put his bandaged arms up to block the attack from Arthur on a worryingly calm Vulko. “Don’t prove your enemies right.”

It was only his slightly superior strength as a full Atlantean that kept Arthur from finishing his swing to attack Vulko braced and cornered against the wall. It still took effort, though. It also hurt. He was fairly sure it had rebroken something.

“Arthur” Marius hissed when he tried to get around him to attack Vulko again. “He’s not worth even a quarter of the effort he gave to kill you.” His eyes flicked to the interested Vulko. “He’s not worth it.” He said again, quietly, firmly. “Trust me, from experience, don’t even bother trying.”

Arthur’s eyes refocused from pure rage and betrayal, focused on Marius, shifted to grief and exhaustion. But it was still several moments after that before Arthur pulled away and retreated from the situation.

I’ll also toss in a little something from another wip lol. This one is Lost Girls and Labyrinths. Think labyrinth meets Peter Pan.

Oddly when she observed at it more closely it was a clover flower standing serenely purple above the leaves. Notably, a leaf with one trisection ripped into three tatters. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but when she saw it she couldn’t stop her eye from going to it. Drawn to the leaf as though it were a tragedy.

“Poor thing.” She murmured.

“What’s a poor thing?”

“Hm?” She raised an eyrbrow over at Rose and shrugged with a small smile. “Nothing, really. A flower, I think it broke in the wind or something. Poor thing.”

Rose shook her head with a laugh. “You’re weird you know that?” She did but it always stung when someone said so. Until the did she always hoped that this time she was doing well. Wasn’t abnormal at all. “I love that about you.”

People always said so but it still didn’t them from telling her she was weird. She just laughed, used to hiding the hurt. “It’s why we get along!”

This was partly why she was getting annoyed with them both. They kept hurting on accident and she didn’t have the heart to tell them the comments were painful because they didn’t have any reason to be painful. They were comments everyone said to everyone else, and they were compliments. She hardly understood herself why she found them so painful.

It just wasn’t worth telling them, but it was eating at her all the same.

“Ready to get going?” She asked brightly as Helen walked over to meet them, instead of asking them not to call her weird. For the dozenth time. “Or do you gals want to walk around and stretch our legs more?”

“Stretching doesn’t sound like a bad idea, at least for a few minutes” Rose mused. “We’ve got, what, two more hours? Might be a good idea. We won’t be able to really walk around until the evening anyway.”

Wen nodded. It wouldn’t put them off schedule, as long as nothing happened. She looked back to the clover patch, but amongst the crowd of other leaves she couldn’t see the clover with the ripped leaf at all. She knew it was there, of course, but among all the leaves and stems in the glittering green, she couldn’t find it at all.

A pity, it would have been good to take more photos of.

[typically-untypical]

The Model

AU: College, Artists

CW: Non descriptive nudity

WC: 1,550

Date: 12/12/2023

Honestly, when Roman signed up to be a nude model, he assumed it was going to be an ego boost, people staring at his form, drawing his superior figure. He didn't expect it to be surprisingly grounding. The artists didn't look at a whole person. He was just a thing to be drawn. After one of the sessions he had actually asked about their technique and they explained what they saw. Instead of seeing him as a full person he was a set of muscles. He was a shadow in the light. He was more of himself, and less. Roman went from thinking he was going to be their new star to realizing most of them didn't even see him as a human, at least not when his clothes were off and it was sobering and interesting. However, that moment came with another. Each artist saw him differently and thus, he started looking at the artists. Each of them had their own quirks, their own stories and there was an intertwined story that caught his attention. 

Two times a week, for about an hour each, Roman would let his eyes linger on the two artists in the back. He focused on their dynamic on the way the both weakened and strengthened each other. He had yet to learn either of their names, all he knew was one of them had purple fringe that he pinned up when he drew, and the other had beautifully long blonde hair that he meticulously tied back with two non art pencils. Roman had taken to calling them purple and blonde.

Purple was intense when he sketched, brow furrowed and lip held tightly between his lips. He second guessed every line and movement. Blonde didn't help that anxiety. Blonde liked to tease Purple, pointing out his mistakes and flaws until Purple eventually snapped at him and jabbed him with a pencil. That normally caused the lead to break, which would cause Purple to swear and Blonde would provide a new pencil that Purple would begrudgingly take. Their hands lingered for a moment too long and it made Roman's mind wander. 

When Blonde sketched, he looked confident in every stroke of his pencil, every movement of his hand but their personalities seemed to swap when it came time to paint. Once brushes were on canvas, Purple would take in a deep breath and there would suddenly be an intense clarity in his eyes. He didn't second guess colors, strokes, or anything of that nature. Honestly, Purple almost looked serene when he was painting. Blonde, however, shook with nervousness, hiding behind a facade of confidence that Roman had started decoding the longer he stared at the two of them. Blonde had faith in his ability to draw but not to paint. Purple wanted his drawings to be perfect, but painting was his escape.

Roman was remiss to admit that his heart started to flutter for the both of them. He had always been a romantic, and watching two people, so desperately involved and in love with their craft, it was intoxicating. There was one major problem.

He was fairly sure Purple and Blonde were dating. If he had only ever seen them in the art class, he wouldn't have guessed. He would have honestly assumed there was a pining but neither had made the first move. However, he had seen them around campus a few times at this point and they were almost always joined at the hip. Still, Roman hoped that one, if not both, were interested. He just hadn't expected to get his answer in the library. Roman had seen the two of them making out in the stacks of books, hidden by the pages rarely checked out at the beginning of the semester. He wasn't even supposed to be there that day, but he had been looking for his brother and there was Blonde, using one of the library step stools to be the same height as Purple, pinning him to the bookshelf kissing him like it was the last thing the two of them would ever do together. Roman gawked, eyes stuck on them for a few moments. He was frozen in place, mouth open as he watched something he knew wasn't for him. He couldn't look away, until purple's eyes were on him. It was like lightening hitting him. Roman turned and walked out of the library, feet speeding him away from the crowded courtyard and the busy hallways. He weaved and maneuvered, working on autopilot until he stood in front of the locked theater. They had finished the fall play a few weeks before he started modeling, it had just been something to give him a bit cash and something fun in between plays. Why did he... how did he fall in love? He didn't know them. Sure he had seen their personalities through their work but he didn't know them. Obviously he didn't because he didn't know they were dating.

"Fuck, I'm so stupid," He said, putting his head in his hands as he slid down the door, letting out a heavy sigh.

"Well it's a good thing I like them dumb." There was a smooth voice that spoke over Roman, two shined black shoes standing in front of him and Roman was ready to turn his embarrassment into anger when his mouth snapped shut. Blonde was standing in front of him, that insufferable smirk on his face. It was the same one he would show purple before handing him a new pencil. Roman wasn't going to be a homewrecker.

"And why is that a good thing? I don't think I ever said anything about liking you."

"Feisty," Blonde smirked. "You're right, I am just making assumptions based on the way you were looking at Virgil and I but I could be wrong." He held out his hand for Roman. "Tell me, am I wrong?"

No, he wasn't wrong but that didn't mean this man had to know that. Roman was about to open his mouth, already standing up and disregarding Blonde's hand when Purple came walking down the hall, no, not Purple, Virgil.

"Jay, why the fuck do you walk so fast?" He was out of breath. "Hey, sorry about him... about that." He was blushing just a bit. It was so minimal Roman could have excused it as the weather, or as Virgil over exerting himself, but maybe Roman was hoping, just a bit, that Virgil was blushing for him.

"You're the model in our class, right?"

"Yes, that was me, and it's quite alright, about um... I shouldn't have been looking. It wasn't very gentlemanly of me."

"Oh, you are the model," Janus said, "I almost didn't recognize you with all of your clothes on."

"Janus," Virgil admonished. "He's just being an asshole. Sorry about him, again."

Roman nodded, unsure of where to go from here, but he was still sitting on the floor so he figured he'd at least stand. Taking Jay's hand he pulled himself up. There was a bit of an awkward silence between the three of them and Roman hated silence. "Not to change the subject but what are the two of you doing here? If you would like to tell me off I'm happy to apologize but otherwise, I am a bit confused."

The two of them looked at each other having a conversation without words before they turned back to Roman. 

"Honestly," Janus started, "I enjoy a good voyeur, and you were so polite. Virgil on the other hand wanted to make sure you didn't get the wrong idea. We are polyamorous after all."

"Yeah, we aren't mad or anything. It was a bit embarrassing but... you're good looking, and we're open. So... damn it, I wasn't going to say anything until the last day of class." He was blushing up a storm now and Roman felt his heart jump. "Look, we don't know anything about each other, but do you want to get coffee or something? Like, with me, or with both of us, or even just with Janus. Whatever you're interested in. Cuz, I don't know, it might be cool to get to know you or something like that."

"Yes," Roman said, realizing he was still holding Janus' hand and quickly pulling it away. "Yes, I would enjoy having coffee with the both of you, and like a gentleman, I would be happy to pay."

"Nah, I asked. I'll pay. You can pay for dinner," Virgil's voice was a bit more confident now and Roman smiled, bowing the best he could. 

"I would be happy to take the both of you out to dinner to get to know you better."

"Good," Janus said, grabbing Roman's hand and slipping a pen out of his back pocket. "Text us with the details."

He wrote his name with the flourish of a heart and Roman felt his own heart skip another beat.

"Come on, Cassanova," Virgil rolled his eyes, grabbing Janus and pulling him away. "See you later." He waved to Roman and Roman waved back before looking down at his hand. 

A date. He had a date with both of them!

A smile spread along his face. Becoming a nude model was the best choice he had made in a while.

@tsspromptmonth

[zapreportsblog]

A Fateful Encounter Turnt Into A Hearts Desire

➥ summary: Alexandra Trese is doing her job when she comes across such an enchanting beauty

➥ a/n: originally was not going to start writing for this fandom as of yet but a lovely commenter of mine (didn’t tag them because I was unsure if they were alright with that) wanted to see some Trese fandom stories on my page. So here I go, do leave feedback, it’s always appreciated :)

The moon hung high in the night sky, casting an eerie glow over the darkened streets of Manila. Alexandra Trese patrolled the city as she always did, vigilant against the supernatural threats that lurked in the shadows. On this particular night, her senses tingled with an unfamiliar presence, drawing her towards an old, abandoned mansion.

As she approached the mansion, Alexandra noticed an ethereal figure standing in the moonlight. It was a woman of captivating beauty, with long, flowing hair and eyes that sparkled like stars. Intrigued, Alexandra decided to investigate further, approaching the mysterious woman cautiously.

"Hello," Alexandra greeted with a hint of curiosity. "Are you lost?"

The woman turned to face Alexandra, a warm smile gracing her lips. "Oh, not at all," she replied, her voice soft and melodious. "I come here often to feel the night's embrace. It's quite comforting, don't you think?"

"I suppose it can be," Alexandra replied, intrigued by the woman's serene demeanor. "I'm Alexandra, by the way, Alexandra Trese."

"It's nice to meet your acquaintance, Alexandra Trese," the woman replied with a polite nod. "My father speaks highly of what you've done for the realm."

A flicker of surprise crossed Alexandra's face. "Your father? How does he know me?"

"He is the king of the vampire kingdom clan," the woman revealed, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "And I am Princess (Y/n) of the same kingdom."

Alexandra's eyes widened in astonishment as the revelation sank in. She had unknowingly been chatting with royalty, not just any royalty, but the princess of the vampire clan. Despite the revelation, (Y/n) didn't carry herself with an air of superiority; instead, she seemed genuinely interested in their conversation.

"I... I had no idea," Alexandra stammered, feeling a mix of embarrassment and awe. "I apologize if I seemed disrespectful."

"No need to apologize," (Y/n) reassured her with a gentle smile. "I prefer to be treated as any other person. Titles can be burdensome at times."

"You have a point," Alexandra agreed, feeling more at ease with (Y/n) now that the formalities were set aside. "It's just that meeting someone like you is quite extraordinary. Vampires are a rare sight in these parts, especially one of royal blood."

(Y/n) chuckled softly. "I suppose it's not every day that you encounter a vampire princess on the streets of Manila. But I find this city fascinating, and I often venture out of the castle to explore its hidden corners."

"I'm glad you find the city intriguing," Alexandra replied, a smile playing on her lips. "It's my duty to protect it, after all."

"I've heard stories about your bravery and your dedication to keeping this city safe," (Y/n) said, her admiration evident. "It's an honor to meet the woman who protects my father's realm."

The two continued to chat for hours, exchanging stories and learning about each other's worlds. Alexandra found herself drawn to (Y/n)'s genuine curiosity and kindness. The princess, in turn, was captivated by Alexandra's unwavering determination and sense of justice.

As the night wore on, (Y/n) expressed her desire to explore more of Manila's hidden gems, and Alexandra offered to show her around. Together, they wandered through the city's dark alleys and ancient temples, creating memories that would stay with them forever.

In that chance encounter, Alexandra Trese and Princess (Y/n) found an unexpected connection, one that transcended their different worlds. Little did they know that this meeting would be the beginning of an extraordinary journey, one filled with love, friendship, and the intertwining of their destinies in ways neither could have imagined.

•••

The entrance to the vampire castle was a formidable sight, guarded by imposing sentinels with eyes that glowed like hot embers in the darkness. Alexandra took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task ahead, as she was ushered inside by the stoic guards. The walls of the castle were adorned with ancient tapestries depicting the history of the vampire clan, and the corridors echoed with the whispers of centuries gone by.

Finally, Alexandra stood before the towering doors of the throne room, heart pounding loudly in her chest. She had faced countless supernatural threats, but none of them compared to the anxiety she felt now. Pushing the doors open, she stepped inside, her eyes meeting those of the vampire clan king - a regal figure seated upon a grand throne, exuding an aura of power and wisdom.

"Alexandra Trese," the king's voice was deep and resonant, carrying an air of authority. "What brings the city's protector to my domain?"

Respecting the customs of the supernatural world, Alexandra bowed respectfully before the king. "Your Majesty," she began, "I come before you with a request of utmost importance."

The king raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Alexandra's formality. "Speak, then. What is it that you seek?"

Taking a deep breath, Alexandra lifted her gaze and met the king's piercing eyes. "Your daughter, (Y/N),” she said, her voice steady despite the nerves. "I have developed feelings for her, feelings that go beyond mere admiration. I would like to ask for your permission to court her."

Silence filled the throne room as the vampire king studied Alexandra. His face was unreadable, and she couldn't help but feel a mix of hope and dread. Courtship between humans and vampires was rare and often frowned upon, but Alexandra couldn't deny what she felt for (Y/N).

At last, the king spoke, his voice measured. "You are the protector of this city, Alexandra. Your duty is to safeguard its inhabitants from the supernatural threats that lurk in the shadows. A relationship with my daughter could be seen as a conflict of interest."

Alexandra nodded, understanding the king's concerns. "I assure you, Your Majesty, that my duty to protect this city will never waver. My feelings for (Y/N) will not compromise my role as a protector."

The king observed Alexandra for a moment longer before a faint smile touched his lips. "Your devotion to your duty is evident, and it pleases me," he said. "But I must also consider my daughter's happiness. (Y/N) has spoken of you, and I can see that you hold a special place in her heart as well."

Hope surged within Alexandra as she listened to the king's words. "I would never do anything to bring harm to (Y/N),”she vowed. "I only wish to be with her, to cherish and protect her, just as I do for this city."

The king's expression softened, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Very well, Alexandra Trese. You have my permission to court my daughter, but know that if you betray her trust or put her in any danger, there will be consequences beyond your imagination."

"I understand, Your Majesty," Alexandra replied, feeling the weight of his words.

With the king's blessing, Alexandra felt a sense of relief and joy like she had never experienced before. She thanked the king sincerely before taking her leave from the castle, her heart light with hope for the future.

From that day on, Alexandra and (Y/N)’s courtship began discreetly, away from prying eyes. They would steal moments together in the shadows, exploring the city and each other's hearts. As their love deepened, Alexandra found herself not just enamored with the vampire princess's beauty and grace, but also enchanted by her kindness, intelligence, and compassion.

But as their romance blossomed, so did the challenges they faced. The supernatural world was not always forgiving, and there were those who opposed their relationship. Yet, Alexandra and (Y/N) stood together, facing every obstacle with unwavering determination and love.

In the heart of Manila's darkness, a forbidden love bloomed, defying the boundaries of their worlds. Alexandra Trese, the city's protector, and (Y/N), the vampire princess, found solace in each other's arms, embarking on a love story that would be etched into the city's supernatural history for all time.