#so. he has to do work to undo all that harm. to make himself still worthy of that oath without having to lean into the violence of it

[arainaizevran]

taking the time to actually write down ajax's paladin arc and how it relates to his dark urge redemption and suddenly nothing is making sense 🥲

[gayghostrights]

thinking about John Doe and the dark world as a metaphor for addiction/relapse.

How circumstance and trauma pushed him to do something he told himself he’d never do again, and how he has to live with the consequences and the memories, even though he’s working to not be that person anymore.

And how much shame he carries about the things he’s done, because even if he was pushed to do them, he still did them. To him, he still made that choice, and he has to bear the weight of that.

Thinking about 43, in particular, where the witch is trying to tell John that all he was is all he’ll ever be. That, despite the work he’s put into bettering himself, he’ll only be seen as his mistake in the eyes of some.

And it just feels really meaningful that Arthur’s love is what saved him, in this context. That being forgiven and loved unconditionally, even though he’s made mistakes and hurt people, is how he can cope with the memories of what he’s done. It’s how he can stop himself from slipping back into being someone he doesn’t want to be, even when it’s hard.

love isn’t what makes him better, but it’s what makes him want to work to be better. It doesn’t undo what he’s done but it allows him to live with it.

I just think it’s interesting to read this as an addiction narrative, because so often addicts are dismissed because they’re addicts. Regardless of how much we’ve healed or how far we’ve come, there are some people who will never see beyond our addiction and will force their perspective onto us. Some people hold no compassion for us because they think we’ve made the choice, and think that the harm that resulted from that “choice” makes us unredeemable.

and to see John receiving Arthur’s support and love despite what he’s done, or what he was pushed to do, really reflects how important support is to recovery. Arthur doesn’t absolve John of his mistakes, he doesn’t dismiss the harm he caused, but he doesn’t hold it against him. He knows John is more than what he’s been, he knows John is capable of change and a good person in spite of it, he knows John is capable of being better. Only John can do the work of becoming who he wants to be, but Arthur’s love and support makes the work a little more bearable.

[sameschmidtdiffname]

Hey I love your work so much!!

I was thinking of maybe a Mike Schmidt x reader where the reader is all like “I’m not good enough for you, I don’t deserve you” stuff and then like Mike makes it up to the reader to show them that they are more than enough 🫶

Sure, but it's gonna hurt!

Blue Sunrise

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: All is well, yet you aren't. A fact that disturbs and irritates you so, even if it shouldn't.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no use of gendered pronouns for Reader, SFW with brief mentions of smut, pre-established relationship, set during the movie but that's honestly not very relevant, hurt/comfort, Reader and Mike both have PTSD, this isn't projection, bed rotting, depression, self-loathing, night terrors/nightmares, panic attacks, sleep deprivation, mentions of medication, lack of self care, slight self-harm (scratching), breakdown, nosebleed.

Notes: *in sonic snapcube dub voice* heyyyyyyyyyyyy what's upppppppppppppp it's meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (STOP!!)

                     ▪︎◇{¤♧■♧¤}◇▪︎

6:34 A.M.

The dawn is gentle, the sky a soft blue behind the thin, cheap blinds that cover the bedroom window not that far in front of me. If I wanted, I could get up and open the window, revealing the surely beautiful and gorgeous sunrise that waits for me just outside the blinds.

But I don't. And I won't.

Birds sing gently outside, waking up and fliting about here and there. It's my favorite part of the day, quite frankly. When I can, I open the window to allow in the fresh, cool air, moist with the morning dew, unmuffling the bird's songs as I drift off to sleep, my schedule mostly in tune with Mike's for his night shift. Sometimes I manage to stay awake to greet him when he returns home. It's always nice when I do. His smile is lazy, his strides long and slow as he makes his way to the bed, peeling off his work clothes and crawling under the covers with me. Sometimes he'll press himself against me, his lips finding my neck as his hand dives between my thighs, his fingers trained on one goal as he murmurs against my skin how much he's missed me. Sometimes I wake to this.

There's a part of me that wishes he'd do this today just so I wouldn't have to think.

The lock on the front door rattles as someone attempts to insert a key into the hole. It doesn't matter how long he's lived here or how he uses those keys every morning, he still takes a moment to make sure he's using the right one, and on the first try he usually isn't. So it takes him a solid minute to unlock the door and enter the house. If we had dogs, they'd surely drive us insane from his routine. It slightly drives me insane already. But I'm technically not even supposed to be awake, so I never mention it.

When Mike finally enters the house, the first thing I hear after the satisfying break of the doors seal ringing throughout the living room is a deep sigh as Mike's backpack lands in front of the coat rack. He should be quieter about setting it down. I would be. But I think he assumes we should be so deep in sleep it really wouldn't matter, and it honestly doesn't make much noise. Just a slightly dull 'thud' against the thinly carpeted floor.

Next I can hear his car keys land in the bowl they're meant for. Again, he's a bit too loud with it all. At least, while people are sleeping. But it's not really a bother. In a way, I like it. It gives me a routine to memorize, his sounds before he'll trail to our room and come press himself against me.

The rocking recliner creeks softly as he sits in it, lazily undoing the laces on his boots before he tosses them towards the coat rack. And next he'll duck his head into the fridge I'm sure and look for the leftovers I put into a big bowl for him to warm up - which he won't, because he's a psychopath who likes cold food. - and then when my alarm goes off, he'll come to wake me up, rising from the old couch where he's very quietly reading his book while he eats and do whatever he has to do to prevent me from slipping back into sleep. He's very good at that job. Especially when he uses his tongue.

But today there's a break in the routine. Today, his footsteps are padding towards our room, the door quietly opening as he slips in. I can hear him let out a soft sigh as he tugs on his hoodie, pulling it off and then discarding of his jeans, which muffle the clack of his belt buckle as he slips them off. Left in his undershirt and boxers, he crosses the room to open the blinds and the window, letting in the fresh air and leaning against the thin windowstill for a moment. Now, I can see him.

He looks rested, a little more than he should for having just finished a night shift. I keep telling him he's going to get fired, but he always wiggles his way out of that conversation. The bags usually under his eyes aren't too deep this morning, which while problematic is relieving. His skin is pale blue from the dawns light that pours into the room. His dark curls are more thick on the top of his head, clumped together from him not brushing them after his shower. He must've used too much conditioner, because his hair also looks thicker than it usually does. The breeze blows his oversized pale blue shirt against his chest as he leans forward, allowing his eyes to close as he takes in a deep breath. It feels like an overly private moment. Like I've intruded by watching him. I don't see him like this much when he isn't alone. When he's with me or Abby, he's alert. Somewhat on guard. It's like he's watching us to make sure we're okay. He's too used to things falling apart in an instant. But when he's alone, physically or emotionally, the walls crumble away to reveal a man who enjoys peace. Who smiles softly as he bends down low, resting his chin upon his arms, letting the dawn greet him and being the supposed first in the house to greet the dawn. And I feel like a stalker for watching him. A scene that feels as if I've stolen what will now only exist deep in my mind for when I want to remember one of the few times he has truly ever looked at peace with the world. It's a scene out of a painting. As private as a prayer. I should grant him more privacy, but I don't. In a captivated and enchanted way, I can't.

I'd never tell him this, but in this moment he looks like his mother. And not in the sense of him being her son. No, based off of the few photos I've seen of her in more private, intimate instances, like when she was holding a very small Mike on her lap on his second birthday, or when Mike's father had stolen a photo during their honeymoon when she wasn't looking, Mike looks just like her. Quiet, serene, not hiding anything from anyone because there's no need. At this moment it is just him and the gentle, late winter breeze that makes my nose begin to sting. He's beautiful. Just like she was.

The moment comes to an end, and now it is just a moment that exists only within my mind as his eyes open. The blue dawn brings out the green in his eyes that's usually hidden by artificial light that overpowers the amber, turning them mostly black in some instances. That's the color I thought they were until I saw him in proper daylight. His long lashes bat once, twice in an almost sleepy manner as he shifts his focus, now turning his head to look at me. I shut my eyes quickly, my canines biting into my tongue to force myself to keep a straight face. But it's too late. We made eye contact, even if it was only for a second, and now he knows I'm awake.

"Sweetheart?" He whispers softly, his voice low and slightly gravelly in the way it always is. His 's' and 't's just a tad sharp, clear as always when he speaks. I hear the floor groan as he pads towards me.

I don't speak. I'm not supposed to be awake. I should be asleep, he would rather I was asleep. I tried to be asleep.

He stops in front of me, I can hear the floor groan louder as he crouches in front of me. He's trying to decide if I'm awake or not, if maybe he'd been tricked into thinking we made eye contact. But something convinces him he hasn't, and the bed sinks as he places a hand upon the mattress to support his weight while he kisses my temple.

"Hi," he whispers against my skin, placing another kiss just above the curve of my brow. "Good morning." He places another kiss on the space between my brows, his lips now trailing up to the middle of my forehead. "You look so pretty like this."

Like what? My skin shining with oil, my nose dirty, my body heavy from not having moved?

Something makes him pause when his lips find my cheek. He keeps his lips pressed against my skin for a moment before he pulls away, licking his lips as he looks closer at me.

"Hey," he whispers softly, a finger finding my chin. "Open your eyes."

I don't want to. When I do he'll instantly know what I've been doing, and I don't want to handle it. I don't want to deal with it.

His hand slips under my head, between my cheek and my pillow.

"Sweetheart, your pillow's wet," he says in quiet surprise. "Open your eyes, talk to me."

Hesitatingly, I obey. Cracking my eyes open and trying not to reveal how horrid the dryness in them feels after allowing them rest for a few moments after keeping them open for what could have been hours at this point. Mike's face is inches from mine, his brows furrowed in concern as his eyes scan for other obvious signs of distress.

"Hi," I croak in a tired, unused voice as I try to pretend all is well. Mike unfortunately knows better.

"What happened?" He asks concerningly, taking in the tone he does whenever Abby is upset, fretting over me like I'm an injured child as both of his hands cup my face, his lips finding what he's confirmed are thin, itchy and salty tear tracks, placing several, feather-light kisses along them.

"Nothing," I answer honestly, my voice still cracking. "I'm fine."

"Your eyes are red, baby," he says softly, pulling away to look at me again while his body inches closer. "You look like you've been crying for hours."

Ha. I wish. If I had been, maybe I'd feel better about everything. But instead, I've been lying here since Abby went to bed, feeling numb and dead internally as I willed myself to be upset about anything. Work, bills, the color of the walls. I'd succeeded maybe twice, little tears streaming down my face for a minute or two. But then they would stop, and it would feel as though I couldn't cry. Really cry. Like there was some emotional, maybe physical block preventing me from just truly letting all of my emotions out in a possibly hysterical fit. One that would mean I could connect to my humanity. I don't know what's wrong with me. So, instead I just say "I haven't cried."

Mike opens his mouth to call bullshit, but his brow furrows tighter as he thinks. "What's wrong?" He asks again, now lifting my head to allow one arm to slip underneath so I can lay upon it.

"Nothing," I answer again, truly unsure of what to say. "I'm really okay."

And I am. Work is fine, I am fine. Friends are fine. I don't have entitlement to be upset.

"Is it another episode?" Mike asks softly, now pulling his body onto the bed to lie next to me, fully committed to being partner of the year over here. Ugh. Great.

"No," I answer quickly, averting my gaze. Mike's hand cups my cheek, his body cool compared to mine. I'm soaked in sweat from sleeping - read: laying motionless on the bed since 9:30. - in too warm of clothes in too warm of a room under too warm of blankets. I probably stink. Meanwhile the morning air makes Mike feel refreshing. He's perfect. I'm a mess.

"It's okay if it is," Mike says softly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of if-"

"I'm not having an episode," I say firmly, cutting him off as though it will solidify my statement more than his if I finish mine first. "I'm just not."

I don't pretend to be perfect. I'm not, and I never will be. I know that's okay. I know episodes happen, and that I'll be okay. I've been so much better lately on my new schedule. I'm working, I'm happy.

I have absolutely no good reason to be in the midst of a depression episode. One where the memories won't leave my mind, where I can't sleep, can't think about anything but the past. It plays in my head over and over again, and I can't stop it. Even though I try. I read, I journal, I bathe. But I don't feel real. People don't feel real. Mike is disorienting in the sense that he is the only thing that truly feels real. Where the pale color of the sheets seems hypnotic, his slightly tan skin contrasts to remind me this place really does exist. The furniture and details of the room seem as real as something from a video game, renderings that aren't as realistic as they could be that blend into the wall more as you look. Flat. Nothing. But the freckles on his nose are real. Strikingly real. Overly real. It's as though someone took their time to place each one, carefully deciding their color, their opacity, their placement. I want and love each one, but at this moment they slightly torture me by drawing me into a comforting trap.

"I haven't had an episode in over a month, I'm better," I attempt to say in a firm, solid voice. But I'm too tired, too worn out. My chest burns both from anxiety induced heartburn and how shallow my breathing has been for the past several hours. Mike looks sad, and I hate that. Deeply.

"You have been doing better," he says softly, like a reassuring parent. "I've seen that. And I'm so proud of you."

But I still have this. I'm still like this. I still can't have people wrap their arms around me from behind because I'm instantly taken back to when it would end in me collapsed on the ground, panting, crying, calling out for help that just wouldn't come. I still can't wear shirts with too tight of collars because it always end with me half naked, ripping the shirt off while hyperventilating. That was how I had to tell Mike. For our first Christmas together he bought me this beautiful turtleneck, knowing I liked the style but didn't own many. A dark evergreen color, affordable but a lovely tight-knit material, I adored the thing. But the moment the shirt was over my head, the neck felt like a hand suffocating me, and though I tried to tolerate it fie as long as I could, it only took one casual graze of his hand along my back to send me reeling into a corner, hyperventilating, sobbing, blubbering like a terrified child as I clawed at my neck while he tried to get it off of me.

'I'm so proud of you.' The statement feels like a backhanded reward. It feels as though I'm an idiotic child who just can't learn their ABC's or basic fundamental math. It feels like I'm a small toddler surrounded by adults looking at me full of pity in their eyes while they think 'well, you'll never be normal by any means. But maybe one day if you're lucky, you'll work in a Subway.' But they don't tell me this. They just praise me for existing. 'You woke up today! You put on clothes today! You didn't kill yourself!' It makes me want to scream. Yes, even at him. I want to grab him by his shirt and scream until my voice is shattered 'don't praise me for the bare minimum! I'm not a child!'

But I know he's not. I know he feels the same way when he slips back in progress as well. There was a solid month last year where Mike's insurance refused to pay for his sleep medication due to some paperwork slip and such, something they eventually realized was a complete blip on their end. But that month was hell for Mike, who could barely sleep well even with the medication. His easy smirks were replaced with cracked lips, skin raw from constant biting. His eyes were filled with paranoia from lack of sleep, and worse were the night terrors. Mike didn't even know he was still capable of having them, usually sedated by his meds well enough that if there was a nightmare, he just stayed asleep. At worst he'd wake up in a haze, maybe a very short yelp if anything. But without his meds, it was screaming. Constant screaming. There were nights he would wake after only an hour and he'd start, his voice shrill and reverberating off the walls as he thrashed in the bed. You couldn't console him, touch made him worse. When it happened, you simply had to leave the room and pray he would be okay. The episode could last anywhere from five minutes to an hour, and you would know it was over when all you could hear was broken sobbing, quiet and childlike in nature. Then I would return to the room, and there he'd be. Sometimes wrapped in blankets, sometimes his shirt torn off of himself. Usually sitting either in the dark corner of the room or on the floor of our closet. Red, angry marks would trail along his skin from clawing at himself with his uneven nails, some of them being actual cuts he'd managed in his terror. I'd carefully clean his cuts with cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide while he silently stared ahead, too ashamed to speak or make eye contact with me. And too terrified to sleep again.

Sleep deprivation didn't help, either. One day I saw him with a Redbull stuck in his hand, seemingly never empty despite how much he drank from it. At first I thought it was one, than I realized it was three, then I realized I didn't really know what number he was on. It was surprising how well he could take the new, unusual load of caffeine that tastes sickly sweet without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow. I didn't realize he was trying to starve off sleep until the next morning when his leg was bouncing a mile a minute and he was snapping at every little thing. That day he had a breakdown over dropping an unpeeled onion. And that's when it slipped out.

I didn't judge him. I was terrified for him, but I didn't judge him. And I could tell the same was true for him when I would have my slips, though mine looked different. Mine looked like a lack of self care and rotting in our bed, staring pointlessly ahead until he would lift me off the bed and carefully guide me to a warm bath, where he'd gently wash my skin with a soft rag like I was a newborn while I stared ahead at nothing. At this point we had learned to tell the oncoming signs of each others episodes, and how to starve them off. And if we couldn't, how to help each other through them.

Usually, I don't mind. But today, it hurts. It all hurts.

"Have you eaten?" Mike asks me gently, his thumb gliding over my cheekbone as he wraps me in his embrace, careful of where he places his hands on my person. Like I'm a bomb.

I don't want to be treated like this anymore.

"Yes," I sigh in an irritated voice, like it's the most inconvenient thing he should ask me such a question. But I haven't. I feel empty and yet too full at the same time, and guilt pounds behind my left eye with the ferocity of a headache that I can't just mother myself.

Mike doesn't believe me. He'll pretend he does, but the press of his lips betray him as he takes a deep breath in like he's trying to tell what wire to cut next.

"Would you like to have breakfast with me?" He asks softly, his thumb still stroking just below the raw corner of my eye. It burns. All of it.

'No,' I snap in my head. But I just tighten my jaw and press my own lips together.

"I'm not really hungry, but thank you," I say in a tight voice. Now he's going to pretend that's okay, and he'll go get his breakfast. Then he'll pretend he can't finish it all, joke lightly and say I gave him too big of a portion even though he eats like he's still a growing teenager, and offer me little bites as he "tries" to finish the rest, then eventually trick me into finishing it. He isn't slick, and I'm not a child.

"Hey," he says in a light whisper. "I was thinking maybe we could go out today? All three of us? Or I could call Max, see if she'll watch Abs for a little bit so we can get away?"

Distraction. Cute. I don't need it.

"That could be nice," I admit through half gritted teeth, not meeting his eyes. "Where to?"

"Anywhere," he says too quickly, obviously relieved to have a straw to grasp at. "Your choice."

Guilt twists in my chest like an alien creature settled in my lungs, burning as it begins to slither its way towards my throat to suffocate me on its wrath. He doesn't need to do this. Can't he see how well I'm doing?

"How was work?" He asks me in an attempt to keep me talking. Mike doesn't like silence, not like this. Not really any time. There's always noise throughout the house, whether it's a show on in the background or white noise from his cassette player. He can't stand silence. Especially from people.

"Work was..." Fine? The usual? Non-eventful?

"Good," I decide. Mike presses his lips together again. Stop doing that.

"Yeah?" He asks in a slightly tight voice.

"Yeah," I confirm in a tighter voice.

"You didn't... call out or anything?"

My bottom left back molar feels like it might snap from how tight my jaw is. "Why?" I ask, venom unintentionally creeping in.

"Just asking," he says quickly.

"Why?" I press harder, wanting to know who told on me. Abby hasn't even had the chance to speak with him.

'It's because he knows your patterns,' I think. 'He's trying to gage how serious this is.'

"Maybe we could go out for breakfast? We can wait until Abby wakes up, go get some Waffle Hous-"

"I'm not having an episode," I snap quickly, more harsh than I intended. My tone makes him flinch slightly, his eyes shutting for a moment as he takes another breath in. Now I'm scared he'll pull away.

"We... don't have to talk about this right now," he says softly, opening his eyes again and wrapping his arm around me tighter. "Let's just focus on breakfast."

The guilt pounds in my kidneys, which are sore since I haven't left the bed since I laid down after putting Abby to sleep, but I did have a full water bottle around 3:00 in the morning. It's not Mike's fault I backtracked. He's just trying to be nice. I'm the asshole here.

"I'm sorry," I say in a small voice, dropping my gaze and biting my tongue between my canines again to stop the tears that are now willing to come freely to burn my eyes during such an inappropriate moment.

"It's okay," Mike says softly, placing a kiss on my forehead. "Don't even think about it."

'Don't even think about the fact he's just trying to be a decent person and you can't even say 'thank you,'' a grating voice in my head chides me. 'What, you're too good for a free meal?'

"I'm sorry," I repeat softer, my nails digging into my wrist that I'm holding to keep control over myself. Mike's hand is searching for mine, ready to pry it away to prevent me from doing what I need to to prevent the waterworks.

"Hey." Stop with the 'hey's. "I said it's alright, you're okay."

It's all bad. Everything's bad, and it's not going to get better. I keep thinking I'll get better, I keep thinking I'll be okay. But every two steps forward is one step back and I can't keep doing this redundant bullshit for the rest of my life. Am I going to be 40 at the office Christmas party sneaking off to freak out in the bathroom because something triggered me and I just can't get a grip on things? Am I even going to make it to 40?

Mike is comforting me, cradling my head to his chest and rocking me back and forth. And his shirt is wet. I don't like that his shirt is wet, it should be dry. Why is it fucking wet?

"It's okay," he's whispering in my hair while horrid choking sounds come from somewhere around us. Maybe the other room? "You're alright, it's okay."

I'm aware it's alright, I'm aware it's okay. Why are you wet? Why does my head hurt?

"I can't- sleep," my voice chokes out between guttural sobs, my face pressed into his chest. "It's all nightmares."

Oh. Shit. That's me. The wetness, I did that. My bad.

"I know, it's okay. How long?" Mike asks softly. What, are you gonna call my therapist?

"A week," I moan into his chest. My ribs expand with each recycled breath I steal from against his chest, and I can feel him trying to gently tug me away so I can get one with fresh, cold air instead. I don't let him. My lungs burn more. "They just won't stop."

"It's okay, it's only temporary," he says softly, his hand pushing away some of the blanket to relieve me of the boiling warmth underneath. The cold air is refreshing against my skin, even through my clothes are soaked with stinking sweat.

"No, it's not!" I cry hysterically into his chest. "They don't go away. None of it goes away. I want it to go away!"

He's nodding, rubbing circles on my back as I grip his shirt hard enough it may stretch.

"It'll get better. It did for awhile," he reminds me.

"But I'm back here. I always end up back here. I was doing so good!" I sob, feeling the wetness on his shirt begin to slightly thicken, probably due to snot. I try to sniff it back into my sinuses, but I think that just draws his attention to the new fluid he's covered in.

"That's okay. You'll do even better next time. And if you don't, that's okay too." Don't say what I think you're going to say. Do not. Michael, I'm serious, don't- "I'm still proud of you."

Fuck. Ooooooff!

This is the real release of my emotions. Now I'm gasping, choking, sobbing, making horrible sounds that sound like a European ambulance siren wailing through the streets to announce someone's dying on the way to the hospital. My head throbs with the pain from the heavy crying, and I may give myself a nosebleed from the passion of it all. And Mike, his patience thick and durable, just holds me through it all. Letting me soak his shirt, dirty his skin, grab at him blindly while I wail like a spoiled child, just repeating the phrase over again. 'Proud.' What pride. What honor to be had at such a breakdown. Yes, very understandable.

"I should be better," I sob into his chest. "You deserve better."

"What?" He laughs lightly, and at first it feels mocking, but then he's pulling my head away fron my soaked enclosure and his eyes are so gentle for a moment I know the light laughter is simply from surprise. Then his eyes widen and he's back in parent mode.

"Don't leave me. Don't leave me!" I choke out while gripping his shirt. At first he thinks I'm talking about our relationship, then he realizes I'm not letting him pull away.

"Sweetheart, you're bleeding," he gently explains. "Let me wipe your face. I just need tissues. I'm not even leaving the bed."

But that's too much. Let me bleed, let my head throb, let this headache take the vision away in my eye from how bad it hurts. Let anything happen so long as I can stay in this moment. Don't break the spell. Don't let me go numb again.

"Don't leave me," I cry pathetically, my eyes all scrunched together in the same manner as wailing infants, my grip on his shirt not breaking. Sure enough, there on the wet spot of his shirt is a dark stain of blood that should hopefully come out if we wash it fast enough.

"Let me do that," I'm saying as I try to peel off his shirt now. "Let me wash it."

He's gently guiding my hands away. "Don't worry about it," he says gently, kissing my hands and wrists like they might break even from the delicate graze of his lips. "Let me take care of you."

He does this all the time. He always takes care of me. I should do more. Be more. For him.

"You deserve better," I choke out, feeling like I may suffocate from the tears. Mike's brows furrow in concern, and he grips my chin very carefully as he makes me meet his eyes.

"Hey, no. Get that out of your head, it's all okay," he tells me softly, staring at me like if he can't verbally convince me, his hard stare will do the trick. "I don't want to hear you talk like that."

"I should be better," I repeat, my crying lessening slightly as I try to hold eye contact.

"You're getting better," he reminds me. "This is the happiest I've seen you since we met. You'll get back to that. Hell, you could feel the same way tonight. It's okay. Take a day off. We all need one, even normal people," he says softly, stroking my hair as he kisses my forehead. "Can you just let me take care of you in the meantime?"

No. Go away, let me rot.

"We can still go out for breakfast," he offers gently. "I can still call Max, or we can all stay in. I'll set up a nest in the living room so you can watch TV. Works you like that?"

Stop. Stop being nice to me, stop trying to make me feel better. It all just feels awful. I don't want this guilt, someone takes it away.

Mike must sense my overwhelmed emotions, because he places another kiss on my forehead before asking if he can clean my face again, and this time I say yes. He pulls away, which is still upsetting but less so. I don't make a deal out of it this time at least. He opens a drawer, searching for wipes and pulling them out before turning back to me.

"Do you want to sit up?" He asks gently. I bite my tongue to prevent another mocking thought directed towards me and nod. Bones crack as I do, my kidneys hurt worse. But at least I finally moved.

Tears still streak down my face as Mike wipes away the snot and blood, his large hand gently cupping my face as he does. There's a soft smile on his face, though I'm not particularly sure why. And when he's done, he runs his thumb along my bottom lip before placing his own lips on top of mine. They're chapped, one spot raw from excessive biting. But there's still some leftover chapstick on them, and it tastes like grapefruit.

I tug on his shirt, one hand sneaking under it to feel his cool skin underneath. He gently takes my wrist once more, then pulls away. A silent rejection. He knows that I'm just looking for a distraction from my emotions, and in a moment he'll offer a much healthier one. He does discard the shirt, leaving his chest bare, but only so that he doesn't smear my fluids back onto me as he pulls me in for another embrace.

"We'll be okay," he promises. "Everything will be okay."

"What if it's not?" I ask in a quiet, strained voice.

"Then it'll be okay later. You can take time to not be okay," he says.

There's a short silence before either of us speak. And when I hear his voice hitch in the way it does when he's about to say something, Abby's alarm rings crystal clear in her room. Then the sound of a truck rattles by on the road in front of the house. Birds continue to sing. And my pours feel so clogged I'm sure my skin will be lashing out for days.

But it'll all be okay.

                             ¤▪︎{♧}▪︎¤

"Can we have some fluff to reco-" no. Suffer.

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool @laurrrelise. Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

               •▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

[scarletttries]

What One Piece Characters Are Like In A Relationship...(Part Two)

Request: "Greetings, could I ask for headcanons of what Buggy the Clown and Dracule Mihawk are like in a relationship?"

Pairings: Buggy x Reader, Mihawk x Reader, Shanks x Reader

Part One (The Straw Hats) here / One Piece Masterlist

Buggy the Clown:

- It's impossible to overestimate the sheer vulnerability it took for Captain Buggy to speak genuinely and honestly when he finally confessed his feelings for you. A man who's spent so much of his life hidden behind a painted facade and a wicked smile, he tried to fight his truth for so long, forcing himself to treat you like just another pirate on his ship when there's nothing you could do that wouldn't stand out to him. The sincerity with which you speak to him, the way you don't gawk at his appearance, the fact that you never engage in the mutinous whispers of those around you. It wasn't long until you became his most called upon ally on the ship, through genuine appreciation for your insights but also his intense need to have his eyes on you at all times.

- With his feelings out in the open, Buggy is still conflicted in the way he showers his affections upon you. Behind closed doors the man is your personal jester, cracking jokes and using his gifts to keep you smiling and entertained constantly. Honestly that man would do anything to keep you looking at him, the warmth of your gaze enough to undo decades of cruelty and ridicule.

- Around the crew though, your captain likes to keep his adoration discrete. There are a lot of people out there that would love to have something they could use against him, and he knows deep down he'd surrender everything he's ever worked for if it stopped a single hair on your head being harmed. So despite how Buggy feels like he is bursting at the seams with joy every time he sees you, he insists on keeping things a secret for as long as the two of you can, lasting on longing looks and subtle contact for the price of your safety.

- That does add a certain desperation to the clown's behaviour towards you though, not that you mind. The moment you close a door he'll be on with you in a flash, all hungry lips and pressing his chest flush with yours to bathe in your warmth while he still can. He needs you overwhelming all of his senses, to fill his heart back up before he has to face the day without you again. Sometimes when he knows you'll be apart for a while, he'll tell the crew he's lost a hand somewhere on the ship so he can leave one tucked securely in your pocket, subtly interlacing his fingers with yours whenever the day gets to be too much; the powers he once feared made him a devil, now giving him the chance to stay by an angel's side forevermore.

Dracule Mihawk:

- A life as the world's greatest swordsman can be a lonely one. Going wherever he's paid to go. Never putting down roots. Knowing that one day he might just find someone desperate enough for his title to kill for it. Mihawk had accepted this life with a certain pride, until he found something else he wanted to be the best at.

- Another night in another island bar had his path crossing with yours, the briefest of exchanges leaving an aching hole in his chest like he'd never experienced before. It was like your smile sent a spark his way that had his whole body going up in smoke, a fire lit inside him that he had only felt once before; for his pursuit of swordsmanship. He knew nothing would quell that desire except giving in fully to the devotion.

- Dracule is extremely attentive to your every whim. He's never really been tied down before he enjoys the grounding that comes from having someone else to influence each of his days. Nothing fulfils him like making one of your wishes come true, his dedication to your partnership unwavering no matter what the world throws at you both.

- He would take enormous pride in teaching you a few of his sword-fighting moves, framing the sessions as just a way to share in his two favourite things (swords and you), but in the back of his mind also very conscious that a time may come when you need to defend yourself from his enemies. Naturally he'll find a way throw your practice fights so the two of you end up on the floor together, his sword cast aside as he exclaims that you are the only person in all the seas that has ever disarmed him so. Don't be expecting to leave that floor for a while once he has you in his grips.

Shanks:

- When you work in a popular port town you see a lot of pirates come and go. So it's pretty noticeable when a certain captain seems to do all his supply runs in your specific shop. Shanks is not at all subtle that he's continually coming to town for you, your first conversation enough for him to reveal that you might be the only person he's ever met that could convince him to give up the pirate life and settle down.

- You don't ask him to do that, instead the two of you settle for frequently being apart, but relishing in every second you get to spend together when you can. Every moment that Shanks is in your life is filled with fun, whether he's just dancing with you in your lovely little home, or convincing you to come with him on this next adventure, heading to a beautiful island where for once he's confident there's no risk of danger to you.

- When you have to be apart, Shanks will call you late in the night, narrating the view from his perch on the figurehead of his ship. He'll describe every detail of the stars glistening on the waves until the peachy rays of the sun trickle across the horizon, all while knowing the far superior view is wherever you are. He'll never reveal the true danger of his journeys to you, instead giving you joyful reimaginations of the troubles he's faced that day. You can tell when he's had a hard week from the pain in his voice though, so you take the chance to regale him with the softness of your peaceful day, recounting your every step and listening to his breathing slow as a weight lifts off his chest. He tells you how one day he can't wait to dock his ship one final time and fall in step with the life you've built, never having to hear your voice from so far away again.

- He lets that hope carry him through the most tempestuous nights at sea, through all the near misses at the hands of his enemies, through every day spent hiding from a bounty hunter and aching to hear your voice again. He finds himself picturing the two of you raising a family, a tiny crew of your own that will always unite you, the ultimate adventure Shanks can imagine, and one he never thought he'd long for until he thought about living it hand in hand with you.

One piece requests still open!

[arthurthepeoplesprincess]

Merlin fandom try not to act like the Knights of the Round Table were secretly pro-magic activists challenge (impossible). Why do you act like they weren’t grown ass men who willingly chose to work for the system oppressing magic users?

it wasn’t a secret to anybody that one of the obvious job requirements was occasionally murdering people.

But but you don’t get it! When the magic reveal happens, they’re all going to be protecting babygirl Merlin against bad alpha Arthur (as if they weren’t all following the same fucking system).

You can’t possibly believe these people actually give a fuck about magic. I’m so sorry but that’s ridiculous.

Controversial opinion, but when you think about it, Arthur was actually the least worst of them all because, unlike the rest of them, he was the only one who had no choice in doing this job. He was canonically groomed into becoming a child soldier and was brainwashed and abused directly by the fucking dictator himself. He canonically said that if he had a choice in his life, he wouldn’t be here, and if I’m not mistaken, he was the only one of them to ever question if the system was wrong. The rest of them were just going with it with no second thoughts and didn’t give a fuck at all.

A lot of people fail to remember that 1) Uther is the only family Arthur ever knew, 2) his only family also happens to be the narcissistic tyrant who we saw committing all types of atrocities, 3) he was isolated (he didn’t even have friends before Merlin arrived), and 4) he was only fed lies and half-truths his entire life.

Like, is it crazy that he was brainwashed?? No?? Why do you act like he was like that solely because he’s an annoying brat lol.

And imagine this: after all that brainwashing, where your abuser drills 'Magic is evil' in every possible way, he unfortunately gets proven right multiple times (82.05% of the times Arthur was aware of magic being used, it was used in a harmful way, based on a meta made by anarchycox, thenerdyindividual on AO3).

So, considering all the brainwashing, the abuse, and magic being used to hurt Arthur or someone he loves or the entire kingdom, he still has it in him to try and think that maybe there’s good in everyone, that maybe Uther was wrong.

Do you know how crazy that is?? I want you to stop and think: would you do that if you were in his situation? Because I’m definitely not going to, but maybe I’m just an immoral person lol.

And also, stop acting like Arthur wasn’t doing anything when he became king. He stopped the mindless murder of anyone who had magic and only punished those who used it to do harm and that was after a trial.

You might say that this is just the bare minimum, which is somewhat correct but not entirely because 1) Arthur only ruled for four years, meaning he didn’t have time, 2) there were tensions and wars started by Uther that he was trying to undo, meaning the magic situation wasn’t the only thing going on, and 3) the entire population had been brainwashed for 30 years and was terrorized by Morgana’s followers very recently. Like, sure, it’s definitely a good decision as a newly crowned king to just suddenly repeal the laws and no one would mind not Uther's followers, not the nobles, and certainly not the average citizen, right?

Also disclaimer: this is neither me hating on the knights nor saying you can’t like them, nor is it me excusing everything Arthur ever did or saying that he was 100% innocent, because he definitely wasn’t. It’s just me saying that maybe you should consider his trauma and point of view before making him into the bad villain and then believing that the knights were better people, because they definitely weren’t.

[kanansdume]

You know what might've worked better while keeping MOST of this show generally the same, plot-wise?

Swap Ahsoka and Sabine's character choices.

Let AHSOKA be the one who is manipulated into giving the map to Baylan. Sabine is the one who is injured and used to manipulate Ahsoka, and Baylan can pull on what he knows about Anakin and her relationship with him to REALLY fuck her up, and Ahsoka knows that she OWES Ezra for saving her life on Malachor, so she hands over the map. It's SABINE who is yelling for Ahsoka not to do it, not to undo everything Ezra sacrificed himself FOR, and then she gets shoved over the cliff, and that's what breaks Ahsoka.

When faced with the choice between saving one person she cares about or letting them go in order to save the rest of the galaxy from a larger threat, she makes Anakin's choice.

And then only at the END, when everything is almost lost and she's in the other galaxy and Sabine used the purrgils to find her and Ezra, but Thrawn is escaping and they fought as hard as they could and Ahsoka is dying and she knows she made a mistake that she can't take back and there's no way to undo the consequences of that choice so she may as well just let herself die, THEN she has a vision of Anakin. THEN he forces her to choose to live because letting herself die now is selfish and she's just abandoning her friends so she doesn't have to take responsibility for her own mistakes. Anakin tells her that he COULD'VE turned back earlier, he COULD'VE made better choices even after he'd joined the Sith. He could've turned back when Ahsoka asked him to. He didn't, but he could've. Ahsoka can do BETTER than Anakin did. She can still do BETTER, she doesn't have to let this mistake define who she is now. Maybe she can't undo all of the damage she's wrought, but she CAN do better from here on out.

Anakin didn't turn back for Ahsoka, but Ahsoka can turn back for Ezra and Sabine and the galaxy she's put in harm's way.

[mirageofadesert]

Give me more morally gray characters ...

Let me interrupt my regular program for a brief rant about Downton Abbey and Thomas Barrow… well, not really regular as I've been too busy to watch anything with subtitles for the past few weeks. Instead, I passively binged on Downton Abbey while working.

I love morally gray characters, be it Tantai Jin from TTEOTM or Spike from Buffy. One of my favorite characters is Thomas Barrow from Downton Abbey. (Spoiler Alert, TW // suicide, homophobia, conversion therapy)

Thomas is everything I need in a character ... unhinged, angsty and gay.

I loved him from the first rude line to the last. He starts out as a delightful troublemaker with a cruel streak born of fear, hurt and the desire to be respected, fit in and belong. He is, as Baxter understands so well, his own worst enemy, having perfected self-sabotage over the years.

A supporting character for most of the show, the footman-turned-butler's story is usually prioritized over his character development - meaning the writers know where they want him to end up each season, even if it contradicts previous characterizations. This leaves the audience with a character who can be hard to follow at times.

The writing really got on my nerves at times. From conveniently forgetting his medical training when they want him to despair during his job hunt, to pulling any kind of cunning out of him when they want him to appear changed (and depressed), Thomas is always what the showrunners need him to be, but not necessary what would make sense for his character. I'm still annoyed that they made him go through medical torture in the form of conversion therapy and a suicide attempt, and then glossed over these traumatic incidents in favor of boring other storylines. Or how they portrayed his war injury as an act of cowardice rather than desperation.

What I love about him is that he was still a coherent character who remained a morally gray character (the last film aside, because they sort of forgot to give him any of his character traits back). Thomas would still lash out when he was angry or hurt, would still manipulate others for his own gain, and would still feel wronged by the world. Once the world has brought him to his knees, he understands that he has only himself to blame, and he tries to do better - which has its ups and downs. The Thomas we see in the final and in the films still wants to belong, is still a desperate romantic, but he is also so incredibly insecure in a rather endearing way.

Younger Thomas was rather stiff but dignified, trying to appear immaculate, trying to hide the fact that he felt he was anything but. Once the mask comes off, he goes from being a reluctant cat to being full of nervous puppy energy. As a neurodivergent person who has recently struggled with not being able to masks well, I can relate a little too much to this version of Thomas.

Most characters, that start out as villains, either change completely (like Tantai Jin), their behavior will be excused (like Mo Ran or Spike) or they sacrifice themselves for the greater good to redeem themselves (like Spike). Thomas stays more on less morally gray. We understand the reasons better, why he would lash out at others, and we can feel sorry for him. He had a harder life than most, but that still does not undo the harm he has done to others.

All in all, the last film was a bit of a disappointment for me, mainly because a lot of the characters felt a bit off. I had to watch the film twice to get behind the romance with Guy Dexter. What Guy meets is Thomas desire to be respected as a person, to be seen as worthwhile, to escape the life as decorative wallpaper and to finally have a romantic relationship with someone that is rather enthusiastic about him. A lot of their relationships seems to have developed off-screen, based on Guy knowing who Carson was during his proposal and understanding how uncertain Thomas still feels about his role in the household. I wish them well - but not at the expense of Thomas being excluded from the rumoured 3rd film. I hope it takes place in the USA and we get to see him again!

I really wish we would see more morally gray characters like this, even through a quick look into the fandom of Downton Abbey shows me, that not everybody can handle it.

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

I hear people point out that Catra's redemption arc is 'incomplete' as a means of excusing criticism.

Which, is the exact OPPOSITE of how this shit works?

We are taught this in FIRST GRADE. If you write something, you have to wrap it up! Like. A. Bow.

If Catra's redemption is 'incomplete' that means it was poorly written, and combine that with the other consequences of her arc's bad writing and you can see why people dunk on her character.

There is the option of an open-ending for a character but that requires you to do your damndest, which evidently is something that the writers didn't do, and something that 90% of the fandom doesn't realize.

i agree and disagree with this. i do think that some arcs can be left open-ended, but you have to show the beginning, at least. you can't leave an arc open-ended when there isn't an arc to begin with. you have to write some of it effectively so that the audience knows that the arc has begun and will likely have a successful ending, even if the ending is not shown on-screen.

(pardon me as i go on a long tangent about my favorite show. infinity train spoilers ahead!)

the best example of this that i have is Grace from Infinity Train. her redemption arc was definitely incomplete because by the end of the season, she still had a high number that she had to slowly work on reducing so that she could get off the train. she was by no means a fully redeemed character.

BUT we actually see her putting in effort to change! we see at least 50% of the process as she slowly begins to warm up to Hazel and Tuba, as she begins to realize how wrong her worldview was and the harm that she's been doing to the denizens, and as she starts reprimanding Simon and trying to motivate him to redeem himself like she was doing.

the other thing is that Grace doesn't get forgiven by her victims. Hazel leaves after Grace lashes out at her, and the narrative doesn't act like Grace is entitled to forgiveness as soon as she cries and apologizes. she has to deal with the fact that she hurt Hazel and there's no undoing that.

Grace: (...) Hazel is part of that group now. We don't leave Apex behind.

Grace: Hazel, you're sticking with us.

Hazel: I don't want to go with you.

Grace: Huh? It's okay. We can work around the denizen thing.

Hazel: I'm not going with you!

Hazel: You said the Apex is supposed to be brave. But if that's true, why are you all so... scared of me?

(...)

Amelia: (...) but I am not your caretaker.

Hazel: Grace and Simon weren't either.

(...)

Grace: Hazel, it's not too late to change your mind.

Hazel: Good luck, Grace.

keep in mind, this was a child. probably about 8-9 years old. the writers could have just made her forgiven Grace and said “well she's young, children don't hold grudges”. but they didn't. they acknowledged how much Grace hurt Hazel and they allowed Hazel to stay upset at Grace.

same goes for Simon. while Simon became the bigger villain in the end, Grace was the one who instilled the cult mindset in him in the first place and he never forgives her. he does eventually cause his own demise in the end, but we're not made to believe that Grace was entirely blameless in all of this.

in short, Grace doesn't get a happily ever after, but her arc does end on a hopeful note. regardless of whether people forgive her or not, she decides to continue working on improving herself.

this is how you write an incomplete redemption arc. you have to make the viewers believe that this character wants to change, and you need to hold them accountable for their actions. you can't just have all their victims forgive them despite the fact that they're still an asshole, and then tell us that their arc isn't over yet. how would the arc be over if it hasn't even started?

[neko-naruto]

we might just bite underneath the moonlight

Summary: Chilchuck can't help himself from helping Marcille on the rebound of Falin's death, even if he knows that's all he'll ever be to her, the rebound

Tags: heavily suggestive themes, wound cleaning, the hot springs itself isnt sexual but the making out is, complicated relationships, check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: "Ace write a normal fic for dunmeshi please" fuck ya life, femme4butch lesbian marchil with a brief meijack cameo at the start. in all seriousness the marchil fanart is fucking fire and i had to write *something* for ya'll, it ended up much longer than it was meant to be. hope ya'll enjoy and if ya do consider dropping a reblog or checking the Ao3 port, it really means a lot

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56221963

"Being butch is being chivalrous," Chilchuck explained when his first daughter was old enough to ask why he never dressed like a gal and always wore tape around town.

"Right..." Meijack said, only a hint of confusion on her voice.

"It's like an honour code," Chilchuck said, a bit firmer this time, "A way to confirm that you'll always be the fists they need in a fight, or the one to foot the bill on a date- you're too young to get it."

"Dad, I asked a question, now answer it." It's almost a demand, proof that she is old enough to get it. Proof that she could leave any day now if he wanted it or not, which he really doesn't.

Chilchuck sighed, "It's not something I can teach, it's something that you fall into if you're meant for it."

-/-/-/-

Taking the hit is a reflexive thing, he still hates himself for it. Throwing himself in harms way for the femmes and letting the men take it head on is how he is whether he means it or not.

Blood bursts from the wound along his shoulder but he tries to strafe back into the dodging regime before anyone can register he took a hit for Marcille. He wipes down the wound and oh, yep, that's an arrow lodging itself in his spine. It has enough force to make him stumble and trip and fall, banged against a column and ears ringing.

Death by living armour.

This one is new.

He can hear it clunk as it steps ever closer and closer, fun. He sacrificed himself for Marcille, the girl who wouldn't even spare a second glance at the butch who won't see sixty. Humorous. Ironic. Tragic...?

No, no, not tragic, not tragic for Marcille. She couldn't care less about him, she couldn't care less about men. And to her, he's part of men. He's something so well disguised he'd never be clocked as anything but another dumb guy.

And he can live with that, that might just be the pre-death clarity talking-

A scream is ripped from his throat with the sword plunging deep into his flesh. As mortality is ripped from his body his hands fly to the blade and then he's gone.

-/-/-/-

The bandages wrapped tight around his chest are stiff now, he supposes that they've been down for long enough without a window to change them that they would get nasty. He's pretty sure it's giving his clothing the funk what with the sweat and blood seeping into it that he can't wash out while still wearing it.

He hitches his backpack a little higher up as they reach floor four. Cool air washes over him comfortably as the slow and lazy flow of the water bounces back and forth. It's comforting, he never thought he'd yearn for floor four. Full of sirens and kelpies and deception galore, seemingly calm but full of danger.

Senshi's laying down a pot already and Laois is probably drooling over whatever it is that their latest companion is cooking. And Marcille is brushing her hair, undoing the braids slowly and letting it fall down over her shoulders and Chilchuck isn't allowed to stare.

He wouldn't dare stare, not without her permission at least. That's sacred to her, her hair, her magic, it all ties into one thing that's the core of her existence. It'd be kind of obscene to catch a glimpse of that without her permission, even if Chilchuck is a rogue, a thief, and a cheat he has standards.

"I'm gonna wash off!" Before he gets a response he's trudging over to a sharp corner to slip behind.

The ledge sort of crumbles off the further he strays from the initial landing of the floor. Turquoise glow casting up from the water below, it's scary to expose himself in a false isolation. No one is watching, it's fine, no one is going to walk on over. Well, maybe Laois, but Laois is a dumbass who absolutely would.

First the scarf comes off and his breath hitches as it rises over his head. He should've changed his wraps before coming down to the dungeon, he should've known better. He's been doing this adventuring shit since he was a kid how did he not figure something so simple by now.

He kicks off his socks and shoes next, lining them up next to his bag. In an effort to avoid the inevitable, he retrieves his towel and fresh bandages. They're dropped near the edge as he proceeds to disrobe.

The leather armour slides off much easier then the scarf did, so much easier. With the first step taken, everything afterwards becomes so much easier and he supposes it's that way with everything. Even so he's hesitant to slide off his gloves and reveal scarred flesh to no one but himself and the gentle glow of the lake.

He'll never be able to tell what's harder to take off be it the pants or the shirts, but he still shucks off his pants first. He's starting to feel the nausea, the insecurity, the fear. Of what? He's not quite sure but he swears he's breaking a code of conduct of some sort by stripping down and washing off to save himself from potential infections.

Chilchuck steps down from the ledge onto a raft before taking off his shirt, only then does he dare even think about the bindings wrapped so tight around his chest. He doesn't even have anything to bind, god, why does he even bother. His ex-wife was the only one who could see through the facade and want for what he is anyways, not like he'll luck out with some bi chick again.

Slowly he sinks into the light blue waters, arms rested on the planks of the raft as the stiff gauze soaks. He's slow to unravel the binding and he can only give a stiff exhale because wow, he forgot what it's like to have chest weight. Familiar but foreign, something he barred because he was sure he didn't get as many jobs looking like a girl.

A cigarette would go great with having a soak and relaxing a bit despite all the stress. He doesn't have any of those so instead he dunks his head and washes off, same refreshing feeling. It's nice to get off a couple days of grime, just relaxing enough that he zones out to the point he doesn't register the outside world until Marcille drops her staff.

Oh, fuck.

"Marcille," Chilchuck begins, back still turned to her.

"Y-Yeah?" Marcille asked, trying desperately to beat down the red up to the tips of her ears.

"How much did you see?" Chilchuck asked.

Marcille doesn't answer.

"How. Much."

"Enough." Marcille choked out.

"Look, just toss my down my clothes to the raft and I'll get dressed. Let's act like this never happened, for both of our sakes." He's screaming at himself for saying that. This is his chance, his one, singular chance, and he's butchering it.

Marcille does as told and averts her eyes.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you that it's rude to peep on a lady?" Chilchuck has the gall to ask it as he drags himself out of the water and towels down. He hears a small squeaky sort of sound from Marcille in response, he shrugs it off and tugs back on his pants.

"Well, yeah, of course they did."

"Lemme guess, you didn't think I was this?"

"Yeah." She tugs down the hem of her sleeves a bit, "Did you properly disinfect any wounds?"

"Don't be an idiot, I don't have any wounds to disinfect, and I would've if I had." He's lying, he didn't have the time to reopen a scabby one that had bits of gauze stuck inside, merely skin deep but still an issue. His gloves slide on back with ease but he has to tug just a bit to ensure that they cover all the scars properly.

"Are you almost done? Senshi sent me to get you for dinner." Marcille tapped her foot anxiously on the ground. Very briefly, she wonders if Chilchuck can hear the fact that her heart is racing. She wonders if her heart could just stop right here and now to save her from the shame of it all.

"Hold your horses," Chilchuck answered with. He hisses as gauze comes to lay atop the wound again, he'll tough it out.

Before Marcille can stop herself she whips around to face him, "I knew it! You are hurt..." Her enthusiasm peters off and the red on her face intensifies as Chilchuck scrambles to cover his chest.

Chilchuck's sputtering a bit, scrambling for words to try and get across the exasperation, "I told you to be patient!"

For a brief moment there's silence.

And then.

"Do you want me to clean the wound?" She speaks almost too quietly for even Chilchuck to hear.

"It's fine, I'll manage." He keeps wrapping the gauze as he speaks, when Marcille steps closer he stops. With a heavy sigh, he speaks, "Look, you weren't supposed to find out, no one was. So let's forget about it. Let's both just forget this ever happened so you can go live your good life with Falin, sound good?"

Marcille shook her head, "I can't, I can't let you risk getting an awful infection and dying a slow death."

"Oh yeah? How come?" Chilchuck questioned as he watched Marcille step forward again. He tries to step back but he's been thoroughly cornered to the ledge, he knows that if he steps any further he'll fall in.

"You're my teammate."

"You never spared a glance at me once."

"I didn't know you were, were, you were-"

"A woman?"

"You weren't supposed to be."

"Yeah, I don't get as many jobs with my tits out."

The crassness makes Marcille go even brighter red, it makes Chilchuck smirk. She waves it off, "Just! Let me help."

He hesitates, "Fine."

And with slow motions he undoes the wraps just enough to let the wound be exposed. It lays below the clavicle and Marcille's hands are soft as they trace over his skin far too slowly. He tenses as well kept nails brush over the edge of the scab and pry the bits of gauze and discoloured dry blood.

His blood is red and her hands are pale. The contrast is staggering and he tries his best not to watch because this isn't right. Something is screaming at him that this isn't right or good or lawful because she wasn't supposed to know unless she asked. And he wasn't supposed to be walked in on while he was washing off and changing his wraps-

"Do you want me to call you she?"

Chilchuck goes rigid, shoulders raising and eyes widening.

"Got it, not she."

"You're the second person to ask me that after my wife."

"Oh."

"You haven't earned the right yet." A choked sound slips out as the magic weaves through his flesh and purges it of the potential infection. She retracts her hands and he tries not to reach out for them in response to the motion, "Not yet at least."

Her eyes aren't on his, he can't tell if they're cast to the floor or not. He reaches to fully wrap his chest up again, gauze unfurling to lock himself back up again. The way he should be, it's safer, it's better, it got him three kids who he misses dearly and more jobs than he'd ever needed.

"You look pretty," Marcille confessed, ears drooped just a bit. She feels like she shouldn't be saying it.

Chilchuck gives an amused huffing sort of laugh, "Ya think?"

She nodded.

"It's not just because I'm shirtless is it?" As he speaks he tugs his shirt back on, along with his scarf. He just stuffs his leather over armour in his bag, too stuffy to wear it now that he's hot under the collar.

That gives her pause, "Well-"

Chilchuck sighed, "Think before you speak, don't give an older gal hope."

-/-/-/-

There's an undeniable itch deep inside of Chilchuck's bones and he can't place his finger on it, can't tear himself open to satiate it. He just feels nauseated, vaguely dizzy, and his stomach is in intensive knots no matter what he does to quell it. Cramps? No, no he took his contraceptives.

Did he?

Fucking hell, did he?

He can't remember and he can't ask Senshi to cook up something that'll help with cramping because he'll lose respect if he's outed as a woman. He thinks. He presumes. Senshi's a nice guy, has lots of respect for Marcille, a classically womanly woman.

Chilchuck? Not a classically womanly woman. He'll be disowned, or called a fraud, something awful is bound to happen. But someone is bound to notice that he's lagging behind and in what can only be described as agony, and if its Laois, he'll definitely be diagnosed with a deadly disease of some sort.

Please let there be a natural hot spring somewhere, anywhere nearby. He won't be able to actually have a soak if the guys insist on joining but at least the heat would be a comfort.

Chilchuck dropped down next to the fire, "Hey, Senshi, what's for dinner?"

"Sautéed vegetables, it's a simpler dish compared to what we usually have. But sometimes a light dish is good after excessive amounts of complex dishes." As he speaks he tosses in a handful of diced herbs, "I might check for mushrooms around the springs once Marcille is done in there."

"There's actually a spring down here?" He sounds a bit more excited than he should, not even a floor back did he take a soak. But he yearns for the warmth like a cat yearns for the sun.

Senshi gives a nod, "Yep, great place. Two pools with a bit of a stalagmite barrier between them, quite nice. I set up some lanterns a while back, it's a quaint little section."

"Call me when dinners done, I'm taking a soak." He hiked up his backpack before trotting off to where he can hear Marcille's heartbeat and the slight ripple of water. Sure, he has to strain to hear it a bit, but he picks it out.

-/-/-/-

"Chilchuck, is that you?" Marcille asked from behind the stalagmite wall.

A pause, "Yeah."

"You don't have to be on that side, what if Senshi or Laois comes by?"

"I still have my shirt on, I'm just enjoying the heat."

"Oh."

"Lemme tell ya one thing about being a butch, Marcille." For a moment he wonders if he should give her the spiel he gave Meijack, but he chooses against it. No, no Marcille would know by now. Surely she's met normal butches before? Regardless, he sits against the stalagmite border and speaks, "After sixteen plus years of keeping your real self effectively hidden, you learn better than to make such basic blunders."

She sinks below the water briefly and the silence makes Chilchuck almost uncomfortable.

"I appreciate the concern."

"You can do that on this side of the divider."

"But what if Senshi or Laois arrived? Wouldn't look very good if I was peeping on ya, that'd ruin my reputation."

"But-"

"Marcille. I'm fine not getting in the water."

She stands up and ah ha, she's taller than the divider. And when Chilchuck tilts his head back to face her he can see so much of everything above the belt. Red rises to his face faster than it should and for some reason he can feel his jaw go slack as he stares.

Before even more precious seconds can pass he's jolting away. She leans on the border as best she can, arms crossed over her chest. He swallows thickly as he glances up again to meet her eyes.

"You're in pain," She declared.

"So what if I am?" He countered.

"Look, I read somewhere that Half-Foots get it particularly bad compared to other races due to their size influencing pain tolerance and durability. I've seen you hobble and you curl up in a ball and grovel when you're trying to fall asleep."

"Are you asking me to get naked and take a dip with you?" He tries to cut down his own embarrassment with vulgarity that usually makes Marcille squirm.

"So what if I am? It's only to try and help you out, I'm a girl too ya know."

"I know."

"Then how come you're so hesitant?"

"Reasons."

"You're still not over your wife."

"Don't pry, Marcille, it's rude."

Marcille steps back and sinks back into the water, "Whatever."

Only a brief moment of pause has to pass before Chilchuck stands up and walks over to the divider. He leans on it for a moment, "Look, I guess I could join you."

Marcille spins around to face Chilchuck, "Really?"

"Yes, really. Just, don't make such a big deal out of it."

-/-/-/-

It happens so much faster than he can keep track, maybe he's getting too old for this 'falling in love' thing. He's got three kids, he's definitely too old for this.

Maybe the heats clouding his mind, the temperature a comfort soothing his frayed nerves. His wraps are still on but they're coming off, slowly unfurling as the heat threatens to suffocate him with the way it's tied too tight. And Marcille is staring, mostly submerged, but eyes just above enough that she can watch.

"Marcille, don't make it weird." It's more of a demand than a plea but he can't tell if the heat on his face is from being perceived or from being in the hot spring.

"Sorry," Marcille mutters the word as she presses herself against the ledge, hair scattered around her like tentacles or silk woven from gold.

Chilchuck can't decide which comparison works better.

...

. . .

Marcille gives a short hum, "You look pretty."

The heat is stripping away his inhibitions.

"You look pretty too, unfairly so."

She edges ever closer to him, not sliding along the rocky bench-like formation of the spring, but pushing off.

"You think?"

Chilchuck nods, watching as Marcille glides closer with the grace of a mermaid.

"I don't think," He said, voice slow, voice low. Dropped lower than usual, a slanty smirk on his face. He leans forward a bit, "I know."

"You know?" Closer, closer, closer. She's so close but she's so far and the clock is ticking but time is coming to a screeching halt.

"Oh believe me I do, Marcille." He slinks down from where he sat to meet her halfway across. It's a small basin anyways, but it feels so much larger when the tension and the steam blends into one and he goes blind. He keeps his hands to his sides instead of reaching out because if he missteps with his motions then everything will go downhill.

She isn't afraid. That or she's just not thinking properly. Her hands are soft when they come to rest on his shoulders, one sliding up to the side of his neck. He leans into it a little bit, "Then that would make you one of the hottest ladies I've met."

Chilchuck laughed, "You thought I was a guy, do I really count, Marcille?"

"Now you do."

As she leans forward her hair falls, caging Chilchuck in and locking the door but hey, who is he to complain when it feels so good to give in? To get what he wants, it feels so good. Like fire. He's drowning in flames.

Her other hand works its way to the small of his abdomen and slides up to unfurl the gauze fully. It shocks a gasp out of him and further she presses onward, no inhibitions, no fear, no hesitance. What is she running on right now? What is in her head? What the fuck is making her do this, but holy shit, he does not want her to stop.

Eventually her hands are in her hair and pulling just a bit but her hands stray just a bit and he lurches back. Shoving her off at the shoulders and stumbling, he scrambles to retrieve his wraps.

"What the fuck, Marcille!" Maybe he's a bit louder than he needs to be but he needs to get the point across, "There are, there are boundaries."

It takes her a moment before her face goes bright red and her ears droop, "Oh god."

"It's not fine, but, it's not bad either." Chilchuck is rebinding himself as he speaks but he's still trying to ease the shattered mood, soften the blow. Don't be a douche, you can turn someone down nicely, but he isn't trying to turn her down either. He just needs to slow this down, way down, to a snails pace.

"I don't know what got into me, Chilchuck, I'm so sorry-"

"Marcille! It's alright." He steps close enough to reach out, hands held above the water. He gives a small nod and she places hers atop his, "It's okay, I don't mind fucking, but can we not do it right now with zero warning?"

Marcille nods, "Sorry."

"Stop saying sorry, it makes you sound like a coward," Chilchuck said, voice firm but with a hint of affection lacing it, "And you're not."

A small smile tugs at Marcille's lips, "Alright, thanks, Chilchuck."

-/-/-/-

Chilchuck sleeps without his wraps that night because they got soaked and he was running low anyways. When Laois asked Chilchuck didn't answer, when Senshi asked Chilchuck didn't answer. He didn't owe them an answer even if their assumptions would probably be way off.

They just come up to him one morning and offer to cut his tits off, he'd probably keel over laughing if that happened. His wondering of what's going to happen is very brief when he finds Marcille standing next to his bedding. She drops down to her knees, fingers curled to press nails into palm.

"Yeah, Marcille?" Chilchuck asked gently as he sat up. He stretched his arms over his head and fuck, his spine hasn't felt like that in years.

"Could we share a sleeping bag tonight?"

"What?"

Marcille stands up, "Nevermind."

"No, Marcille. What's wrong? Tell me what happened," He speaks sluggishly, a tired inflection to his tone.

"It's dumb."

"We almost had sex in the hot springs, that was dumb."

Marcille drops to sit down next to Chilchuck, "It was about Falin, we couldn't save her."

"It'll be fine, we're gonna save her. I promise." He's making wild promises. Ones he can't pull through on. But ones that he needs to make to get through the night breathing easy.

He places his hand on Marcille's back and she leans heavily into him, "I miss Falin."

Oh.

He's a rebound.

That's... fine, he knew from the start it'd never work out anyways. Why hope that it might because she kissed him? Why hope for something farther out of reach than the stars? He's dumb, he's an idiot, he isn't even a hopeful one.

This dungeon is getting to him, to fall for Marcille and be stupid enough to think that she'd mean it in any way more than deprived desperation. He still steels himself and hums along, "I miss her too." It feels like he's being stabbed as a much delayed realization hits him, the words falling out of him feel like blood being hacked up.

[rollercoasterwords]

ugh!!! different anon but i just read your thoughts about everything r is thinking and feeling and i canttttt, and it also hurts bc from s perspective, the feelings and developments he thought they had for so long were a ruse!! so on both sides we have them fighting their feelings and denying the reality of their connection :(((

one follow up question i have is, how does r (and really the whole gang) reconcile this initial distrust and subsequent shock (that s is Becoming Good) with the existence of reg? bc like on the one hand yes s represents so much evil shit to them, has done so much evil shit, but his redeemed brother is right there as well. so i’m curious about how these characters marry those feelings

yeah <3 i mean 2 clarify it's not so much that r thought s was like. actively tricking him like he believes what s was feeling was real too it's just that s knew before they kissed etc. that he was going 2 be obliviating himself so the idea that those feelings could become something was, at that point, a lie, and that's where r feels betrayed.

and that's an interesting question!! re: reg (and re: s) all 3 of them have v different perspectives. like for james reg chose on his own 2 betray voldemort, and even tho reg kinda dismisses the idea that he was rebelling 4 some noble reason etc james still like...kinda gives him that credit & sees him as someone who organically came 2 this position that was at least somewhat aligned w the values & goals of the order, whereas s did not do that; hence, james cuts him way less slack. s was also a lot more active in the d.e. & actively harming order members + allies in ways that reg was not, which also makes james like him less to begin with. but james has also grown up pretty separated from broader society, so even tho the d.e. have always been his enemies, he hasn't been like...quite as subjected 2 their reign in his daily life the same way r has, and bc james has been raised as like a soldier in a war he views voldemort as his ultimate enemy & the d.e. as like enemy soldiers, so there's overall less of like...this personal hatred 4 them as individuals. which makes it easier 4 him 2 accept that people like reg & s can grow & change if they demonstrate they're willing 2 side w the order + work towards order goals.

for lily a lot of this is similar 2 james--she views reg as having made his own decision 2 leave the d.e. + s as being forced, so trusts him less 2 begin with, etc. but lily, unlike james, has spent even less time actually like...directly interacting w d.e. like she's spent most of her time in order bases + hq working behind the scenes on potions etc, so she's even further removed from the personal aspect of all this & has an easier time accepting that both s + reg can become good people (tho at first she dislikes reg bc james is tutoring him + flirting w him lmao). lily also sees a lot more gray area than james, who tends 2 view the world in black & white terms (if you're fighting for the d.e. ur bad, if you're fighting for the order ur good, etc). for lily, everyone has the capacity 4 both good & evil, and a person's life is largely shaped by conditions outside their control, so her worldview + relative distance from the whole conflict makes it easier for her 2 accept that reg + s can change.

but remus has grown up as a werewolf under voldemort's government for most of his life, not in order bases, and so he has a very acute sense of the ways in which individuals make up + perpetuate these systems of violence, and is not particularly forgiving towards them even if he recognizes that yes, people can change and yes, that's probably a good thing--it doesn't undo the hurt they've done and it doesn't mean he's going to forgive them. this is why r + reg aren't friends, even tho lily + james are friends w both of them; r didn't really like reg from the start & basically just avoided him as much as he could, which wasn't hard bc he was out doing work 4 the order + reg was working in potions labs w lily. so even tho r could recognize that like, ok i guess it's good we got a reformed d.e. working 4 us, he never had 2 go through like a personal struggle of actually feeling friendly towards the guy & basically just kept disliking him lol. so not only does he already hold these grudges (understandably!), he also doesn't think of evil in the same way as the others--whereas james views voldemort, the figurehead of this entire system, as the Ultimate Evil, and lily can understand how people born into these violent systems would perpetuate them but thinks that's usually more from being misguided than ill intent, remus views this as a structural issue in which people like s, who (from r's pov when they first meet) think of themselves as generally 'good' people, still justify their role in these systems of violence because it benefits them, which is much more insidious and infuriating than someone like voldemort, who is just pretty straightforwardly a Bad Guy. and that's what i mean when i say r views s of representative of like, everything wrong w society--bc the vast majority of people in society are like s, who view themselves as good people and blame all (or at least most of) the bad on figureheads like voldemort without recognizing their own role in structural violence. and his whole relationship w s & feelings for him just make it way more difficult 4 him to watch s change + grow & to accept that that's possible, even though, theoretically, he should want it 2 be possible, bc there's this more personal level of pain...someone who views themself as a good person hurts u & u want 2 go "hey!! ur not a good fucking person!!" but then they actually become a good person (or at least a better one) so then what do u do w that hurt, y'know?

anyway. this got v long but yeah have actually spent quite a bit of time thinking about these 3 characters & how their different worldviews + experiences shape their attitudes towards the black brothers!

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

What's your opinion of President Snow as a character in THG trilogy? Was he a great villain?

* Spoiler for TBOSAS *

After reading the novel, what's your opinion about Coriolanus Snow 'transformation' in the end?

Was it his nature or the way he was nurtured that led him to become the character we know?

Thank you :)

@curiousnonny

Snow was a Bond villain and I will die on this hill. He's awful, don't get me wrong, and I certainly would never want to meet someone like him, but there are so many more efficient ways for him to get what he wants, for him to keep control of Panem. He fixates so much on Katniss Everdeen that he loses sight of almost every other threat. I mean... why send Peeta back hijacked to kill one person when he could send Peeta to 13 carrying some kind of lethal disease that would wipe out a large portion of 13's population without harming the weapons or infrastructure? He takes on his fight with Katniss and Peeta with single minded determination and basically forgets that his real enemy isn't just this one girl and her pesky tag along baker boy. These are two kids from District 12 who, while they certainly have a large impact, are by no means the largest or most important piece of the rebellion game. At times it feels like they are because we're in Katniss's head and only see her perspective, but the rebellion and the overthrow of the Capitol happens mostly not in front of Katniss.

That said, Snow tells us in Ballad that he has a tendency to be obsessive and fixate on one thing, and if I remember correctly, Collins even drops the foreshadowing line of "it would be his undoing if he didn't learn to control it" or something to that effect in case we missed the point the first time around when he tells Katniss that he was so busy watching her that he didn't see Coin coming. So that's exactly what happened he didn't control his tendency to obsess when it came to Katniss and Peeta.

And I don't think that makes him a "great" villain. I think it makes him the villain that makes sense for this story. And the one with the right kind of flaws for the plot of the original trilogy to make sense and work well.

One of the things that's actually really good about Collins returning to Panem to tell us Snow's story with Ballad is that Snow finally makes sense in the original trilogy, rather than being a caricature villain. He spends the entirety of Ballads obsessed with Sejanus and Lucy Gray, even though he doesn't want to be. He can't figure them out, and while he manages to "beat" them both by literally getting the one killed and possibly killing the other, his actions still stem from his inability to understand them or control them, and therefore his obsession with them. And then 65 years later he does the same thing, only he can't understand and therefore can't control these two kids either and thankfully just keeps (ultimately) failing with his Drama King tactics like dropping a bunch of roses from a bomber in order to play with Katniss's head rather than do something that would, you know... actually be an effective war tactic. And he does it all in the name of trying to get them to kill each other the way he killed Sejanus and Lucy Gray.

As for the nature versus nurture question, I think it's a little bit of both? We are of course, always influenced by the people around us. But the whole thing about Snow being 17 and right on the cusp of adulthood in Ballads is that yes, how you were nurtured impacts your decisions, and he was certainly raised and taught to become what he did, but Snow in Ballads was also literally surrounded by a thousand chances to do the right thing or to become a better person. I don't think he was nurtured in a way that would've made him heroic in our eyes. Not at all. But he didn't have to be so awful. And a lot of it also has to do with the REASONS he does what he does. He only helps Lucy Gray because it helps himself. He only befriends Sejanus because it benefits himself (momentarily). He only listens to Dr. Gaul because it benefits himself, and he ignores Dean Highbottom because those thoughts make him uncomfortable and angry.

There were any number of people showing Snow or telling him how to be kind, humane, thoughtful, and he ignored them all or dismissed them as weak, stupid, inconsequential (how do you like that call back to Peeta's words huh?). Tigris, Lucy Gray, Sejanus, the guy from the bar whose name escapes me but who was always kind to Coryo and his family. And yet Snow actively kept choosing to be a violent, murderous, entitled dickbag.

Thanks for the ask, @curiousnonny!!!

[lestatslestits]

I’m sorry, but spending a season prior to episode six seeing one character desperately clinging to a clearly abusive relationship and trying to keep it intact even when it was harmful, then not being ready to process new and meaningful relationship dynamic shifts yet after the relationship ends, while not understanding why Aziraphale made the choice that he made just…makes no sense to me.

Yes, he made a bad choice. He chose something that is not healthy for him. He chose to try to work inside and change a system that is broken enough that it cannot be fixed without tearing it down and rebuilding it. He chose an option and then immediately learned that it was was effectively working to undo everything he worked so hard for and committed himself to in season one.

And I genuinely think that all of it makes sense for where Aziraphale is in his journey.

Crowley has a different relationship with Heaven than Aziraphale does. He’s fallen. He knows what can happen, and he knows he survived it and built a new life. Aziraphale is still desperately clinging to the safety of a system that always told him it was the answer, because he doesn’t know what else to do (he’s also being lovebombed by The Metatron but that’s neither here nor there). And yes, it’s a system that hurts people. That hurt the individual closest to him. That was completely willing to destroy him on multiple occasions. That he has held onto for too long. And it’s very clear that his story, his pain, and his character development aren’t over yet.

It’s almost like a character who has existed for his whole existence as part of a fundamentalist system being faced with new and illicit feelings for someone he has always been told he would be punished for loving and then retreating back into the system that has set itself up as his only hope of goodness is a metaphor for something.

It doesn’t make it okay. It doesn’t make him not responsible for any harm he causes. But I think it makes perfect sense for who and where he is as a character.

[cherry-flavoured-thot]

Can you do u and x with Mr. Lucifer 🥺🙏

🎉3k celebration 🎉

u - undo, how do they attempt to be forgiven for making you upset? what do you need to do after making them upset to get their forgiveness? 

It's in moments like this that Lucifer silently curses his pride. He is all too aware that you would never intentionally throw yourself in harms way without reason. "You aren't invincible," but still he seethes, anger veiled beneath a low tone bordering on a hiss. 

“I know.” 

"And yet, you continue to act with such stupidity that would give the impression that you are." He's being harsh, unnecessarily so, you shrink with each sentence that comes out of his mouth. It doesn’t help that any defense you could have is met with pushback from him.

"You were in trouble, I was just-" he was terrified. You had jumped out in front to defend him, almost getting yourself injured in the process. Terror in it’s purest forms settled itself inside his chest, it constricted his lungs until breathing seemed impossible. But as you stand before him now, apologetic in every sense of the word, he doesn't convey those feelings to you.

"I don't need your protection. Not when it will most likely end up with you dead." No. Instead he scolds you. And regret quickly settles in as you stare at him in silence. In those moments where nothing passes between the two of you but air, he reconsiders his actions. 

He could forgive you for just about anything if you apologized sweetly enough, but the thought of you sacrificing yourself for him, frightens him. Fear is not something he is familiar with and he realises that perhaps he should be telling you this instead of chiding you for good intentions.

The silences ends. Hurt flashing across your features, and then anger. "I'm sorry for being so weak that my protection offends you." You pause, a glare preceding your next words. "Next time I'll just stand to the sidelines and watch you get hurt then." Sarcasm drips from your mouth like venom, and sting him they do.

He tries about everything to gain your forgiveness, except for actually communicating his feelings. Flowers, chocolates, hand written notes that say he's sorry, as well as texts along the same lines. But when it comes to sharing with you how deeply fear dug its claws into his spine, he avoids it at every turn.

However, he'll go great lengths for your forgiveness. Even if he must confess, in a voice so small he forgets that its his own.

"I was afraid."

x - x-ray, what are some of their thoughts when with you that they don’t say aloud? 

You have a tendency of letting yourself into Lucifer’s study, claiming that you’re only doing it to make sure he remembers to take a break. Not that he minds, while he might sigh thinking about how much more work he has to do before he retires for a night, your presence is very much appreciated. 

Every time he reasons to himself that five minutes of respite from paragraphs of proposals wouldn’t hurt in the slightest. Only for those five minutes to teeter closer to an hour mark, sometimes even two. For some reason, every time, you both check the time, and realise its been far longer than five minutes, surprise follows. 

You apologise for keeping him so long, but he always tells you to not apologise as he’s always happy to spend time with you. “I’ll let you get back to work.” It’s why, despite knowing if you stay he’ll never finish his tasks, that as you leave, he thinks to himself:

‘Don’t leave, not yet.’ 

[eri-pl]

Silm reread 8 Flight of the Noldor.

Yavanna cannot make the Trees again because That's How Things Work. At least we get a clear statement (again) that she did create their light, so sorry musicals, the Trees did not contain the Flame Imperishable. (I know in one abandoned later revision they kind of maybe did, but also it is like nails on chalkboard to me)

And Yavanna says that their harm would be undone and Melkor's evil would not reach its goal. Very Yavanna thing to say, very "where's the undo button". I'm not a fan. Like, I get her and it's not evil or smth… but… sorry, my pretty green lady, this doesn't work like this.

Tulkas. Can't you just sit still? (No, he can't.)

"Not the first one"! This line always makes me smile, it's just so "random oneliners to say". (I don't think Namo is rude, I think he's just quite alien and doesn't understand CoI and their psychology)

Despite being left to brood in silence, Feanor is paranoid anyway. :(

Capital D Darkness again — it's Ungoliant's stuff.

Finwë died on the threshold of Formenos — defending the house, but it is assumed, I think, because everyone else ran away. Either he had a weapon in hand, or they just assumed he was not trying to run away. Anyway nvm the narrative frame, the indent is that he was defending the house, so ok, why not. Very brave of him.

Feanáro curses a lot:

curses Melkor and renames him

curses Manwë's summons (so it was Manwë who ordered him to come? This would be some overstepping. I'll assume it was Manwë inviting him personally to come and Ingwë ordering him. Or just Manwë ordering him to come not as his ruler, but as ruler of this land, like "if you want any chance to be unbanned from Tirion, you must come")

curses the hour when he left home (very puzzling thing to do imo, but it is a genre thing I suppose)

Melkor wanted to kill Feanor mostly. So the book says. i am honestly surprised he didn't— oh wait. Maybe putting the Silmarils on his face and the pain was what made him shift from "kill Feanáro and his kin" to… well, all those stuff he did with Maedhros.

Morgoth can't ditch the spider. :D I suppose this confirms that now he is fixed in his body. She calls him Black Heart (derogatory, I suppose?) which nobody else does. It is kind of cute when your overgrown ex-pet murder spider has a pet name for you. :P

The "I rule the worls" stuff. I think this is the first time we see him say it (at least in the well-established canon timeline).

The Silmarils are in a box, and they still start burning him. So:

the burning increases or at least increases until it reaches its full level

they are small enough and Morgoth is big enough that he can hold the box with them all in his hand (right. does it have any meaning?)

It's confirmed that Morgoth had given Ungoliant some of his power and she'd grown and he'd lessenned. I assume it was during their initial negotiations.

She puts a web on him if not a full cocoon. The Balrogs have to free him with the flaming ...I forgot the word.

Also, the Balrogs were hiding in the deep dungeons after Angband, which suggests they did not work for/with Sauron. they seem very much like Morgoth's private guard. Also, they free him without question despite the fact that he seems pretty weak at this point.

The Balrogs have no problem chasing away Ungoliant, I attribute it to their connection with light (or at least fire. But fire is a kind of light, even their fire).

Yavanna was afraid that the Silmarils would be eaten by the darkness. this sounds very much like her.

Morgoth:

calls himself king of the world (the contrast of this and his situation...)

his hands are permanently black with burns and always in pain (which angers him even more)

also his crown seems to hurt him

seriously what is wrong with you?

you need therapy

seriously is insane at this point

also has a super powerful aura of fear

The Valar sit and (think, I guess), their courts (Maiar and Vanyar) cry about the Trees, the Noldor go back to Tirion. Suddenly Feanor. Who technically is still banished, which I think is more of a case of "the Valar had other priorities and he didn't ask" or "we aren't going to let him back to his brother in this state of emotions because there wil be more murders" than "revenge for not giving the Silmarils o Yavanna".

Also, now, of all times, is when many of the Noldor learn about the Men being a thing. Because before that Melkor told a few in secret and tehy apparently told Feanáro in secret… Peak unfortune timing. Peak planning on Melkor's side (not that he could now appraciate it).

Also, in Polish it's not "jealous gods", but "jealous Valar" which is interesting, but I think it makes sense. Still, it is out-Tolkiening the Tolkien I think.

Oh. Another part I need in English, because it's so important.

After Morgoth to the ends of the Earth! War shall he have and hatred undying. But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils that he stole, then behold! We, we alone, shall be the lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and the beauty of Arda! No other race shall oust us!’ [src]

Oh my. It is so much.

First, it is obvious that "reclaim the Silmarils" is (in his mind) the relatively easy, or at least short, part.

Second: "We, we alone, shall be the lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and the beauty of Arda!" I don't think this needs any comments.

Aaaand then they swear the Oath.

It's just one huge downward spiral, and he talks himself into it. Yes, trauma, but why are you pouring gasoline on it??? They all need… a lot. And to stop pouring gasoline on everything.

Fefe. I am so dissapointed with you. I am sad. I don't have the words for this. Also, you hate Morgoth, but you two are so similar sometimes.

Oh, and in the Silm they do not call Eru, they call the Everlasting Darkness to claim them if they break their oath. At least according to the translation. also, yes, revenge and hatered is mentioned, but no requirement to succeed in killing the offenders.

Galadriel is enthusiastic about Feanáro's plans, even though she dislikes him. :P

Manwë is silent, because he doesn't want to stop Feanor. Because he careas about the Noldor feeling enslaved! At least the translation says it pretty clearly. They (the Valar, or at least M&V) sit and watch, hoping that the Noldor will calm down.

Politics, politics… Fingolfin goes because Fingon, and the people, and he promised. Mentioned in this order.

90% of all the Noldor go (to Alqualonde and north, it's unclear how many came back with Finarfin). I wonder if it is of all the Noldor or just of the male Noldor. Because most of the women seem to stay.

Eonwë (not named, but seems like him. Technically it may be another Maia) comes to give them advice. Just an advice. Explicitely says that the Valar will not stop them and they came freely, they can leave freely.

Finarfin and Finrod and all the "wisest of Noldor" are in the back and carry a lot of stuff. Good for them.

Túna was nearly at the equator! Oh. interesting. They are very, very far from the Helcaraxe, and I assume nobody invited navigation without seeing the shores (sorry I don't know the English one word term for this). So they have a logistics problem.

The Teleri seem to refuse any help because they don't want to go against the Valar. Even though the Valar did not forbid it, they just said it was a bad idea. The Teleri just trust them, because Ulmo is cool. Also, they don't have much experience with Morgoth and assume "the Valar will fix it all".

An arguement ensues.

Fefe leaves, broods, and returns to Alqualonde when he has enough army. Then he starts seizing the ships. The Teleri push the Noldor to water, a fight ensues. Fingon join them and assumed that the Teleri were ordered by the Valar to stop the Noldor and attacked them. So, Finarfin and his team was not there. Fingolfin might not be at the battle either?

Olwë calls Ossë for help (so, he did survive), and we have the hilarious "I can't because the Valar forbade us to stop the Noldor. However, my wife, who has a clear recorc, will drown them with her crying anyway."

Blatant ad for the Maglor. "…for more details, see the Noldolante…" This is hilarious.

so they all go far, and it takes a long time. Some (most trusted by Feanor) go on the ships, other on foot. they travel from the equator to, idk, but a pretty cold area.

And only then, after probably weeks of travel, they get Namo(or is it?) and the Doom of the Noldor. (I need to correct one of my fics. This fact makes it 3 times more hilarious. even with the Maiarin teleportation).

Finarfin comes back, and he walks all the distance back. Has a lot of time to think, I guess. Many elves join him, but no number estimates or percentages. :(

The rest go further north.

Helcaraxe was assumed impassable. So no, nobody could predict Fingolfin would led his people there.

This was a very, very long chapter.

[completeoveranalysis]

[7]

Oh man I LOVE the tableau this scene is selling, with Yuuko and Kohane in matching but opposite garments, surrounded by the slow falling cherry blossoms, as Yuuko holds her hand out to Kohane and affirms that all the truths that she’s been avidly sticking to as her final promise WERE worthwhile and valuable and have actively turned the situation around for her. 

And yet it’s still fresh enough that when Yuuko mentions the truth she told about her mother, the memory still hurts Kohane and she looks down, breaking the gaze between them - but even so Yuuko continues to smile at her and explain further. 

And not to intentionally drag anything away from this scene, but I think this is such a CORE Yuuko moment. We see her gentleness, her care, the kindness in her - and also her role in the universe, so clearly. She states here that nothing can actually change the past - which is fine, because Kohane wasn’t trying to do that, and instead this is affirming that the choice to quell rumours is MUCH more achievable. But it also sets this moment as such a CLEAR opposite to Evil Wolverine and literally everything he has ever tried to do. The past cannot be changed - but that is what I assume he’s trying to do. He’s breaking the rules of the universe intentionally, manipulating layers upon layers of events so that everyone else pays the cost instead of himself - entirely selfish, entirely taking, actively against the threads of the universe itself. 

Yuuko works in tandem WITH the universe, upholding the rules and keeping everything in balance - entirely selfless, unable to do the things she truly wishes to do, acting as a neutral party even when she deeply cares for the people in stake, but even then, as we see here, she STILL CAN find ways to be kind, to show affection, to make sure people have the love they need, even while sticking to her role. She is so GOOD - but by her own design, and not by accident or by force. She is technically neutral, and very strictly so, but SHE HERSELF is always acting with care. She is a force of order, but with compassion and reason, and always moving on and moving towards healing when it’s deserved. Evil Wolverine is purely a selfish chaos, undoing all the rules he possibly can for his own goals, obsessed with undoing something that’s already happened - an unhealthy, destructive obsession, no matter the cost.

They are such stark contrasts to each other that I really think the plot itself is going to have to break the balance between them when things start to get really dire, and I’m already pre-emptively depressed over what this might mean for Yuuko. 

But coming back to this moment in particular, Kohane’s mother has all the same tendencies as Evil Wolverine - a destructive obsession with the past, trying to cause harm to correct events that can never actually be changed, uncaring of how much this hurts other people. She parallels him but on a much smaller scale, a more personal story, and even JUST with the story focussing on how much it hurts Kohane, it’s clear that the universe does not and could never reward this kind of obsession. Instead, what Yuuko is saying, and what Kohane wants, is to move on instead, to focus on the happiness you CAN have if you let go of obsession and appreciate the love you still have in life. Even when bad things happen, the only real way to exist is to grieve, slowly move on, and always move towards a purely personal happiness that only you can achieve for yourself. And that is the balance of the universe.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Court - a Malevolent Fic

Six years.

It's not enough time.

Hastur will make this work— and that means a few significant changes in standing for his Court Composer and the piece of a god that rides him.

Part of the Surrogate series.

AO3

--------

Arthur knew Hastur was not all right.

Of course he wasn’t. Not after yesterday. After what he’d had to do.

Hastur maybe wasn’t doing what Arthur had done—he wasn’t going self-destructive in an obvious way, like drinking himself to death—but this was still not great. If Arthur had to guess, fixing everything was Hastur’s alcohol, and he was drinking 80 proof.

“Hastur,” Arthur said, following the warmth and lingering power of the god.

Hastur stopped.

Arthur ran into him. Ahead, behind the closed doors, came a constant murmur of monsters. 

Fuck, said John. What are we doing here, Hastur?

All the sound suddenly cut off. 

Arthur, he’s put us in some kind of bubble.

“Arthur. John,” said Hastur, his voice low, though Arthur could still feel it through his black, gold-toed boots. “We have six years to play this next game, but I can’t do it without correcting my errors.”

“You said that,” said Arthur. “I get it. I do. But you’re moving too fast.”

“Arthur, there is no time .”

“Yes, there is. Listen to me. I’ve been where you are.”

Hastur was silent. John was silent.

Arthur didn’t want to talk about this, but he had to. “I’ve held… her. I’ve been there.”

Hastur groaned, low.

“I get it,” Arthur said. “But you can’t fix it. You can’t… you can’t undo the past. You have to move forward.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” said Hastur, so gently.

Arthur sighed. “Hastur…”

“John. Arthur. Listen to me.” Hastur spoke low, evenly. “Some things must be done quickly. One of those things, Arthur, is I must undo the damage I have done to you.”

Arthur’s cheeks burned at the threat of attention. “Why?”

“Because it never should have happened. It was wrong. And it will be in the way . From this point, we must assume people are going to realize Faroe is your child. You know that, don’t you?”

Arthur hadn’t really wrestled with it. “She looks that much like me?” he said in a tiny voice.

“She does. Your reputation will harm her. Is that what you want?”

Fuck.

Arthur knew that Faroe was being used like a lever to get him to agree to something, but he did agree with this. "No, of course I don't want my reputation to hurt her, but—”

“And John, I need to repair the damage I did to you, too.”

What? What damage? John huffed.

“I’ve kept you isolated. By hiding you, yes, in a sense I protected myself; but I have let you grow feral.”

Feral!

“You say whatever you wish without consequence.”

John growled. Fuck you and your consequence.

“As I said. Arthur is about to become a much more public figure, and you can’t protect him when he has to pretend he can’t hear you. Do you understand? It must come to an end today. It’s time.”

And now, Hastur was using Arthur as a lever for John—but was he wrong? “Hastur,” said Arthur, slowly. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Making amends—and  taking out two birds with one stone. I’ve let my court grow fallow. I’ve allowed stupid intrigue and other issues to persist because they were amusing, and posed no threat to me—but they do to Faroe, and it’s time I pulled those weeds. By revealing you, I have my excuse.”

How the fuck does that follow?

“Emotional shock, of course,” said Hastur. “The madness of this day will cover the changes I make. And it is going to be done today. All over with. Fixed.”

“Fuck,” said Arthur. “Whatever you’re planning here isn’t going to fix anything.”

Hastur rumbled, low. “There will be violence done today,” he warned, “and you will be revealed. This is happening.”

Godsdamnit, wait, you—

Hastur opened the doors.

#

A mighty cheer rose; praise for him, welcome, delight to see him again. Pleading for attention, offers of sacrifice (in exchange for attention), declarations of loyalty (in hopes of attention), demands for aid (which were pleas for attention).

They would regret that demand today.

Hastur swept toward his throne, and out of habit, out of thousands of years of tradition, the crowd began to close in behind him. Arthur was cut off, and slowed.

Then Hastur stopped.

Just stopped. Several sycophants bumped into him. The buzz of conversation dimmed because no one knew what that meant.

And the Hastur broke tradition even more. He turned around. “Arthur. Join me.” 

The crowd parted messily like soft butter, leaving a path between them. Everyone was silent.

Better walk forward, Arthur, John said softly. They’re all staring.

Arthur did purely out of panic, following John’s words because he was too shocked to be stubborn. His boots sounded so damn loud.

Hastur waited until Arthur was nearly upon him before resuming his march. No one closed ranks between them this time, but the clamor did not rise quite the same. Their curiosity tickled under Arthur’s skin, buzzing and unpleasant. He felt horribly seen, stared at, with no way to hide.

“Come, Arthur,” said Hastur, and his tone was hard to read. Even, firm, gentle, but not soft, not quiet. It was meant to be heard.

He’s conjured a seat and table beside his throne. It’s small, it’s not like Faroe’s throne or something, but… fuck. Maybe we should run for the window.

No one knew what was happening. The few creatures that breathed with wet and soggy sounds were all that could be heard. 

Well, Hastur had wanted emotional shock. He was certainly getting it. Arthur swallowed and followed Hastur’s voice. Maybe he was wrong. Mayber Hastur wasn’t trying to fix anything. Maybe he’d gone goofy. Off his chump. Bananas. “John, where’s the—” his foot hit the first step. Horrifyingly aware of being watched, he made his way up this new and strange dais, felt the table, and slid around to the seat.

The court murmured like bees.

They’re all staring.

“Oh, gods,” Arthur murmured.

“Greetings, my people,” said Hastur. “It has been some days since I heard your complaints, your concerns, your convoluted wishes; it is time to hear them again. We have recovered from the Games, and the damage done after. It is time. Come to me. Come as you did. I will hear you.”

Maybe Arthur didn’t have to do anything? Sure. Because the King in Yellow was known for restraint . Arthur’s hands clenched on his thighs.

What the fuck is he up to? muttered John. He couldn’t have been literal out there. Could he?

“I don’t know,” Arthur whispered.

“Ah,” said Hastur just as the flow of voices began to rise again. “I see you are puzzled. Perhaps because of the addition of my Composer.”

Silence.

Arthur’s gulp was very loud.

“In the madness after the attack, after the Games, as you know, there was some… confusion. My daughter tried to chase after the enemy; she is brave, and strong, but yet young. I pursued her, and many things happened since. We have allied with Celephaïs; we have taken revenge on many of our enemies. We have become the jewel of the east, generous to those who struggle in the wake of The Storm. In the course of that time, my Composer has proven himself… worthy .” 

The word boomed like a passing train, shaking the room, shaking Arthur. Even with the warning outside, this wasn’t how he’d thought this would go down.

Okaaaaay, said John, as dubious as anyone had ever been.

“You know I have spoken poorly of him through the years, though he has, in his time here, given me no further cause to.” Hastur sounded amused, intense, certain. “I have never made a secret of my initial displeasure with him; well, my beloved beasts, prepare yourselves for what might be a shock.” A beat. “I was… mistaken. ”

Voices rose now , oh yes, they did, mostly in denial—telling Hastur he was wonderful, that he’d never make a mistake, all the usual bootlicking shit. But Arthur noted the absolute dead silence between those claims, and somehow, he knew: Hastur had not drawn attention. Hastur had drawn predation. 

Fuck, John said quietly. Is he admitting weakness? What the fuck? What the fuck?

Hastur laughed. He sounded delighted. “Mistakes happen; I’ve been overdue for one for at least ten thousand years.” 

He got some laughter in response.

Arthur felt like his spine had turned to ice. What kind of playacting insanity was this? What was Hastur saying?

“I tell you all this now, my beloved ones, so as to get the nonsense out of the way,” said Hastur, and slid one tentacle around Arthur’s tensing shoulders. “Arthur earned my favor—more so than many here—at great cost to himself. He attacked my enemies without my prompting, without my command or promise of reward, and took terrible injury on my behalf. He showed himself to be loyal… though I had not given him kindness. As a result, I have seen fit to reward him.”

Uh-oh.

Where’s he going with this?

“Nowhere good,” Arthur whispered.

“I will reveal the honor bestowed,” said Hastur. “But before then, it is time we addressed some lingering problems .”

The silence was terrible.

Hastur laughed again. A terrible sound, a room-shaking sound, rattling the newly-repaired sconces. “You see where I’m going, don’t you… G’qmarth? Man’wlth? Ala’kughla?”

No one breathed.

Oh, shit, said John.

“I know who has worked against me over the past decades. I have allowed it—out of amusement, or disinterest. Those small plottings came to nothing, after all. I am merely amazed that those who so dabble in danger thought I did not see. ”

Oh. Oh, so this would be some kind of retribution. While Arthur sat there, in full view, apparently the reason for the “violence done today.”

Oh, shit , John said again.

Arthur agreed. He exhaled shakily.

“You see, friends, the loyalty of this flawed human has provided clarity .” The word sounded like judgment, and was followed by another touch—one of Hastur’s tentacles, sliding from his head to his mid-back while everyone watched. “Here and now, for this moment only , I grant a chance. A single opportunity to come forward and rededicate yourselves to me. To forgo your foolish plans and plots, to cut off your spy networks—yes, L’Atan, I know all about it—and I will forgive you. I will let you live. Yes, you will lose some power, and you will pay for your disloyalty, but you will survive . If you refuse…”

John’s breath matched Arthur’s, fast and shallow.

Hastur’s voice dropped an octave. “Refuse, and I will act with prejudice. I have seen loyalty , pure and beautiful, crafted in the inelegant hands of this simple, sweet human. I am reminded of its taste. Its flavor. Its perfection. It is time, I think, to reward its presence… and remove its false reflection.”

Silence. Nobody even seemed to be breathing. 

“Very well. We will do this the hard way,” said Hastur. The doors slammed shut with a reverberation Arthur felt in his seat, and he jumped. “Pqi’l. Oh, Pqi’l… I know that you have spread rumors of my madness for nearly twenty years.”

A low murmur. Stammering. “Lord of the Golden Dawn, I had every reason to believe something had happened to you! You let Carcosa be sacked, you took off looking for no one knew what, you—”

Hastur left Arthur’s side.

And then came a series of sounds Arthur could hardly believe. Tearing, sizzling, splattering , and screams. Fuck! John cried as Arthur pressed back against his chair, gasping.

There had been no pageantry. No showing off, no duel for drama’s sake. That guy is fucking dead! John said, and Arthur could hear ichor burning the onlookers, who cried out.

Hastur was back on his throne, and placed one hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Steady, Arthur.”

“What?” Arthur said, voice high. “What’s happening?”

“L’prth,” said Hastur, giving no one the chance to regain balance. “Did you think I was unaware that Carcosa did not receive full payment from Yggdrasil for our soil?”

A horrible two-tone hiss. “It wasn’t… I was owed! There was so much! You didn’t even need it! You’ve never cared before when I—”

Hastur left Arthur’s side.

Another series of sounds, terrible, meat-ripping sounds, gurgling cires cut off. Voices rose over each other, denying, questioning.

Arthur tried to duck under the table.

Returned, Hastur didn’t let him. “Steady.”

“What are you doing?” Arthur whispered.

“Removing weak points. Those who can be bought. Those who have tried to work against the safety of my own.” And his voice rose again. “J’frr. I know you are the reason Sarkomand knew the location of my daughter’s room.”

Oh.

Oh, Arthur remembered that. That was a big one. And yes, the fallout had been horrible, and Faroe had had to pronounce judgment , but right now, that moment didn’t matter as much as the betrayal of that simple detail.

Arthur bared his teeth. “What?” he hissed. “You told her fucking enemies where she sleeps?”

Uh-oh , said John.

Everyone was shocked he’d spoken.

Hastur’s tentacle lightly touched his spine, maybe approving. “Indeed he did. What do you think we should do about this, Arthur?”

Arthur breathed through his clenched teeth. He didn’t know where the guy was, couldn’t face him directly, and did not care. “Kill his motherfucking ass.”

Mouths of all shapes and sizes opened, breath stinking up the room.

J’frr spit. “You elevated a human . You are the traitor, King. Do what you feel you must.”

“Fuck you!” Arthur snapped.

“My Composer has a point,” said Hastur, and left Arthur’s side.

Terrible sounds followed. This J’frr tried to fight, but it wasn’t even a contest. The sounds… howling, as if it a dozen voices…

Holy fuck! said John into the rising din. Holy shit-fuck!

Arthur gripped the table, teeth bared. “I hope it hurts!” he shouted.

Pretty sure it did! Fuck! Fuck!

Everyone was terrified now, muttering, panting, panicking. A few tried the doors; a few tried the windows. No good. They were sealed inside.

He’s lighting a prismatic fire to take care of the ichor, John gasped, and Arthur felt it lick over the table, kissing his skin here and there were drops burned and sizzled, leaving him clean without pain.

Hastur was back, one tentacle around his shoulders again. “M’grrgl,” he said almost kindly. “What do you have to say regarding the servants you dared bribe to listen in my walls?”

M’grrgl gulped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I was a fool. Mercy, my lord! Mercy! Mercy!”

Hastur let the silence stretch just long enough to be awful… and he did not leave Arthur’s side. “You shall have it—and you’ll give me every name, every scrap of knowledge you’ve collected, and every buyer. Then you will spend some time in Urg, doing my will.”

Shocked whispers. M’grrgl hadn’t die. 

“Th… thank you,” M’grrgl managed, voice high with shock. “I will! I will! Thank you! Mighty one! Lord of Carcosa! Iä!”

The murmuring rose again, shocked, accusatory; some called for harsher judgment. Some pleaded to be let out.

Hastur’s voice overcame all the chaos. “Come forward now, or be judged!”

#

The next twenty minutes were absolutely wild.

Anyone who’d been disloyal was called out. Those who made excuses died. Those who didn’t lived. Three times, challengers attempted a coup. Hastur did not bother with drama or trumpets or declarations or choirs. There were no challenges, no brilliant battles in the middle of the floor. There was nothing for bards to sing about. The defiant just died.

The tone in the room had changed. Hastur hadn’t gone kill-crazy; he was only pursuing the guilty. Everyone else got a free show, and they were loving it. 

They laughed, cheered. Booed exposed treachery. It was a good rout, a solid demonstration of the power they served. Hastur even kept cleaning up, burning ichor and godly flesh to ash. 

Arthur felt insane. No one here would forget that all this happened on his behalf. How the hell was this supposed to help anything?

How much longer? John moaned.

“How many people are left?” Arthur whispered. “It feels like he’s murdered half of Carcosa!”

Not even close. Most of the court is too smart or too cowardly to try any of this horseshit. There aren’t a lot of traitors, but he’s cleaning house anyway, and there wasn’t that much to clean. I don’t get why we have to be here for this.

Arthur shook. He felt like he’d been running for his life, wrung out, exhausted, though all he’d had to do was sit here and be seen . 

By now, everyone was chattering, and Hastur had to raise his voice to be heard. “Yes, yes. My people, you are safe; I will always protect us. Now, there is one more item of business, my patient ones, and then I shall hear all your questions and concerns. It is time to reveal how I have rewarded this one who was loyal even in the face of my disdain.”

And attention swung to Arthur with the weight of a thousand suns. Everybody wanted to see this.

Here we go. John took his hand.

Arthur swallowed.

“He took damage for me,” said Hastur, tentacles all gently wrapping all around him like some strange, demonic nimbus. “Arthur was wounded in his quest to help me, and yet he persisted—bones broken, bleeding out, he spent his last breaths in worship.”

What, said John flatly. 

The mutters grew fascinated . 

Hastur spoke again. “I reward the faithful.” Agreement. “I counter loss felt in my name.” Assent. “Therefore, I have honored him with the greatest gift I can bestow. Behold ,” Hastur said like a holy word, a reverent word, and he removed the spell he’d kept on John for the past six years.

Silence.

“His eyes!” someone shouted.

“Is that… is that offspring ?” someone cried, and they all started yelling at once

Fuck me, said John.

Someone nearby laughed with surprise as though they’d heard.

Because they had.

#

It took Hastur a while to calm things down after that, if calm down was the word.

He treated this all with such apparent good will that the court followed his lead straight into celebration, even as they stood on the very ground where their peers had died. “Come, come, now!” Hastur rumbled, tentacles undulating, casting little sparkles here and there, drawing attention, keeping things light (after all the murder, anyway). “What better honor could there be? He is host; his mortal flesh bears the immortal, cradles that which is greater than he could ever be.”

Ugh, said John, and some of them laughed.

“I have seen that it is done, and I am pleased,” said Hastur as though showing off a prized pony he’d bred himself. “Come! I will hear you now. Come to me, my people, and speak your sweet anxieties.”

They had a lot of anxieties. 

There was all the usual stuff, of course, things that required Hastur’s judgment or derision, questions about shipping rates, all the boring queries. But most of the talk was about Arthur.

Comments on how they knew it , that they’d seen Arthur had trouble with the dais today. That he hadn’t looked directly at the guy who’d revealed Faroe’s location, that they knew something was different the moment Arthur walked in after Hastur.

You people are idiots, John said. The minor gods laughed.

“Now, John,” Hastur chided fondly. “You can do better than that.”

You’re right. They’re fucking idiots.

Warm laughter met this statement. Any consideration (however brief) that John might have been tied to the spirit occasionally seen within Arthur vanished. This being was clearly very new. Freshly spawned. John had absolutely no self-control, and his commentary was constant and entertainingly rude.

Fuck you! John said to someone who came too close, to more laughter. 

“What a cutie!” someone said to the left.

“He’s got his father’s looks, too,” said another.

“Damn. Gorgeous family,” said a third.

Arthur put his face in his hands. “This is not happening.”

John just groaned.

The comments kept coming—how sad it was that Arthur couldn’t see them, that now he wasn’t looking quite directly at speakers, that now he startled when something came too near. Oh, the tragedy! Oh the sacrifice! For the Court Composer to have gone blind…

Nobody is that dumb, John said.

More chortling in response. He was, after all, just a baby god.

Any thought that John could be replacing Faroe was quickly dashed. “My daughter’s delayed birthday will be quiet this year, as per her request,” said Hastur. “However, given the stresses of the Games, I would advise you consider your gifts with great care. She is becoming a great strategist and warrior, and continues her pursuit of music and the arts. Think young adult , no longer child , and we will be grateful.”

So that was a thing. There’d be scrambling for presents tonight.

John scoffed. She’s a baby.

“Awww,” said a few gods off to the side. 

“He’s calling the little girl a baby,” said one.

“His older sister, ” someone pointed out, and oh, how they laughed.

“John, you’re making it worse,” Arthur murmured, which was somehow even funnier. 

“My lord,” said some sycophant. “It is good to see the Arthur rewarded. We have long enjoyed his skill.”

“Yes, he is remarkable, isn’t he?” Hastur said as though he’d dug Arthur out of the ground.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, said John.

“If there is… any way we can help with his eyesight…”

“You shall not need to. He understands the trade: I could restore his eyes, but he would lose this honor. Arthur has made his choice. He keeps John, though it means he cannot see.”

There were no words for how stubborn a look that human got, almost but not quite glancing in the direction of the one who offered. “Fuck yeah, I keep John.”

More chuckling. “They’re bonding! It’s adorable,” said someone.

Arthur rubbed his face. His cheeks burned.

That was subtle, John said.

“Oh, shut up,” Arthur said.

Hastur held court, and as promised, did not let Arthur and John leave until the first quarter had passed.

#

Through the portal, he put them down in their music room, and the relief of being out of the public eye was like shade on a blisteringly hot day.

“That was horrible ,” said Arthur.

The fuck is wrong with you? John hissed. 

“I know,” said Hastur softly. “It had to be this way. I weighed the different avenues, and this was the best option.”

“ What avenues?”

Hastur counted off on his tentacles. “One, we could have tried for a slow, near imperceptible change in my attitude toward you, but I dared not risk that going over their heads.”

“You put thought into this?” said Arthur.

“Two, I could have had us act out your mighty deeds,” said Hastur. “But that carried the danger of it not going perfectly, or someone realizing it was fraud—and I would not risk you with true threat.”

Oh, you wouldn’t? John challenged.

“This third option has the most pros and fewest cons,” said Hastur. “It’s not my first time rewriting recent history. We spring the new information and proceed as if this is what has always been. In a few years, no one will remember how it was before. Write your music, Arthur. The galas resume, we are behind on jubilees, and we are late for the Rite. This year, especially, we must honor the Mother, after all she’s done for us.”

That was true. Arthur could never repay the gift of time with Faroe, which was… only yesterday? Gods. “After what you just did, there’s no way we’ll be left alone.”

“I have warded this room. It cannot be breached today while I live. You are safe.”

John stared. Arthur’s mouth hung open. “You really did think this through.”

Hastur touched his cheek. “Enjoy this time alone. You deserve it.” And he re-opened the portal—loud, cheering, gratingly public —and left, closing it behind them.

The silence was shocking. “We what?” said Arthur. “We deserve it? What?”

He’s lost it. He’s gone bonkers.

Arthur sat heavily on the piano bench. “He’s not all right.”

No, really? said John.

Arthur sighed. “I mean it.”

I don’t care. After what he did yesterday… I don’t buy this change of heart. He’s up to something.

Arthur was sure he knew what. “An impossible something. He can’t fix it.”

John fell silent.

“This isn’t good,” Arthur murmured as if to himself. “He’s alone. He doesn’t have a Parker to come alongside him and keep him from diving right off the cliff. This is bad.”

A Parker? John said softly.

“I know I’ve told you some things. John, he… he’s the reason I was even alive when we met.”

And then I fucking killed him. It was a whisper.

Arthur turned and slid his fingers over the keyboard, but didn’t play. “We’re already past that. It’s done.”

It’s not done. We’ve never talked about it. And now he’s fucking here.

“So it’s fine. He’s alive, and we can just move on from what came before.”

You’re as bad as Hastur.

Arthur sighed. He slid his fingers over the keys again, breathing deeply.

John suddenly groaned. They saw me , he said in tones usually accompanied by throwing one’s self face-first onto a bed.

“They did.” Arthur smiled weakly. “Apparently, you’re cute.”

Shut up!

Arthur managed a laugh. “And handsome as your father. ”

I swear to gods I will punch you.

Arthur laughed again, then leaned forward. “Maybe we need a minute before we write. Just�� just a minute,” he said, closing the piano’s lid, and lay on it, face on his arm. 

Yeah. Take your time, said John. Rest.

Arthur was already out. John kept them balanced there so they would not fall, and did not wake him up.

#

In the throne room, Hastur held court. He entertained with tales of his travel in the Dreamlands; he described Celephaïs in all its glory.  He waxed eloquent—if vague—about Arthur's purported faithfulness.

No one brought up the Oracle yet, but they would. It was a matter of time. He certainly did not mention his son now.

He knew how he would play it, when they did. He was prepared. He engaged the whole room in ways he hadn’t since he was young and still establishing who he was: He Who Slept Beneath, the Lord of Interstellar Spaces… the Peacock King. And he seemed fine, triumphant, confident, and his spells kept his tears from being seen, from glittering on his robe, from splashing to the marble floor.

In the corner, in the shadow against the farthest wall, a single small human listened, staying out of the way, trying to understand what the hell was going on. He didn’t yet. Not even close. But he would , damn it all, or his name wasn’t Wallace Larson.

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Notes:

Yes, I DID name the guy who gave away Faroe's location Jafar. What're you gonna do about it, hm?