#that is all thank you for coming to my ted talk

[orbitinthegalaxy]

for a short time, my user used to just be my email, and way back in the early days, i changed the display to be my middle name.

i didn't really want to be known online as that, so then it was "kqitty" cuz it incorporated some of my email. i very much dislike it now, it's cringe, and the only reason it was like that was because of my former "crush" at the time. he had a similar user.

so, i changed everything to my discord user. "orbit" is the name of a cat a friend drew for me, so i adopted them as my oc. the "orbitin" part could be interpreted as "orbiting" or "orbit in", so when you put it all together, it would sound like "orbiting the galaxy" or "orbit in the galaxy".

i should mention i like outer space and cats, which is why all my usernames are related to them. and i'm spacey @w@

kat(sura stellar) just is the name of my self-insert/persona/etc, it's basically just me. the origin of THAT one, is the previous inspiration, but i wanted to make "kat" longer. so i looked up plausible japanese names because i like anime and japanese stuff.

kat can have many nicknames, like "kitkat" or "katsu", so i spliced those together and made it my display for tumblr.

thank you for coming to my ted talk

USERNAME LORE GIVE IT TO ME NOW YOU ALL

[betterbetty]

Little analysis on Misty and the relationships she has with the yellowjackets and herself, because why not.

Honestly, I think one big reason people don’t understand her character is because they don’t understand fatal loneliness. She has truly been living in her own world for so long that she kind of created her own echo chamber. It isn't just she doesn't have friends, she has absolutely no other input. It is incredibly easy to moralize everything you do when you have no connection to anything that keeps you in check. Because you know who you are on the inside, you know that you don't do things maliciously. This is probably how Misty sees herself. Her mind is in a constant spiral, looping around itself to justify everything she does, because how could she be evil? She knows her intentions aren't. I think this also a big reason, other than the fact that she is young, why she doesn't see and never truly will see a problem with her and Ben "being together". She was turned out by social norms and othered at a very young age and now any rhetoric that society throws at her, even moral values, she can throw away in her mind because she doesn't feel the need to live by a "social standard" in any sort of way. Even if that social standard is something objectively right, she'll be grouping it in with a society that rejected her. Why would she live by that? She's figured out her own set of rules for what's wrong and right and a lot of them just don't hold her accountable.

Another thing is that she has truly only lived as a bystander. It's why the woods seem like a perfect solution to her, why she'd want to stay in them longer. She's lonely, she's found a place that is just as blocked off from the world as her mind has been for years. Here is the place where no words yelled against her hold any real weight. Because she is needed here. There is absolutely no one with the knowledge she can provide, at the end of the day their insults are only for show, because they can't make it without her.

This is why we see her start and end relatively in the same place. She is in no way a static character, but the rest of them have a much more obvious descent than she does. Their disconnect from society does the exact same thing that hers has done her whole life; it justifies them. They will never see themselves as evil, because their brains are now doing the exact same thing, moralizing their actions. Telling them that what they did, what they continue to do, is okay because they have reasons. It's why they're so quick to reject Ben, because he is proof that they never had to abandon morals to survive. And it's why they are so quick to establish a hate against Misty once they get back, because she is someone they can easily pin as "crazier" than them. They see her as the obvious outcast, and now their first step back into society is reestablishing that. It's almost how they "gain back their sensibility". Furthering themselves from what Misty is, even though they all went through the same things, is how they manage to go a little less insane.

Truly what every Yellowjackets monologue has kind of dissolved into is the repeating phrase "I am not a bad person because..."

I hope no one takes this as me pinning Misty as an evil mastermind, it's meant to do the exact opposite. I want people to understand just how much loneliness can affect a person and the way they see things.

Anyway, I'd be super stoked to hear what others think of Misty and what's going on in that noggin of hers :)

[7ndipity]

Taehyung: thank you for coming to my Tae talk

Y/n: I told you before, they don't name it after each individual person...

Taehyung: WHY SHOULD TED GET ALL THE TALKS?

[kissingghouls]

Papa Copia preaching in Latin in his billowing robes has me in a damn grip. It's so hot and it makes me feral.

Thank you for coming to my horny Ted talk.

🎶 anon look what you’ve done…🎶

The thing is Copia knows this. He knows when he has the congregation’s undivided and rapt attention. He knows how flushed you get when his robes fit just right.

He also knows how annoyed you get when the others look.

But he pins you with an almost predatory gaze, staking his claim before the devil and everyone else watching. Unholy Latin rolls off his talented tongue, words of worship dripping with intention. A love letter disguised as a sermon with all the pageantry that follows.

He knows. And he fucking loves it.

Ok byeeeee! 👻

[bladedrabbitpage]

look- sorry not sorry for reblogging this onto myself, but I changed my mind and decided I needed to add a caption or something to this.

I am very thoroughly polyamorous- it's probably my autism or something, but I've just truly never understood why people can't love multiple people (or literally anybody and everybody for that matter- I'm aromantic, but that's perhaps a different post altogether).

About a year ago I was dating two people and out of curiosity I looked into it, and when I learned that I could literally be put in jail for the rest of my life just because one day I would want to be married to multiple people, it honestly made me kinda livid.

Just.... let people love each other. I have no idea why old white people on dementia medications are in office, led alone care about the legality of people wanting to show love and affection to each other. Trans rights are human rights. Queer rights, in general, are human rights. Polyamory is a human right. People should be allowed to love however they want, and the idea that the only reason I can't is because some old white guy over in DC thinks its an affront to some grand Creator of The Universe is FUCKING LAUGHABLE. "He" created all of us "freaks," you freaks.

Anyways thanks for coming to my TED Talk. If you don't support polyamory, get off my page.

they should legalize polyamory. everywhere. and im not kidding at all. if someone wants to marry multiple people they should be allowed to. for any reason.

[reggiebytes]

PLEASE I NEED PPL TO LOOK INTO HER NAME MORE

Can we please, pretty, pretty please talk about seer Panda because her name is not analysed nearly enough.

Like.

Pandora? Pandora's box? She's a seer and always sees horrible things:

Evan dying

Regulus dying

The Potters dying

Literally just everyone dying.

So she closes the box.

She stops using her seer abilities.

She pushes it down because it has only ever caused her pain and suffering

But then, when Luna is born, she has to know. She has to know how her daughter's life looks.

And she sees her daughter fight. Sees her fight to live. Not just to survive, but to really live.

And she sees her daughter's bravery to speak up. Evan.

Her quiet yet silence-the-room demeanor. Regulus.

To love others with reckless abandon. James.

And so much more. She sees everything she loved about her lost friends in her own daughter.

That. That was Hope. The Hope collected at the base of her box. Of her life. Luna was Hope.

And forthcame Luna's name. Luna Esperanza Lovegood, a nod to her Italian heriatage and her role in her mother's life of loss.

That's all for today, my little brain rot demons, thank you for coming to my TED talk :)

[gmwsuperfan5467890]

WE WON SO HARD THIS EPISODE!!!

- Buck talking about Eddie non-stop.

-Buck learning that Eddie stopped talking to Tommy as soon as they broke up! (Love that)

-TimTam being a loser and only making an effort when Eddie has left.

-Tiktac also being a weirdo and saying, “The competition has gone.” Like lmao who says that to someone whose best friend has moved away?

-The point above being a bigger win for us because not only does that imply that Buck is in love with Eddie but it also implies that Eddie is in love with Buck because why would he be competition if Buck’s feelings were unrequited?

-The point above confirms that Temu broke up with Buck because he knew that Eddie would be his last.

-Buck saying that Eddie is straight as a response and T*mmy not believing him.

-The emphasis on Buck not wanting to be in love with his ‘straight’ best friend implies to me that we will get an Eddie feelings realization/coming out arc first because only then will Buck be able to look at his feelings for Eddie.

-Eddie’s name constantly being brought up in the episode even though he is not there.

-Buck not being able to sleep in Eddie’s house until he sleeps with a distraction further doubling down that Buck misplaced his feelings for Eddie unto that man.

-The fact that Maddie agreed that Buck being in love with Eddie wouldn’t be crazy.

-The fact that Maddie told Buck that he needs to learn to be alone when Eddie left but not when T*mmy broke up with him, implying that Eddie filled the boyfriend role for Buck, not Tommy (no wonder why he felt like he didn’t have to put any effort, someone else was doing all the work for him, yet he could keep the title).

-The fact that Buck brought some colour to Eddie’s room, which I bet that they are going to keep when Eddie and Chris come back (Eddie might add some of his own designs) to imply that Eddie is finally going to pour into himself without feeling like he is selfish for doing so.

-The fact that when Eddie and Chris come back, the house will be filled with Buck, Eddie and Chris’ stuff. It will truly be their house.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk. This episode was even better than I could have ever imagined.

[feathered-cat]

GREAT HEAVENS

look who's inside again

interpret this however you feel. originally planned/initially started on the release day of tiny uke, it just reminded me a lot of icimi and bo burnham's inside, so i did this.

also please ignore the fact that I spelt surrounded wrong I can't spell for shit

separate images/process/linework below!

hey I actually spelt it right in the previous versions tf. dang

[maoistlandlord]

although i am one of the first in line to criticise the lacking revolution in nepal, it would be immaterial to discount the level of transformation it has gone through in just a few decades, going from being a feudalistic monarchy to a federal democracy. in this short period of time. some of the most glaring forms of repression such as caste-based discrimination, exploitation of women and children, and queerphobia have been reversed, at least legally and in the urban areas.

this has happened under the oppressive thumb of indian expansionism, and in spite of the geographical challenges that come with being a small landlocked country, let alone one sandwiched in between two vast and powerful nations. despite the excessive dependence on external funding, health, education, transportation and infrastructure in general have continued to develop steadily. in my personal experience, there have been long term projects that have greatly improved the quality of living in the city from just a decade ago, when we used to not have power or water for days.

i will not claim these facilities are equally or equitably distributed nor that the government has done all in it's power to bridge the rural/urban divide. there is room for improvement, like a lot of it. but still you can see how the exponential growth of the urban bourgeoisie has countered the backwards nature of feudal reactionaries to a measurable extent.

although the leaders of the revolution have taken an excessively revisionist stance, no one can deny the central role communism played at the heart of this transformation by empowering the indigenous people of nepal who suffered an unparalleled marginalization under the hindu kingdom. to that extent, it is reasonable to say that we had a successful communist revolution with material outcomes that bring us closer to socialism than we have ever been as a country, even though there's a lot more that needs to be done in that regard.

this is the reason why ive gravitated towards juche, because although not landlocked, i feel like the dprk's situation most closely mirrors nepal's out of the socialist countries, and is a good example to follow. under the constant threat of a trade blockade from india which benefits from nepal's overdependency on it and has used it as a leverage in the past to push for it's geopolitical agendas in nepal, nepali revolutionaries stand to gain from adopting a philosophy of political, economic, and military self-reliance, at least to the extent for the revolution to not be neutered by external pressure before it can even take off.

there is also the similarity of having china as a dependable ally to rely upon, although china has taken more of a neutral position when it comes to making relations as there is more to lose with risking regional instability with india. therefore, it will be necessary for the nepali revolutionaries to expand relations with countries beyond those we share borders with, while delicately balancing the regional geopolitics, while also maintaining a mutually reinforcing ties with the communist and indigenous movements in south asian countries, especially india. trade relations are a viable path to pursue this end but something more realistically long-term would be to establish a strong political philosophy to integrate with the global decolonial struggle, just as the dprk does with juche.

it is rough and a work in progress but this is what i have so far. will continue to develop my strategies as i delve deeper into theory and map out what has worked historically vs what has not. thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[forgetful-lethean]

A Hand Bleeding Starlight (I)

A Court of Thorns and Roses Story

Azriel X Hemophiliac!Reader

4.6K Words

Summary:

A human hiding amongst the Fae, you operate as a common bookkeeper in Velaris, using tactics to avoid being detected and sent back to the mortal realm (or worse). Trouble and violence brews in your homeland and the clarion call of war threatens; if you are sent back, you face immeasurable danger. For now, you pray you remain unknown, and your shop successful. That is, until a stranger appears and challenges your idyllic existence. You have secrets that may spill blood; a certain Fae has secrets that will spill blood. Will they remain hidden? Or will the life you've spent years cultivating come crumbling down in the tangled web of Fate and silver-tongued lies?

Chapter One:

"The Face of Stars"

Where you, a simple bookkeeper of a quaint corner in Velaris, must navigate two facets of a dangerous, violent life: papercuts, and an untimely, unexpected, and (frankly) unwanted visitor.

NOTE:

Hemophilia is a bleeding disorder (described in the author's note in the end with an analogy; if you want a more in-depth genetics analysis and explanation, let me know).

This is not to be confused with haematophilia (sexual arousal by blood).

Same suffix, very different definition. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

* * *

It was a simple, universal fact that there was no possibility of taking a walk this day.

It wasn't because of the weather. The weather was stunning—the sun reaching down with fingers of halcyon daybeams, scattering the wandering shadows of the lustrous night as she wound her way across the sky, chased by the unfettered chariot of the sun. The Sidra was set alight in a shimmering rainbow of crepuscular brilliance, an altar of the morn's natural sublimity few ever bore witness to. Thus, it was not a matter of happenstance.

It wasn't because you were busy. The bookstore still hadn't opened—you had a few more minutes for preparation. The invading silence that permeated all aspects of the rhythms of the world lay quiet, peace a tamed, weary beast settling heavily on your floor, your shoulders. Silence bled from the walls; thus, it was not a matter of time.

Maybe it was because Fate, with her silk-shrouded hand, touched you upon the shoulder, imparted some distant, budding wisdom—a seed to form a garden—and said to you, "Stay." A command laced with whispered fury that forced your mind, your being, to frigid standstill, as if the very air turned to a prison. Perhaps it was thus, the prison of destiny preventing you from taking a walk on this beautiful day with a bundle of (decaying) Time on your hands.

Literally, that was.

In the process of mending a delicate spine, lost in your reveries that so entranced your thoughts into sweeping dances of eloquent reflection, you mindlessly bound yellowed pages of antiquated paper into bunches. The ink was brown and faded in some pages, scrawled meticulously alongside beautifully rendered images of birds. It was an ancient tome—one you had found from a seller peddling some wares a few months back in the Rainbow. The History of Prythian Birds—while not the most riveting of titles, thumbing through its archaic histories, its depictions of the courts (death-white realms of Winter home to dark-eyed juncos, snow buntings, and an assortment of monochromatic birds; the buoyant warmth of Day, the eternal seasons so stalwart in their climate that hosted the cardinal vigils welcoming the season's everlasting climate) held your rapt attention. This knowledge of the vast expanse of birds that gifted the lands with generous song and colorful visage...it was so invigorating.

In your spare time, you'd studied the birds, hoping to glean some insights into the courts so far away that eluded your abilities to visit.

Travel would be difficult, of course, given that you were a human hiding amongst the Fae. Having snuck your way across the border, chasing caution on a fading tail-wind in a desperate bid to escape bubbling turmoil threatening to burst in the mortal realm, you'd traipsed your way cloaked, hidden, and bravely (if brave was panicking at any single interaction with a Fae individual that you would be uprooted and cast back across the border) through the courts until you found Velaris. And thus, you set up shop (and home) in the shape of a bookstore that you presided over.

Now, a curious reader in your store might ask how exactly you were to protect yourself against the wiles of the Fae—surely in those daring adventures inked into the books along your dark-wooded shelves you would find the answer. Armed with ancient folklore (which, granted, may be too vastly outdated of use, but you couldn't exactly throw away a rusty set of armor if you needed protection, right?), you set three rules for yourself in this shop.

1.) Do not tell anyone your name. If they ask, your name is Wren (stolen from the book on your counter). The Fae may steal it.

2.) Always wear a cloak to obscure your body, and wrappings around your eyes to cover your round ears. These are sheer enough to still let you see. Thus, your stature will be concealed.

3.) To cover your human scent, always wear a heady perfume. The Fae, with their hypersensitive senses, will be overwhelmed.

And, most importantly:

4.) Never spill blood. The Fae will know.

That last point sank into your heart like a dagger. A mandate that ruled every second of your life—to spill blood would be to spill a secret; to spill a secret was unforgivable.

A Fae did not bleed as a human did.

A Fae did not bleed as you did.

It was a weakness. If you were caught, Death awaited you. And in a world of Fae, those shadows lurked in every corner, every breath, every thought that slipped eel-like through your mind.

Nevertheless, to follow those rules would ensure your comfortable existence within the beautiful Velaris. It had worked so far—with little hiccups of misspoken words that easily were brushed off as the "Bookkeeper's eloquent tongue" or something of a similar fashion. You just hoped it would continue working for the foreseeable future (that is, your lifespan, or a drop in the proverbial bucket for the Fae).

Easy, right?

You shut the book with a solid thunk, the noise deadened by the intricately-carved wood of your repairs desk. The desk was situated away from the counter, tucked into a gap with two shelves towering beside it, sharing a wall perpendicular with the door. Originally, you repaired your books in the privacy of your own room, but you'd realized that many patrons actually found the process interesting, and thus you moved your desk into the main forum of the store, just by the entrance.

Alas! The time to open was upon you—and already, some patrons waited beyond the glass. Your shop wasn't a large attraction, but there were always some Fae you could count on to indulge in books now and then. And, as a bonus, they operated on a purely transactional basis—no questions beyond book inquiries, and thus nothing to reveal.

You set the book aside, making a mental note to revisit the damaged spine barely holding the pages together, and sauntered forward. The wiggling of a key in the lock, the determinate click of the shop opening for the day, invaded the steady silence perched in every corner.

Soon, the door rattled open, inviting a Fae dressed with an impeccable sense of fashion—a tailored mauve coat trimmed with ivory, a slim handkerchief tucked elegantly into a pocket, triple-folded in that ostentatious style. Pale skin, dark hair, and gorgeous green eyes; you could swear he'd somehow captured a jungle in them. He looked you up and down, that snooty light glistening in his eyes, before a broad smile broke his austerity, "Wren! My most fantastic bookseller this side of Velaris—your recommendations last visit were impeccable, I must inquire for more. My lady-friend said—"

"You want more of the romance?"

He paused, a sudden rouge dusting his pale face, "Well, of course! You don't have to say it so loudly, I thought you prided yourself on discretion in this manner of entertainment!"

That stole a breath of raucous laughter from you, and you motioned him towards the largest shelf along the wall perpendicular to the front-set windows. "Naturally, Master Oberyn—but seeing as the store has just opened, I don't think the mice in the walls are going to be spilling any of your secrets anytime soon."

Oberyn's gasp of ghastly surprise—his hushed, "There are mice in the walls? There are mice in the walls! Oh, I can hear them now!"—was enough to make your day...or at the very least your morning. You quieted his discontent, assuring him that, no, there were no mice in the walls and your building was up to code, and that, no, the sounds he heard were not in fact the treacherous critters he dreaded but rather the foundation settling.

You clambered up a ladder leaning against the shelves—a fancy piece of equipment that made you feel like a proper librarian, with wheels on the bottom so that you could roll effortlessly up and down the swaths of books to pick and choose as you pleased. Of course, it also leveled the height difference between you and the vast, vast majority of Fae. A moment spent pondering the selection of romance, most of which Oberyn had ravenously devoured over the months he'd been attending. You spotted one he had yet to read—a leather-bound piece you'd picked up on a dalliance in the Winter Court. Short, but it would tide him over for a few days at least.

You kicked off from the step on the ladder, sliding down with practiced ease as you dropped to the floor, proffering the book with a small bow, "To my most loyal customer."

He crooked an eyebrow, "Then perhaps a discount between friends? Seeing how close and honest we are with each other, no?"

If only you knew, Master Oberyn.

"Ah," you grinned, meeting his brilliantly green eyes—sparkling like two emeralds set against pure, lit clouds at the height of noon, "You know the policy. The price is the price—"

"—and only if you're nice. Yes, I'm quite aware." The drawl in his voice, intending to convey annoyance, instead betrayed his bubbling joy. He looked like a kid, so happy to have a book in his hands, like it truly was a treat! Seeing that feeling, the fierce, fiery spark, it was worth all the secrets. He settled his debts quickly with a few silver coins dropped on the counter, which you promptly ferreted away, and then wished him well on his travels (he was to visit the Summer Court on invitation to one of Tarquin's feasts, naturally).

Oberyn was always the earliest of the customers you served, and usually the brightest. As the day wound on, you served a few wealthy Fae, a few short Fae, a few intimidating Fae, and scores of many interesting individuals. It was going well, as well as could be expected. No accidental paper-cuts, no inquisitive Fae, no mistakes. Everyone seemed to see you as an odd, shorter-than-average, and generally eccentric Fae. They asked no questions, always attributing it to you being just the Bookkeeper.

Until that stranger entered your store.

The dingy bell that announced his presence—overwhelming, scintillating—seemed to pale in comparison to the aura he cultivated. The sun leeching through the windows in lazy beams, decorating warmly the store's interior, seemed weaker. Shadows seemed to twist, seemed darker, seemed slightly more malevolent.

The current batch of patrons—a young girl perusing the small collection of botanical records; an older gentlemen leafing through restored historical pieces; and a gaggle of young men studiously selecting a bundle of books on an assortment of topics—all fell still and quiet. The pulse of vivacity, the heartbeat of murmurs and discussion, faded.

The rhythm of the world seemed to die for three seconds.

Was it possible to feel the beat of a world in motion? You thought you could—there! Fleeting, as the heart of the world began again, and the fear paralyzing your body thawed.

You didn't recognize the stranger—not by his clothes, nor by his appearance. But everyone else did—and that seed of doubt wormed into your heart, your mind, a snake in your own Paradise that whispered and seethed. If all of them recognize him, and I do not... . The implications shone crystal in your head—if you spoke wrong, it would blow everything out of the water. If you treated it just like any other transaction, and that approach was wrong, that was dangerous. It invited violence to your peace.

The man—adorned in dark leathers set with a collection of beautiful sea-blue stones that electrified the air in the store—unknowing of your internal war, simply walked in. His wings—wings! The Fae you knew, the Fae you read, had no wings like this!—filled the space behind him. A wingspan wider than the birds captured in your secret tome, blocking out lazy sunlight and plunging the quaint shop into immediate darkness, an eclipse that killed all caustic brilliance.

This man was so absorbed in the tranquility of hushed tones and rustling pages, dark eyes suddenly bright as he drank in the atmosphere, that he stalked forward with confidence and, with his wings, swept your ancient tome right from its perch on the repairs desk.

Horror jolted down your spine. A flurry of papers announced its fragile death as the jaws of its broken spine released. Somewhere in the depths of your mind, clarion calls rang—the worth of that book!

The shock that lightened his eyes, the disbelief at the destroyed book on the ground...he almost seemed sheepish as he folded his wings back, awkwardly rocking back a step, letting a flood of light back in. The stranger glanced up, met your eyes, saw your horror, and raised his wings—carefully, this time—in a rough acknowledgement of an apology.

Better than him just leaving, you supposed. At least he seemed sincere.

Still you did not approach; still you did not dare disrupt what regal atmosphere followed him. His golden-brown skin, and dark wind-swept hair; he was a classical beauty. The curiosity staining his earth-hued eyes as he swept the store, only stopping on you. It was something different.

Something, perhaps, dangerous.

Shadows seemed to lurch and leer as he finally stepped forward, looking towards the pile of pages at his feet, back to you, searching. No one had spoke, and no one had moved, as if out of deference, not fear. The muscles in his throat worked (did he seem nervous? Fae emotions were always fickle). His voice was husky, a rough timbre, as he asked, "Can you help me find a book to read?"

The telepathic, silent exchange between you and him—to discuss that mess of pages in a moment—let you push past the destruction and instead focus on what he needed. And whatever that was, to get him out of this shop before he wiped out another book!

Regardless, his was an innocuous question. But then, why did it make your heart ache so, your body fear so, your soul wail so?

You nodded, absently dragging a hand along the fabric around your eyes and ears—an old, tough habit—not trusting your voice in this moment. Then, steeling some strength born from your frail mortal courage, you met the Fae's gaze. "Are you looking for anything specific?" There, a general, easy-going question. Professional. Safe.

"Hm. I hadn't really thought about that."

You couldn't bite back your smile at the uncertainty in this man's voice. "You came into a bookstore and didn't think about what type of book you wanted?" Brave, very brave, maybe too brave. He didn't seem to mind.

The man waved a hand, dismissively, "Something interesting."

You dipped your head sagely, as if all the nuance and secrets of the world lay in that simple statement. Two words, four syllables, and potentially a threat to your existence. You glanced down, faintly remembering the destroyed book at the foot of the desk. His eyes followed (you could feel them follow). His presence was dominating, suffocating. A radiant heat, a radiant energy suffusing the area close to him.

The title that riveted you earlier now seemed so mocking. The History of Prythian Birds. An ancient Fae's book, where the author had spent his time moving around the courts, and even the mortal realm, to catalogue the varieties of birds. Your cloak swished around you as you approached and knelt, melting into a pool of aureate silver around your frame. He seemed to stiffen slightly as you brushed by him, then glanced down, looming over your shoulder.

"Actually, that one seems interesting."

You closed your eyes, praying he didn't ask—why was ancient literature involving the mortal realm like this on your shelves? Why was it here? Because you couldn't answer—you didn't keep it available on the shelves. For this. Exact. Reason.

"It's not for sale," you said briskly, the words tense like a rope pulled taut. A flurry of movement caught your eye as a mass of darkness dropped to your level. You refused to look, staring at the pages instead.

"Why not?" A scarred hand fingered the mess, rubbing a soft, weathered page between two fingers. He moved to sweep the pages into a nice stack, just as you were about to. Your hands had already grasped the edges of the paper but he had already began to stand and—

You gasped.

The slicing pain. The burn. The existence of mortal frailty flashed into being, like glistening dew condensing in the morning sun.

A drop of blood welled on your fingertip.

You jerked backwards, yanked by some supernatural force as you pushed your finger into your thigh—hard, too hard. Terror—unadulterated, raging, a harbor sea turned tempestuous—raced through your body. The man was speaking—you heard him speaking, but you didn't register the words. You stumbled back, offering a weak smile, "On second thought, take it!" The words sounded warbled, uncertain even to your ears. This wasn't your blood weakness. This was adrenaline.

Right now, he was a threat.

"On the house. In the condition it's in, you can take it on loan, alright?" The Fae clasped the gathered book in his hands, but it was a gentle hold. Careful, as if the book was going to disintegrate in his hands if he so much as breathed on it. The spine had split; it would need extensive repairs. You could see the questions shining in his eyes, swimming in their depths next to the genuine concern (why would he be concerned? It was only a papercut! It wasn't like you were losing your mind!). A twin uncertainty reflected in him, searching for what, exactly, had caused such a drastic shift in you.

Unfortunately, he insisted: "I have to pay you something, at least."

Please.

He reached into his pocket, drew out a few stray coins—not nearly enough. That book was priceless. You had to trade—to trade—

Please leave.

You pressed your injured finger harder into your thigh. A heartbeat pulsed in that finger. The rush of blood given sentience. Suddenly you were aware of the haze of perfume suffocating your senses—gagging words on your tongue. Why didn't he seem phased? Hopefully it was enough. Hopefully nobody could discern it between aged paper and ancient ink and incensed air. This stranger—the man you wanted to abandon your shop, to take this stupid book that you secretly loved (and now destroyed) and never come back because he was a threat to your merchandise and your secrets—placed the coins on the counter. Dimly, you were aware of the clink of metal on metal.

You forced yourself back to reality, eyes focusing on the Fae man before you, the book clutched in his grasp, his broad wings shuffling behind him. A breath, inhale then exhale. Again. Again. Dodging behind your counter—slamming your hip into the corner in the process—you fumbled around for a bandage, disguising it as though looking for a quill. "I'll need a name to loan the book."

"Azriel." He offered it quietly, like how a child would soothe an injured Luzon bleeding-heart without invoking it to fly on damaged wings.

Az-ri-el. It sank into your mind, settled onto its haunches like a putrid beast taking up necessary mental space; the name stuck to your thoughts. You didn't know why, didn't have time to ponder why. You found a bandage, a clean strip of pure white cloth, and wound it tightly around your finger. Even through the bandage, blood already welled again, seeping. It would have to do. You couldn't solve that issue now—it was in Fate's hands. Then, with an air of faux confidence, you swept a pen from a jar, delicately dipped it into a pot of ink previously left open for record-keeping, and scratched a note on a spare piece of paper.

Prythian Birds.

Loaned.

Azriel.

Condition: Destroyed

Blowing on the ink, you slid it across the counter. "Sign here, please," and you tapped your wrapped finger against the bottom of the page, "For record-keeping, as I don't normally loan this book out." You tried to hide the quaver in your voice.

Get him out get him out get him out!

Azriel, balancing the book in one hand with deft agility, scrawled a quick signature along the bottom of the page. Just barely legible. Good enough for you.

He seemed satisfied, though without the preternatural excitement of Oberyn, with this prize in his hands. Those unfathomable depths that were his eyes met yours, and from this hulking form was a gentle, sincere, "Thank you." Such softness in his tone; was he truly only here to find a book to read? Judging from his attire—a ranking warrior of some type, no doubt—he'd have the funds to host a whole library of tomes just to his fancy.

So why here, in some hidden corner of Velaris? Why here, where secrets came to bare their teeth and curl up on the center rug, content to exist amongst yellowed pages and weathered tales?

Azriel tapped a finger on the counter, and you noticed his wings were tightly pinned to his back now. "Is there anything else you need?" And his voice, his voice! shocked you back to reality. You'd been staring at him, his form, lost in transient thought.

You shook your head, "No, that's all. Just bring it back in decent condition—" you winced, altering your statement, "—I mean...not worse than it is currently."

He gave a solemn nod too serious for this whimsical store, offering a simple, crisp salute with his freehand, "You have my word, bookkeeper." It was almost comical, this warrior's oath, to protect an old book. Maybe he felt indebted as he was the one who, having slain it on the battlefield of your shop, now cradled its corpse. You couldn't help the alacrity that forced you to smile, a hint of warmth blossoming at the silly title.

As he turned with that supernatural quiet, you noticed a splotchy area of fresh ink stained his wrist, spines and dots surrounding it like small stars, where he'd pressed it against the paper while signing it. A drop of ink from the pen must have fallen. Strange, that it almost seemed alive, like the night was dancing on his wrist.

The door rattled, the bell tinkled.

The maestro of Fate clapped her final applause as this not-stranger who you knew as Azriel—a man who, today, killed the sun with shadows that followed his body, a man with gravel in his voice and worn steel in his warm eyes—left. The other patrons, pretending to be absorbed in their search, reanimated suddenly (the girl hadn't flipped a page since Azriel walked in, now she leafed through with renewed enthusiasm; the group of men hadn't uttered a word, now they broke out in exuberant chatter; the old gentleman had spent way, way too long perusing a small paragraph of Fae political history, and, now bored, he stepped away and left the store).

Obviously, they knew something you didn't. You couldn't just ask them, of course—and given you rarely ventured too far out of your store nor engaged with Court politics besides grasping names and titles of the High Lords, their Inner Court, and, in this case, a High Lady, you never delved any further. Perhaps an oversight on your part. Might more knowledge have suited your self-imposed spy life? Certainly.

Was that also invariably more risky? Absolutely.

Thus, you maintained your own microcosm of a Court here, where you yourself ruled the domain of books and stories and endangered tales, and nobody could threaten you here except Fate herself...and paper. Risk-adverse, safe, and with minimal threat to the burden situated primly in the forefront of your mind, eternally.

What were you saying? Fate had no hand in this occurrence, or your ability to take a walk, or this imposing behemoth of a man.

Fate doesn't exist.

That terrible mantra twisted in on itself. There was no ill-defined force twisting the threads of the world. There was no fate, because if there had been, you wouldn’t have turned out like…like this. You wouldn’t have strangled your dreams and hopes and fears into submission so a small bookstore with not enough patrons to support it suffered bills that piled and piled next to that open jar of ink and faltering financial accounts.

Each one was a vicious beast, crumbling the foundation of your dream, of this place.

Fate led you here; Fate will take it away.

And some part of you despised it for that, for its duality.

Quickly, you tended to your seeping papercut with a new, more professional wrap. The blood had now dried and was stark on your skin, but the injury, minor as it was, had slowly stumbled to a stop. A minor blessing, at least.

Just as quickly, you tended to your patrons. The group of males sauntered up to the counter with a smattering of tales spanning genres. They were congenial, respectful, even offering a tip of a few coins (they'd watched the whole ordeal and the destruction of the book, after all, with rapturous excitement). A nice change from some of the more brutal and demanding customers you often dealt with.

You helped the girl find a book her friend had recommended and, upon learning you had a copy, she had raced here. Her delight was palpable, it made your weary smile that much lighter. You were just about to send her on her way when she asked a question.

"So what do you think a member of High Lord Rhysand's Inner Circle wanted with your store? Was it really just a book? You'd think he'd have all the literature he needed right at his disposal!" Her voice held saccharine sweetness; her eyes burned with bitter jealousy.

Why didn't Azriel talk to me? That question plagued her. You could tell. You also knew the answer—the books she was reading...

You didn't pursue that way of thought as the door rattled, bell tinkled, and silence swept through like a tempest once more.

A member of the High Lord's Inner Circle?Panic speared through your heart, eyes widening and breath quickening. The dull ache of your finger surged back to life. That's why the name has resonated in some odd corner of your mind. Was he here because someone had figured you out, and he needed a way to disguise a mission to scope the place out?

Did they know you were human? Were they coming to throw you out already, in just a small time of finding freedom?

That flickering fire, that virile, incessant whisper to discard anything and everything Fate had in store burst forth. The beautifully-tended garden of your store, planted with flowers of paper and watered with the ink of labor and authorial love, was overcome with the weeds of your pestering thoughts. Shadows seemed darker, just then, in the drizzling light, and not because of that forlorn stranger. That supposed spy.

You tried to distract yourself, rearranging a few staggered books on a shelf that had been haphazardly tossed aside.

Thoughts didn't vanish into their silence as they usually did with menial tasks. They stood, vigilant guardians of your sickly, demanding desires. Was Azriel's life so loud, like yours was, in the mind? What if he really was just here to quiet the tremors in his life, as you were? (Why were you thinking that? This man could upturn everything! Why were you entertaining such ideas of a man barely more than a smudge of ink yet to be rendered stalwart and crisp by the artist's brush?)

Was the peace and freedom you desired his as well?

You couldn't shake that nagging persistence. That seeing Azriel again could somehow change everything.

And...what if it did?

Would Fate really be so terrible, then?

* * *

A/N:

Hey there! New writer on the block, wanted to introduce myself a bit after tossing you the wolves (my beautifully-written, flawless, gorgeous piece of classic literature that obviously wasn't a sleep-deprived delusion of grandeur~).

As mentioned above: this reader has a bleeding disorder known as Hemophilia (not to be confused with haematophilia, which is arousal stemming from interaction with blood). The easiest way I've found to describe it is imagine that you and someone else got an entirely identical papercut (unrelated to the story topic at hand). Your papercut would bleed longer, heavier, and overall have a grumpier attitude than your friend's. Or, imagine you have a weakness debuff and a damage multiplier on your body. If you're at all uncomfortable with this idea, that's perfectly fine! But to those that stick around (and I hope you might!), I thought that it might add an interesting weight to the Fae-Human dynamic of frailty and mortality.

All experiences related with hemophilia come from a personal perspective and relationship with the disorder. This is in no way a reflection of myself upon the individual; however, it might be a nice way to raise some awareness about it! Similarly, if you have any questions, or want to share your own experiences down below (I know there's a lot more than just one type or variation of blood disorder), please share--I'd love to hear! If people are willing to share their own experiences about different bleeding/blood disorders that I'm not intimately familiar with (von Willebrand's, sickle cell, HHT, etc.), I may be able to incorporate them into various other instances throughout the story.

This is one of my first foray's into the public writing forum (I usually write just for pleasure), so if you have any tips and tricks, I'm all ears. :)

I plan on posting a chapter once a week, aiming for Friday or Saturday!

Anyways, blabbing done. Hope you enjoyed!

Your friendly neighborhood lore creature,

~ Lethe

[otp-more-like-killmeplease]

Oldies Station got me in my feels again

[hattersarts]

im already at the south downs cottage guys, catch up

[maines]

You’re the best friends anybody ever had. And it’s funny, but I feel as if I’ve known you all the time. But I couldn’t have, could I?

THE WIZARD OF OZ (1939) | AGATHA ALL ALONG (2024)

[unicornpopcorn14]

Chuuya's reaction to Dazai getting hurt during the Lovecraft fight has always been so interesting to me...

Because it's the kind of worry you'd never expect from a character as gruff as Chuuya, who had displayed nothing but hostility towards Dazai so far. Usually, characters that are labelled as "angry" or "anger issues" (which Chuuya is much more complex than that but you get my point) act more as a tsundere type of way when the one they "don't care about" gets hurt. And show their care in very, very subtle ways (ex. their eyes widen, their mouth parts and closes again, etc) before putting up their front once more.

Chuuya, however, is open, and vocal about it. His worry is clear not only to us, but to Dazai himself, the one he shouldn't be displaying the concern to (as per the cliche). Shouldn't it be some sort of secret that Chuuya does care? Isn't that what skk's dynamic has been shaping up to be until now?

I'm telling you- the way my mind blanked when Chuuya just casually.... showed concern not once, but twice, was a sight to see.

Besides, the context makes it much more confusing, because Dazai isn't some rookie, and Chuuya knows that more than anybody. He was the youngest executive in Port Mafia's history, of course he can handle a hit or two. Of course he'd seen him handle a hit or two, sometimes without batting an eye.

Heck, Chuuya himself was hurling Dazai like a ragdoll in their reunion, which was their last meeting. And you could argue that he was going easy on him, but Dazai has mostly withstood the same damage (as far as I could see), and Chuuya was as bitter as ever.

So that kind of contradicts both what we knew of Chuuya so far, and how their dynamic was shaped to be. I mean, that just makes Chuuya a hypocrite, yeah? What makes him care now, all of a sudden? What makes him care at all?

Well, to me, this backasswards reaction implies one (or more) of the following:

- Dazai rarely got physically hurt during their partnership and thus this is an unexpected thing for him to see (during a mission).

- The four years of separation made Chuuya unsure of how much Dazai can withstand physically now. Also the fact that he isn't in the mafia anymore, aka fighting enemy organizations on the weekly, would naturally make Dazai lose his touch in a way, what prompts Chuuya's reaction.

- Dazai getting taken off guard took him off guard which led to panic. Especially since the situation was (momentarily) out of their depth. Seriously wtf even was Lovecraft?

- During the dungeon scene Dazai was an enemy, while in the Lovecraft fight he was as an ally. The difference might be significant to Chuuya.

- This has always been Chuuya's reaction to Dazai getting hurt regardless of the situation.

- "Only I can hurt him like that" ahh logic

- Asagiri was still experimenting with their dynamic and thus there are some inconsistencies.

This scenario didn't play out again (after their reunion) for me to exactly determine which one is more plausible, but it is 100% canon for Chuuya to shamelessly show his concern and run to Dazai to check on him before properly dealing with their opponent, which I find to be such an appealing layer to their dynamic, and a good spin on the type of character he gets stereotyped as.

Bonus: Dazai also becomes a softy when Chuuya's hurt, especially post corruption. Dead Apple alone displays that multiple times.

All in all, Skk are doing a terrible job at maintaining their 'hostile' and 'antagonistic' relationship post their reunion. Freaks.

[howlintherain]

Jake got a tumblr bc all his friends have one and barely uses it. He's out.

Cassie has an aestetic blog that's mostly nature photography and occasionally science. She's out.

Marco's a bit too much of a misogynist to really make it big on tumblr, and I don't think his humor fits the tumblr vibe super well. He's out (he's doing numbers on reddit though).

Rachel has a writing and social justice blog that has a decent following but rarely goes viral. Not quite there, but we're getting closer.

Tobias has a multi fandom blog where he posts original gifsets and popular meta. He's popular within his fandoms, and occasionally his posts break containment. Strong contender.

Ax could go a few different ways, all of them fame potential. My first thought was a hyper-specific gimmick blog based in technical skill (similar to identifying-cars-in-posts). But I could also see him having one of those blogs where he just posts a ton so people start following him and interacting (similar to firefox-official, pukicho, i-am-a-fish, pizza if you're tumblr old like me). He's got a dry sense of humor that I think tumblr would love, but I also think he'd use tumblr to completely seriously dump all his questions and thoughts about why humans are Like That and people would also love that (see this site's many viral Earth is Space Australia posts). He could even have a tumblr famous scandal where people find out he's a literal alien (he'd probably have it in his bio this whole time, it's just that no one actually believed him). So anyway I picked Ax thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[squidgirlautism]

tbh pre Oct.7 I would have responded to the “are there white Jews” question with “its complicated” but now my answer is just simply “no”