#that's more effort than i would have expected
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madamspellmans-met-tet · 2 days ago
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🔮 Maestra 🔮
Lilia Calderu x fem!reader
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tags: safeword use, BD SM, overstimulation, aftercare, NSFW, married couple, restraints, mommy k!nk, light d/s, sp@nking
summary: Friday night is a special night for you and Lilia. You've both been looking forward to it all week. Unfortunately, work has worn you out and boundaries are pushed.
wc: ~ 3.2 k
A/N: the characters took over halfway through there's things in here that I hadn't planned. but anyway, hope this is what you had in mind person who made the request <3
thank you for beta-reading @live-laugh-love-lupone 💜
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Friday was your favourite day of the week, but not because it meant the weekend was within reach or because of the widely spread ‘Date Nights’—after all, you weren’t an amateur after roaming this earth for one and a half centuries. In Lilia’s and your modest but fulfilled marital life, Friday night meant Kink Night.
The night where you did everything you didn’t have the time or energy for during the week, where you didn’t have to get up early the next morning, where you could just be yourselves, far away from scrutiny and the headaches of modern life. It was the night you two connected.
And both you and Lilia looked forward to it so much, even after all this time. You’d slip notes to each other with things you wanted to try or fantasies you had for the other to keep all week and plan around. This week, Lilia wanted to restrain you and have her way with you, and since you loved it when she took charge, you’d been on board immediately.
The only problem was that today hadn’t treated you well. You’d already fainted at your workplace in the museum—amidst the fossil collection, ironically—due to having been overworked and sleep-deprived, and now your muscles were all sore. You wanted to fall into a blissful coma, but when you stepped through the door and saw Lilia’s face—cheeks rosy and eyes hooded, lips painted, bejewelled—you already knew you would choose her over sleep.
It was clear that she’d made an effort to glam herself up, in her burgundy dressing gown tied at the waist, barefoot, and elevate the space with candles and incense; more than you expected, and more than she normally did, which made you believe that she needed tonight—and who were you to deny her?
“You’re late.” Lilia came over and took the bag from your shoulder, and before she could move away again, you caught her by the waist and kissed her with the reverence she deserved and breathed onto her lips, “Sorry, my love.”
She pulled on your necklace, keeping you trapped a hair’s width apart, her eyes on your mouth. “I’ll have you make it up to me.”
You couldn’t keep from pushing forward and kissing Lilia again, square across the mouth, messy. Your hands flew to the sides of her head, your fingers wound into her curls, and you drew her deeper into the kiss. She allowed you a taste, but then put three fingers on your chin and nudged you away, smirking. “Anything more you have to earn.”
-> continue
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souliebird · 2 days ago
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[[and then I met you || ch. 29]]
Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit
Summary:
A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.
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Words: 3.4k
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Foggy never thought he would be babysitting Matthew Murdock’s kid.
As much as Foggy loves Matt - and it is a lot - he is the first to admit his best friend is more than a bit of a disaster. Matt is brilliant and kind and truly a good soul, but he is also a self-destructive idiot with more baggage than any airport in the nation. He always tries to do the right thing, but the right thing never seems to involve taking care of himself. And that doesn’t even include all the Daredevil bullshit.
If Matt had come to him a few months ago and told Foggy he wanted to be a father - to go out and have a kid at that exact moment - Foggy would have beat him over the head with the nearest solid object. Matt can barely run his own life - there was no way he could raise a child.
Matt was still working on even managing to have friends and a real life outside of his mask and his ability to balance it all had been on thin ice. Matt getting into a serious relationship had been a laughable idea and that relationship leading to a baby wasn’t even a thought. 
As far as Foggy had been concerned, as long as he was Daredevil, Matt was destined to be a bachelor. 
So, of course, God’s favorite punching bag was told he already is a father. 
The change in Matt isn’t what Foggy expected. He expected panic. He expected Matt to be in Church for eight hours a day praying for guidance while he had a crisis. He expected Matt to spiral.
He hadn’t expected him to take to being a father like a duck to water. He hadn’t expected it to completely rewrite his best friend’s DNA. 
It seemed like overnight the dumpster fire of a man he knew was replaced - born from those ashes was someone who Foggy almost didn’t recognize. 
It was a Matt who cares about himself. One who isn't being reckless. One who no longer hides things from Foggy and Karen, who lies about injuries and thinks he is a one-man army. 
In the office, if Matt isn’t working, he’s listening to self-help or parenting books. He talks to other people, and he actually makes an effort to not look like he’s getting abused. He’s focused in a way Foggy hasn’t seen since college and it makes Foggy so so happy. 
But it also terrifies him because he doesn’t know how long it will last. Is this a temporary change or has Matt finally learned he isn’t alone, and his actions affect others?
It is too early to tell and Foggy feels like a complete asshole for doubting his friend and waiting for the ball to drop, but he feels like he’s also being realistic. 
Matt has hurt him so much over their friendship - and Foggy has hurt him, too - and his sweet angel of a child doesn’t deserve to have that be a possibility for her. 
As far as Foggy can tell, Minnie inherited all the best parts of Matt - his smile, his charm, and his inherently good nature. He knows if Matt doesn’t manage to fuck it up - and Foggy prays he doesn’t - she is going to grow up to be a beautiful woman, heart and soul, with no reason to yell at God. 
He couldn’t ask for a better little girl to babysit. 
All she wants to do is watch Lady and the Tramp over and over and Foggy couldn’t be happier to oblige. It is easy to sit back and watch the movie - he hasn't seen it in a long time, and he forgot how charming all the characters are.
It is halfway through the third viewing of the movie when big brown eyes finally tear themselves away from the screen. Foggy watches curiously as Minnie slips off the couch and toddles over to her toy chest in the corner of the room. She methodically begins going through her things, lifting up each toy and giving it a good once over before setting it back down.
“What’cha doing, squirt?” he asks.
Minnie does not look back to him as she replies, her tone making him feel like it is the most obvious thing in the world, “I’m gonna make dinner.” 
Dinner was had before Foggy arrived for babysitting duty, so he guesses it is time for some make believe. He is very much used to this from watching over his nieces and he wonders what kind of play will be in store for him. 
The first toy she deems worthy to have a seat at the table is a Barbie and the second, almost immediately after, is a floppy looking bear that clearly has had another life before this one. The pair are transported to the coffee table and delicately sat down before Minnie whips her head around to look up at Foggy.
“They need says-or-eases,” she says seriously. He can barely get out a confused ‘okay’ before she’s scampering down the hallway to the bedroom. He decides to sit and wait to see what is going to happen. Moments later, the little girl is back in the living room with an armful of supplies. He can make out a lot of costume jewelry, and among the fake pearls and gems, a pair of fake glasses. 
It is all dumped in front of the table unceremoniously before she is off to collect something else. 
Foggy stays on the couch as markers and a variety of play food join the pile on the floor. He has no idea what could be going on in the mind of the toddler, but it is amusing that she is so determined in her task.
Finally, everything is gathered and Minnie plops down in front of her toys, mouth turned down as she focuses. She starts sorting through things, making multiple little piles, and Foggy can’t help but ask, “Do you need any help?”
“No, I’m a Big Girl,” she replies factually, not even bothering to look up. She’s completely locked in on whatever it is she is doing, and since she’s doing nothing deemed risky, Foggy lets his eyes go back to the movie. 
As Lady roams the streets of some unnamed city, Minnie dresses up her toys. Barbie gets draped in so many necklaces her torso is no longer visible, and the bear gets the glasses. She hums and haws over the positioning on his muzzle for a good minute before she takes them off and disappears from Foggy’s eyeline. Her feet pop up a second later and he determines she is laying tummy down on the ground.
He checks his phone as she plays - replying to messages from Marci and Karen and going through a few work emails. 
He is in the middle of checking his calendar when Minnie’s curls reappear in front of him and she is back to trying to balance the glasses on the bear’s face.
Except, now, the lens of the glasses have been colored over in red marker and Foggy knows exactly who the floppy bear is meant to be.
“Is that your Daddy?” he asks, not at all containing the glee in his voice. Karen is going to Love this. 
“Uh-huh,” the baby tells him as she finally manages to get the accessory to stay on. She grabs the doll next and holds it up to show it off. “This is Mommy.”
“That’s Mommy?” Foggy confirms. He quickly switches his phone over to his camera app to start taking a million and a half pictures.
“Uh-huh. They are on a date. Like Lady and Tramp,” she explains, “We gotta make them dinner.”
His heart absolutely soars and he knows this is one of those stories he is going to tell everyone - Matt’s precious little daughter pretending her toys are her parents on a date, while her real parents are out on their first date. It is some of the cutest shit he’s ever seen and he’s glad he’s the one who agreed to babysit. 
He pushes himself up into standing, so ready to get in on this make believe action, “Of course. What are we making them for dinner?”
They spend the next five minutes rearranging things - the play kitchen set is moved into the real kitchen and Foggy drapes a throw blanket between two chairs so the dining guests can’t see the food being prepared. Mommy Doll and Daddy Bear get a plastic Pooh Bear plate between them, and an LED candle is scrounged up to give the date the right ambience. 
Foggy gets designated as the Waiter - he even slicks his hair back and lets Minnie draw a pencil mustache under her nose and she, of course, is the Chef, as well as puppeteer of the toys. 
Once everything is set up - the make believe begins.
“Oh, ho, hon,” Foggy says in a horrible French accent as he kneels beside the coffee table, a pad of paper and a pen in hand. “What a lovely couple! You are looking so beautiful this evening, mademoiselle!” 
“Thank you!” Minnie chimes, altering her voice just a little to be higher as she takes hold of the doll to make it bounce as it ‘talks’. “You are beauty-fulls too!” She then grabs the bear with her other hand and shakes him just a bit, making him sound gruff as he chastises, “What about me?”
“You are as handsome as ever, sir,” is his cheesy reply. With too much flourish, he brings up his pen and positions it on his paper, “What drinks can I get started for you? Water? Juice? Wine? May I suggest a bit of hot cocoa?” He over emphasizes the last word, making the little girl start to giggle.
“We don’ts have cocoa! Only water and appy juice!”
Foggy dramatically throws his hand over his heart, “My apologies! The chef has let me know our options tonight are Water de Aqua and Appy Juice.”
“We want appy juice!” Daddy Bear tells him, and he makes sure to write the order in nice big letters.
“A wonderful selection, sir! We get it from the finest grocer, and it is chilled to perfection. Shall I get you started with some appetizers?”
Minnie squints over to him, tilting her head to the side and doing a wonderful impression of Matt as she asks, “What is an appy-tiger?”
“It is a snack you get before dinner, so you don’t get hungry while the Chef makes the food,” he explains in his normal voice. 
The toddler nods like she really understands what he means, then she turns her two toys to face each other. Mommy Doll is moved first, “Do you want an appy-tiger?” 
Daddy Bear’s head nods as Minnie grumbles out, “I want a cheese stick and ice-cream. Please, thank you.”
“Oh, that sounds good,” Mommy Doll replies. She is turned towards Foggy so hard her necklaces clatter together, “I want a cheese stick, too. Please, thank you.”
He writes down the request and promises, “That will be right out.” As he pushes himself up onto his feet, Minnie streaks past him to get to her kitchen before him. He purposefully takes his time, letting her get herself set up before he arrives. “Order up! We got two cheese sticks and an ice cream for the couple at table one.”
“Two cheese sticks and ice cream!” The little girl calls back excitedly. She moves to start digging through her plastic food, but then she freezes, and she gets a look on her face Foggy has seen so many times on Matt’s that he’s lost count.
She’s heard something. 
Before Foggy can ask what it is, the unmistakable sound of a fuse being blown fills the air and the power dies, leaving them in a deep darkness. A brief panic takes a hold of him - he’s been in far too many situations where this sort of thing means danger - but logic prevails, and he rushes over to the window to assess the damage. 
The neighboring buildings still have their lights on, so someone in the building must have overloaded something. It happens all the time in the heat of the summer and not a cause for him to go into fight or flight mode.
“Looks like it is just us,” he tells Minnie as he turns back to her. He can only just barely make out her outline - there is only one window in the room, and it faces an alley. There is next to no light filtering in and the only thing still going in the apartment is the weak LED candle.
He expects Minnie to be scared - after all the sudden lack of light is kind of terrifying - but she seems completely unaffected. 
“The tee-vee turned off,” is what she replies with, sounding annoyed as can be. 
“Everything turned off,” Foggy counters. “We’ve got no electricity. We have to wait for it to come back on.”
He hears her huff as he makes his way back to the couch. He’s careful as he moves, not wanting to accidentally crush any of the playthings that have been spread around. 
“Do you still want to play Dinner Date?” He asks. It is pretty dark, but if they just stick with going between the couch and the fake-kitchen, he thinks things should be okay. 
“No, I wanna watch Lady and Tramp.” There is a slight whine in her voice that makes him think this might turn into tears and his heart breaks a little. He doesn’t want to be the one to deny her anything. 
“The power is out, squirt. The television isn’t going to work. We have to do something that doesn’t require power.” 
“Why?” He can hear the underlying Murdock Anger in her question, and he notes it is something he’ll have to tell Matt.
“Do you know how it usually makes this sort of noise?” Foggy asks before humming. He can sometimes hear electricity, so he knows she must know what he’s talking about. She confirms with a little ‘uh-huh’ and he continues on. “Well, that means it is getting power and can work. It’s not getting power right now, so it can’t work.”
He hopes the logic makes sense in her little brain. 
She doesn’t respond right away and that worries him. He plucks the little LED candle up from the coffee table and holds it up like a torch. It barely casts enough light for him to see his hand and does nothing to help him locate the curly haired toddler. 
He walks slowly over to the kitchen, hoping to find her pouting by her toys, but the area is empty. He did not hear the pitter patter of feet and groans at the thought of another ninja in his life. 
Of course, Matt’s child would be able to sneak around in the dark undetected. Why wouldn’t she?
“Minnie,” he calls out softly, hoping this doesn’t turn into a game of hide and seek. “Where are you?” 
He turns in place, trying to remember if he left his phone on the table or on the couch. The battery is in the forty percent zone, and he’d rather save it than use it as a light source. He’s pretty sure he was told there are flashlights under the sink, but he can’t remember if it was the kitchen or bathroom sink. 
He decides to try the kitchen sink first and blindly makes his way there. He admittedly doesn’t have the best vision anymore and his eyes are taking forever to adjust to the meager amount of light, so he has to move slowly.
“Will you read me Lady and Tramp?” a tiny voice suddenly asks from right beside his knee and Foggy totally doesn’t scream.
“You totally need a bell,” he tells the child before rubbing at his face with his candle free hand. “If you help me find a flashlight, I can read to you.”
The noise of annoyance Minnie makes is right from Matt’s playbook, “why do you needs a flashlight?”
He wonders if this is the first power outage she has experienced, but if that was so, he doubts he would have been told where the flashlights were. Though, Minnie’s mom is a bit paranoid and anxious, so it could have been a ‘just in case’ thing, but who really knows.
It is a question for later. Right now, he has an annoyed toddler ready to bite his ankles over Lady and the Tramp.
“It’s too dark for me to read,” he tries to explain, hoping she will accept the answer. 
She doesn’t.
Instead, he gets sassed.
“It’s not dark.”
“It is, too,” he counters. 
He can perfectly picture little hands-on hips as she doubts him, “Not-uh.”
He resists the urge to say ‘uh-huh’ and attempts to rationalize with her, “Mouse, I can barely see past my nose. It’s too dark for me to read to you without a flashlight. Can you help me find one?”
He can just see her curly head of hair looking up at him and he doesn’t need to see her face to feel her judgement. With the huff so haughty it could rival Marci, Minnie plops down to the ground and drops something that sounds like a picture book in front of her. 
His suspicions are proved right when he hears the soft fluttering of pages. 
“El…ay..dee..why. El..ay..La! La..dee…Lay..dee..Lady!” Her little voice is full of frustration as she tries to sound out the word Foggy knows she can’t really see and his heart pangs in sympathy.
“Minnie, don’t strain your eyes. Let’s just find a flashlight, it’s too dark to read.”
“I want Lady and Tramp!” The little Murdock barks at him, “I can reads it!” He hears what must be her finger hitting the page and he pictures her trying to trace the words. “La..La..lady. Lady. wuh…wuh..double-you ay ess. Wuh…Wuh-ah…Wuh-ah..”
“Was?” he tries to supply, feeling so guilty. He should just step away and find the flashlight before she really hurts her eyes, but he doesn’t want to leave her when she’s getting into a mood, even if it’s a few feet.
Apparently, helping is not what she wants, because he instantly gets her tiny wrath, “I can reads it myselfs!”
Foggy’s hands shoot up in front of him in the universal ‘my bad’ pose and he apologies, “I’m sorry. Let me get the light and we can read together.” He decides, if anything, he’ll just go grab his phone and waste the battery. Anything is better than upsetting Minnie the first time he properly babysits her. She’ll never want to stay with him again and he’s pretty sure Matt would easily bend to her will. 
“But I can sees it!” She practically yells it at him, her voice getting wet and wobbly. There is a hint of desperation in it that makes Foggy feel like an absolute villain for not believing her. “I can sees it and reads it by myself!”
He gives up on trying to convince her and pivots to go to get his phone. As he carefully steps around her to find his way back to the couch, she picks up her watery ‘reading’ again.
“La..Lady wuh-was a…Lady was a..el..el you..el you see kay…”
Foggy locates his phone on the coffee table and it wakes up as soon as he picks it up. The light hurts his eyes, and he has to look away so he isn’t blinded by it. 
Daddy Bear looks up at him from his interrupted coffee table date, beady little black eyes hidden behind red lenses and so suddenly, with enough force to cause him mental whiplash, Foggy feels like a complete idiot. 
He turns to shine his phone on Minnie, who is hunched over her book, trying her very best to sound out the words. 
“See..Kay…Luh…Luh..see..kay..why..Luh see kay why.”
She is trying to read the word ‘lucky ’he realizes. He knows kids can memorize stories, but there’s no way such a little baby can memorize how to spell all the words and pretend to read them out loud. 
But this isn’t just any normal little baby. 
This is Matt Murdock’s little baby. 
Matt Murdock - who has enhanced senses and passed them on. 
Matt Murdock - who is blind and wouldn’t know what it would be like to have enhanced eyesight. 
“Holy shit,” Foggy says to himself. “She’s got dark vision.”
--
a/n :
i'm sorry, this chapter fought me so much. Foggy refuses to cooperate with me :( this is nothing like i was planning and I kinda hate it
--
tags:
@two-unbeatable-beaters @kiwwia-wiwwia @1988-fiend @xblueriddlex @loves0phelia @ninacotte @lovelyygirl8 @littlenosoul @ednaaa-04  @astridstark13 @hashcakes
 @lovingkryptonitehideout @moongirlgodness @soocore @bluestuesday @midnightwonderlan
@starry-night-20 @rebeccapineapple @writtenbyred @cherrypie5 @capswife @silvercharacterchaos @resting-confused-face
@Specialagentjackbauer  @yarrystyleeza @ofmusesandsecrets @buckyssugarchick
@midnightreids @cloudroomblog @yeonalie @thychuvaluswife 
@petrovafire39 @ghostindeath @roxytheimmortal 
 @allllium @waywardcrow @thatkindofgurl @waywardxrhea 
@anehkael @akilatwt @lostinthefantasies @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @ethereal-blaze
 @nennia-2000 @seasonofthenerd @abucketofweird  @mattmurdockstateofmind @imagineswritersblog @hazelhavoc @smile-child-13 @allst4rsfall @hashcakes @kezibear @mapleaye @sammanna @gamingfeline @moon-glades @nightwitherspring @phoenix666stuff @dare-devil
@ladyoflynx @hobiebrowns-wife @sarcasm-n-insomnia @lillycore 
@dorothleah @mattmurdocksstarlight @mars-on-vinyl @mywellspringoflife @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @simmilarly @soupyspence @darkened-writer @akila-twt
@murc0ckmurc0ck @groovycass @sumo-b98 @just3rowsing @tongueofcat @zoom1374
@theclassicvinyldragon @aoi-targaryen @lunaticgurly @nikitawolfxo @shireentapestry @snakevyro @yondiii @echos-muses @honeybug-victoria @the-bisaster @ristare 
@mrs-bellingham @eugene-emt-roe @cometenthusiast @stevenknightmarc @yes-im-your-mom @hunnybelha @actorinfluence @capbrie @prowlingforfood @jupitervenusearthmars
@mayp11-blog @danzer8705 @thinking-at-dusk @remuslupinwifee @akila-twt  @nommingonfood @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @dil3mma @allllium 
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lumiambrose · 2 days ago
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୨♡୧ Don't lie to me
Sae Itoshi x reader, fluff
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Romance trope mini series - Rivals to lovers
Sae doesn't seem to appreciate your uptight attitude and habit of avoiding him during BM and Re Al's friendly match. So, of course, he takes matters into his own hands... 0.9k wc
C.ai bot by LinhDao
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Being Bastard München’s PR manager isn’t an easy job: the hot-headed football players, the fangirls—it’s all chaos. Of course, the boys do their best to make work easy for you, but even they have their limits. Especially today.
The meeting hall buzzes with restless energy, the crowd of fans and journalists packed too tightly into the space. Your job as Bastard München’s PR manager is to keep this chaotic event organised, but with Re Al Madrid’s under-20s in attendance, it feels more like refereeing a rivalry than hosting a professional PR event.
Your gaze flits across the room, settling on Sae Itoshi, Re Al Madrid’s superstar midfielder. He stands slightly apart from his team, arms crossed and expression as unreadable as ever. Sae doesn’t waste time with the crowd or the media. No forced smiles, no effort to charm anyone. Just a detached, almost clinical focus, as though the event is beneath him.
You can’t stand him. Frankly, you’d call him bratty and ignorant if you could. He has a type of arrogance that feels dismissive of everyone around him. And being a member of the New Gen XI only makes it worse. It’s as though he’s been put on a pedestal, and he seems content right where he is, looking down on the rest of the football world.
“Need a second to calm down?” Ness’s soft voice interrupts your train of thought. He’s at your side, his usual amused smile tainted with a bit of worry as he follows your gaze to Sae.
“Ahh, Ness.” Your consciousness quickly jolting back to the meeting room, your gaze softening ever so slightly. “I’m calm,” you reply sharply, adjusting your outfit, making sure you’re the epitome of professionalism once the event starts. “I just hate how full of himself he is.”
Ness shrugs. “He’s good enough to back it up.”
You swallow back the retort in your throat as the event finally kicks off. The Q&A session goes smoothly enough—until Sae speaks, of course.
When the mic is handed to him, he doesn’t play to the crowd, nor does he deflect any uncomfortable questions. His responses are blunt and to the point, what you would expect from him. So when a fan asks about his feelings toward Bastard München, his response is as cutting as it is dispassionate: “They’re fine. Good players. Not the best.”
You glare at him from the front row, your professionalism threatening to crack next to your manager's. He meets your gaze, his teal eyes sharp and unwavering, but his expression gives nothing away. He doesn’t care what you think, nor does he need to.
As the Q&A wraps up and the players prepare for the friendly match, you focus on keeping everything running smoothly. Taking multiple photos and videos here and there for social media.
On the field, Sae is everything you would expect from a New Gen XI member. He doesn’t waste movements, doesn’t bother with flashy plays—everything he does serves a purpose.
It’s not until after the match that you have the chance to reunite with your players. “Not bad, huh?” Ness says, sidling up to you again as he finishes his water bottle, clearly exhausted from what was supposed to be a “friendly” match.
You cross your arms. “He’s good. Doesn’t mean he’s not insufferable.”
Ness chuckles. “I think that’s just him being honest.”
You don’t have a response for that. Sae’s honesty isn’t what irks you; it’s the lack of warmth behind it. He’s not arrogant in the traditional sense; he’s simply detached, too detached. As though none of this—including you—really matters.
When the day finally comes to an end, you’re gathering your things when Sae approaches. You fail to notice him until he’s standing directly in front of you, inches apart. His imposing presence catching you off guard.
“You don’t like me.” It’s not a question; it’s a statement, delivered in his usual blunt tone.
You blink, startled. The audacity of this man. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been glaring at me all day,” he continues, his teal eyes boring into yours. “If you have something to say, say it.”
He raises an eyebrow, cutting off your denial. “Don’t lie. It’s a waste of time.”
You’re too stunned to respond. What the fuck? Your carefully constructed professionalism crumbling under the weight of his unflinching gaze and a couple of words. Sae doesn’t wait for you to recover.
“I don’t care if you like me,” he says, his voice holding zero emotion to it. “But if you want to keep up, you’ll need to be honest with yourself.”
And just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, mouth agape and clearly at a loss for words. You’re not sure what just happened, but one thing is clear: Sae Itoshi isn’t someone you can ignore, no matter how much you want to.
And he doesn’t plan on letting you either. It’s only once you’ve made it back to the safety of your apartment that you open your bag to find a neatly folded piece of paper.
You’re too easy to read. If you have something to say, don’t hold back.
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Taglist: @sky-casino, @bbladie (join my taglist here)
©lumiambrose ─ do not translate, repost, copy any of my works
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deonsx · 14 hours ago
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Relationship life with blue lock boys
Feat: Nagi,Bachira,Rin
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Nagi Seishiro
Nagi wouldn't likely be one for grand romantic gestures or constant displays of affection. His approach would focus on spending quiet, peaceful time with his partner, avoiding overly emotional or complex matters that might feel tiring to him. Not Clingy, but Devoted While Nagi might appear indifferent at times, his devotion would run deep. If he trusts his partner, they would become his "comfort zone," and he would try to keep the relationship stable in his own way
Nagi would enjoy low-effort activities like playing video games, watching movies, or just relaxing with his partner. For him, spending time together should feel natural and unforced. Drama is not something Nagi would tolerate in a relationship. He'd avoid conflict and might retreat if things get too tense
Nagi isn't someone who openly expresses his emotions, so his love would show through small actions rather than words.For example, setting aside time from football or gaming to be with his partner would be a sign of his affection.Building an emotional bond with Nagi would take time, but once he's attached, he would be loyal and reliable. As he grows more comfortable, he'd gradually open up and show more warmth in the relationship
Bachira Meguru
Bachira is full of energy, and he would bring that same enthusiasm into his romantic relationship. He loves making things fun and exciting, so a relationship with him would always be lively, with lots of spontaneous moments. He might not take everything seriously, but his playful nature would keep things light-hearted and joyful
Bachira isn't shy about showing affection.
He would probably express his feelings openly, even in a somewhat exaggerated or dramatic way. Expect lots of playful gestures like hugs, teasing, and spontaneous compliments. He would make sure his partner knows they're special to him
With Bachira, life would never be boring. He's always looking for new experiences and would likely try to pull his partner into spontaneous adventures, whether it's playing soccer, going to new places, or doing something completely out of the ordinary. His partner would need to be ready for unpredictability!
Despite his playful and sometimes wild personality, Bachira is a team player and would be a supportive partner. He would encourage his significant other to follow their passions, and even if things get tough, he'd cheer them on with a smile. His positive attitude would help keep the relationship feeling upbeat
Rin Itoshi
Rin is emotionally closed off and tends to keep his feelings to himself, so a relationship with him would require patience. He's not someone who easily opens up, and he might take a while to trust his partner fully. It would take time to break through his cold exterior and show him that it's okay to be vulnerable. Loyal and Protective (Once He's Involved)Once Rin is committed to someone, he would be fiercely loyal and protective. His sense of duty and responsibility extends to his relationships, and he would do whatever it takes to support his partner, even if he doesn't always express it in the most conventional ways
Rin's life revolves around soccer, and that drive can sometimes consume him. A relationship with Rin would need to fit into his intense schedule and ambitious goals. He might not always have time for his partner, but when he does, he would expect them to understand and respect his dedication to the sport
While he may not be the most outgoing or playful partner, Rin enjoys simple, quiet moments. The relationship would likely involve spending time together in peace, such as watching soccer games, training together, or just being around each other in silence. His partner would need to understand that his focus on soccer doesn't mean he doesn't value them
Enjoy!
I WANT TONS OF REQUESTS I NEED TO DO ANYTHING RELATED TO BLUELOCK I WILL SPEND MY ENERGY ON THIS
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scary-grace · 3 days ago
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(secret) santa, baby - part 6 of a shigaraki x f!reader fic
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Shigaraki doesn't want to participate in the office's Secret Santa exchange, but when Toga promises to make it easy on him, he gives in. But making it easy for him makes it a lot harder for you -- you're the one who got his list. Office AU, no quirks. A fic in 12 parts. Divider by @ wcnderlnds
part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi part vii
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part vi (holiday parties)
Everybody’s been talking about the company holiday party scheduled for Christmas night for a month and a half, and you assumed everybody would settle for that one instead of throwing parties of their own. But based on the number of party invitations that have been dropped on your desk, your coworkers are as over-the-top about holiday parties as they are about everything else. It seems like there’s a party or two every night, work nights included. You’ve gotten at least five invitations, and in your efforts to make friends, you’ve been going to all of them.
So far you’ve done a cookie party, a gingerbread house party, a holiday-themed DIY spa night with your coworkers from the advertising department, karaoke with the PR team, a White Elephant party that scraped up almost everybody and took almost four hours to get through, and one party that was just an eggnog-fueled walk through Yaoyorozu’s ritzy neighborhood, which you have to admit has the prettiest Christmas light displays you’ve ever seen. You can hang in there with the best of them, but you’re getting sort of partied out.
The next invitation arrives while you’re at your desk the day after Yaoyorozu’s party, still trying to shake off the eggnog, and it’s delivered by the last person you’d have expected to care about that kind of thing. “Toga’s having a party,” Shigaraki says without preamble. He drops the invitation down on your desk, next to the pen you got from your Secret Santa. “You’re invited.”
He looks really unhappy about it. It makes you nervous. “Did she tell you to invite me?”
“Where do you think I got this?” Shigaraki gestures at it with one hand, and you notice that his skin looks less irritated than it did the last time you saw him. He must be using the hand cream, and the feeling of accomplishment that settles around you is almost enough to cut the nerves of this conversation. “Can you go to the party or not?”
You study the invitation. “A pajama party?”
“She just means not work clothes,” Shigaraki says. He scratches lightly at his neck. “We just eat and hang out and watch Christmas movies. Nothing weird.”
“Other than you watching Christmas movies,” you say. He glances at you, then looks away. “I thought you hated this stuff.”
“There are drinks, too. That helps.”
You’re kind of maxed out on Christmas drinks. You glance at the invitation. It’s for tomorrow, which isn’t a work night, and you don’t have anything planned. Toga’s been nice to you. If it’s Toga’s party and she’s inviting her friends, Spinner and Twice will be there, and they’ve been nice to you, too. You might not know Dabi or Magne or Compress very well, but you think you can probably avoid bothering them if you’re careful. There’s not a reason to say no – except the reason that’s standing in front of you, waiting with increasing irritation for you to reply. “Well?”
“Do you want me to go?” you ask, and Shigaraki stares at you. “If you’re only inviting me because Toga’s making you –”
“That’s not what I said,” Shigaraki says. He looks even more annoyed than he did a second ago, but there’s color coming up in his face. You wonder if that’s what you looked like when you were singing a Christmas song to ward off the carolers. “Can you go or not?”
“Um –” If you say yes, he’ll stop staring at you like that. And you still need to make friends. “Yes. Tell Toga I’m looking forward to it.”
Shigaraki nods once and stalks off, probably headed straight back to the basement. You study Toga’s invitation a little more carefully. There’s a list of movies on it that looks pretty good, and it says you’re not supposed to bring anything except yourself, your pajamas, and an ugly sweater if you have one. It sounds like a quieter party than the ones you’ve been going to, and it’s not a work night tomorrow, so there’s no reason for you to feel anxious about it. Is there?
“Hey!” Ashido’s peering over the wall of her cubicle into yours. “Did I hear that right? Shigaraki left the dungeon just to ask you out?”
Your face goes up in flames. “He didn’t ask me out. He was just dropping off an invitation to Toga’s party. She must have asked him –”
“That’s not what he said,” Hakagure says, leaning out of her cubicle across the way to stare at you. “You assumed Toga asked him to ask you, but he didn’t agree.”
“And we know Toga usually hand-delivers her invitations,” Ashido continues, “because Uraraka got one. Right, Uraraka?”
“I went last year, too,” Uraraka says. “It’s different, but it’s okay. They’re all a lot different when they’re not at work.”
Uraraka’s going, too. Knowing that eases your mind a little bit. And knowing that they’re different than they are at work is a positive. You think. Given that ‘what Shigaraki’s like at work’ is a category broad enough to include just about every behavior somebody can exhibit without getting fired, you’ve really got no idea what he could possibly be like in his off hours. In twenty-four hours and change, you’re going to find out.
You try not to think about what Ashido and Hagakure said, but it lurks at the edges of your thoughts overnight and into the next day, and by the time you’re knocking on the door to Toga’s apartment, you can’t ignore it any longer. He didn’t say Toga told him to ask you. He also didn’t say he didn’t want you to go. In your observations of Shigaraki, you’ve never seen him be shy about saying what he doesn’t like.  If he didn’t want you to go, you’d have known about it. Which means he does want you to be here. Why does he want to see you outside of work? Is he really –
“You came!” The door opens in your face, startling you out of your thoughts, and Toga pulls you inside before you can get your bearings entirely. “Tomura-kun said he needed an invitation for you, but we didn’t think he’d actually go through with it. I’m so glad you’re here!”
“He went through with it? Damn.” Dabi appears around the corner. If you’d been trying to predict his outfit for a pajama party, you wouldn’t have picked an actual pajama set, which is what he’s wearing. “I hope you like lame-ass Christmas horror movies, because that’s what we’re watching first.”
“There are Christmas horror movies?”
“Oh yeah! Lots of them!” Twice also has a pajama set. His comes with a hat on it. “We have to watch at least one every year so Shigaraki won’t get up and leave when we try to watch Home Alone or Elf.”
“And this year we had to have two horror movies,” Magne adds. She’s in the kitchen, mixing drinks. “It’s the only way we can get him to sit through Love Actually.”
“How do you pick the movies?” you ask. Magne hands you a drink, then shoos you towards the living room, which is a sea of couches and beanbag chairs. “Does everybody pick?”
“We always do Nightmare Before Christmas, since we can all agree on that one,” Spinner says. He’s already sitting down, and his idea of pajamas looks a lot more like yours – sweatpants, sweater, both sort of old. “Then we put all the others on a corkboard and play darts to pick.”
He points over to one wall, and sure enough, you can see a corkboard covered in darts and tiny pieces of paper. “Anybody who’s invited can suggest one.”
“One of mine made it this year,” Uraraka says brightly. “Die Hard.”
“You could have added one, too, if somebody hadn’t waited so long to invite you –”
“Give it a rest,” Shigaraki says, and you jump. You almost didn’t notice him, settled in like he is at one corner of the couch with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his hair. “Take one of my picks. So you won’t have to watch a bunch of things you hate.”
“Oh, that’s okay –”
“No,” Shigaraki says. He sits up and his hood falls down. “Pick something.”
“Pick something,” Twice agrees, edging past you to plop down on the couch next to Shigaraki. “Save us from the gremlins. I can’t watch the microwave scene again.”
“No, we should keep the gremlins. I don’t want to watch that Krampus thing,” Toga complains. “It looks so gross and weird –”
“We only have one movie that’s off-limits,” Spinner says. “It’s –”
“The Grinch,” you say, and Spinner gives you a surprised look. “Let me think for a second.”
“Sit down while you’re thinking about it,” Magne advises, reaching over the back of the couch to shove Twice towards the middle and free up the space next to Shigaraki. Is that where you’re supposed to sit? “Go on.”
You sit down, careful not to spill your drink, and think through the list of Christmas movies you know. You don’t want to pick something they’ll hate – or something Shigaraki will hate, given that he’s the one who invited you – and the only thing you have to go on is that they all like Nightmare Before Christmas. Hasn’t Tim Burton done another Christmas movie? You take a sip of your drink, which is thankfully not eggnog, to jog your memory. “What about Edward Scissorhands?”
“Never seen that one,” Dabi muses. “Spinner. Get rid of the gremlins and add it to the lineup.”
You haven’t seen it in forever. Hopefully it’s not bad, and hopefully everybody drinks enough by then that they don’t care whether it’s good or not. As Spinner screws around with the TV and everyone else starts looking for spots to sit, you turn your attention to Shigaraki. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Letting me pick one,” you say.
Shigaraki shrugs. The two of you are sitting close enough that his shoulder brushes against yours. “It’s not a big deal. I knew you wouldn’t pick the Grinch.”
“I know a Grinch-free zone when I’m in one,” you say, and Shigaraki’s scarred mouth pulls up slightly at one corner. You can’t imagine him smiling like that at work, and you don’t know how you feel about it. “Thanks for inviting me to this, too.”
“Toga didn’t make me,” Shigaraki says. “It was my idea. Just so you know.”
He was holding your gaze at first. When he says that, he looks away, and you don’t try to make him look back. You face front and wait for Toga to start the movie, and when Magne sits down on the couch, you scoot just a little closer to Shigaraki to make room. It reminds you of high school in some sense you can’t put your finger on, some way you’re not ready to look at too closely. But there are five movies in the queue for Toga’s holiday party. You’ve got a long time tonight to figure it out.
<- part v part vii ->
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angelart67 · 2 days ago
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100% I AM DONE CARING AT ALL WHAT THE SCREAMING SLEEPY SHEEPLES GOT TO SAY, CAUSE NOT ONE OUNCE OF THAT BS MAKES SENSE... I HAVE LITERALLY HAD PEOPLE JUMP MY 💩 TRYING TO CONVINCE ME THAT DONALD TRUMP IS OUT TO STEAL FROM ME & OTHERS... BUT NOT A SINGLE ONE OF THOSE SPOOKS CAN LOGICALLY EXPLAIN ANY OF THE FOLLOWING, AT ALL...
1) IN 2016 TERM HE DID NOT ACCEPT THE PAY THAT IS NORMALLY GIVEN TO THE SITTING PRESIDENT, SO HEY YEAH, THAT REALLY SCREAMS GREEDY PERSON...
2) THERE WAS SO MUCH DAMN PROOF OF ELECTION TAMPERING, THAT WAS RELEASED, TO THE PUBLIC &, WAS SEEN BY MILLIONS, ACTUAL VIDEOS SHOWING POLL WORKERS BRINGING IN BOXES OF MORE BALLOTS IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT & SHOVING THEM UNDER TABLES, SURE, WE ARE JUST NOIDED OUT, BUT NOBODY CAN EXPLAIN WHAT THAT SHADY BS WAS ALL ABOUT... OR HOW CROOKED JOE ENDED UP ALLEGEDLY, IN SOME STATES, GETTING MORE VOTES, THAN THERE WERE REGISTERED VOTERS, YET Y'ALL CLAIM WE ARE JUST SORE LOSERS... NOOOO, WE ARE WINNERS, BECAUSE OF THE REPRESENTATION OF OUR CHOSEN PRESIDENT, WHO STUCK BY US THRU THE DARKEST BS, INCLUDING ATTEMPTS ON THE MANS FREEDOM & LIFE...
3) D. TRUMP DID EVERYTHING HE POSSIBLY COULD DO, DURING THE SHUT DOWN, TO HELP CITIZENS WHO NEEDED MONEY TO LIVE ON, EAT & PAY BILLS, & BE ABLE TO KEEP THEIR FAMILY AFLOAT, THRU STIMULUS CHECKS, & ADDED FOOD BENEFITS... FACT IS, HE WAS ATTEMPTING A FINAL PAYMENT, BUT WAS SHOVED OUT THE DOOR & CROOKED JOE TOOK CREDIT FOR THAT LAST STIMULUS CHECK, HE REALLY HAD ZIP TO DO WITH...
4) D. TRUMP TRIED TO ALLOW CITIZENS TO HAVE ACCESS TO MEDICATION, WHICH HAS SINCE THEN BEEN PROVEN COULD HAVE HELPED SICK PEOPLE WITH SYMPTOMS, BUT FAUCI'S DIRTY TEAM SHUT HIM DOWN ON THAT EFFORT, & WAY MORE PEOPLE DIED AS A RESULT...
5) DEMS DID EVERYTHING THEY POSSIBLY COULD COME UP WITH DURING HIS 1ST TERM, AS WELL AS DURING THE 2020 TERM, TO KEEP HIM TIED UP IN COURT, FOR SOME OF THE MOST BOGUS BS CHARGES EVER, SO HE WAS CONSTANTLY DEFENDING HIMSELF, MAKING HIS PRESIDENTIAL EFFORTS, & THEN CAMPAIGN EFFORTS BEYOND DIFFICULT, YET BIDEN GOT AWAY WITH OBVIOUS MONEY LAUNDERING, THRU THE UKRAINE & HIS ADDICT OFFSPRING, & IT WAS PROVEN THAT HUNDREDS OF CHILD PORN PICS WERE FOUND ON THAT SICK IDIOTS LAPTOP, BUT THAT GOT COVERED UP & SWEPT UNDER THE RUG & NOW DADDY PARDONS HIM FOR ALL MANNER OF DISGUSTING BS, HE WOULD HAVE DONE SO MUCH TIME FOR...
EVERYTHING THAT HAS TAKEN PLACE SINCE 2019, (ESPECIALLY) BLATANTLY, RIGHT IN OUR FACES, WHICH ADDED INSULT TO INJURY, FROM DELIBERATE CREATION OF COVID-19 & RELEASING IT IN THE U.S. & THEN NOT INFORMING US, IT WAS RUNNING RAMPANT, UNTIL FAR TOO LATE, RESULTING IN HORRIBLE ILLNESS, & EVEN GENOCIDE OF SO MANY COUNTLESS PEOPLE, WHO HAVE BEEN TERMED AS EVERYTHING FROM "USELESS EATERS" TO MORE RECENTLY, "GARBAGE" BUT NOTHING GETS DONE TO THOSE RESPONSIBLE... WE ARE JUST EXPECTED TO SHUT UP & ACCEPT, POPULATION CONTROL AGAINST OUR CITIZENS, WHILE OUR COUNTRY WAS ALLOWED TO BE OVERRUN BY ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS... ALL OF THIS UTTER BS WITH BOTH JOE B. & KAMALA H. BEING PUPPETS FOR PEOPLE WHOSE TERMS WERE UP, BUT THEY REFUSE TO GIVE UP DIRTY HIDDEN CONTROL... ALL THE PEOPLE WHO TOOK PART IN ISLAND HOPPING & PARTYING & SICKENING SEX CRIMES... IN OUR FACES PEDOPHILE BEHAVIOR FROM THE DEGENERATE SUPPOSEDLY THE PRESIDENT, WHO WAS NOT FAIRLY VOTED IN, TOUCHING & SNIFFING OF CHILDREN, & WOMEN, & EVEN INCLUDING HIS OWN FAMILY MEMBERS, & WE ARE SUPPOSED TO LOOK THE OTHER WAY BECAUSE HE HAS DEMENTIA, BUT HE IS STILL ALLOWED TO REMAIN AS PRESIDENT (ALLEGEDLY) ??
SO MANY CORRUPT PEOPLE DOING SO MUCH CORRUPT BS, & WE ARE ALL EXPECTED TO JUST SHUT UP & ACCEPT IT HAPPENING... WELL, WE DO NOT ACCEPT IT, IT IS A BUNCH OF BS, NO OTHER WAY TO STATE IT, BUT REST ASSURED, PEOPLE WILL BE ANSWERING FOR THEIR BLATANT ACTIONS OF TREASON AGAINST OUR COUNTRY... YOU JUST DO NOT COME IN & TAKE OVER, & DO WHATEVER YOU WANT, EVERYTHING COMES TO AN END, EVENTUALLY & PEOPLE END UP, ANSWERING FOR THEIR CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY, IT IS COMING... DON'T THINK WE MISSED THE FACT THAT YOU TRIED TO MURDER OUR CHOSEN CHOICE OF PRESIDENT, BUT YOU MISSED... DONALD TRUMP WILL NOT MISS... HAVEN'T YOU ALL PACKED UP YET? BETTER HURRY UP, & WHILE YOU ARE AT IT, WHY DON'T Y'ALL JUST TAKE ALL THE ILLEGALS WITH YOU WHEN YOU GO? I MEAN Y'ALL LOVE THEM & WANNA HELP THEM SO MUCH, YOU CAN JUST START YOUR OWN DAMN COUNTRY SOMEWHERE ELSE, WE DON'T WANT TO BE OVERRUN, & WALKED ALL OVER... DO THAT, YOU WILL ALREADY HAVE A WHOLE BUNCH OF ILLEGAL PEOPLE, YOU CAN JUST MAKE LEGAL AS A FAN BASE FOR YOUR BS ACTIONS, THEY WON'T GIVE 2 💩'S ABOUT IT, CAUSE YOU GIVE THEM HOUSING & JOBS, DESPERATELY NEEDED BY PEOPLE WHO WAS BORN HERE, WHO NOW SIT ON ENDLESS WAIT LISTS, SO PEOPLE WHO SHOULD NOT EVEN BE HERE, CAN HAVE THESE BENEFITS
GO ON & LEAVE, I PROMISE YOU, YOU WON'T BE MISSED EVEN A LITTLE TINY BIT... BUHBYE, JUST GO, WE ARE TAKING OUR COUNTRY BACK FROM YOU CRIMINAL ASSHATS...
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bokutosbabe · 3 days ago
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Hi , I love your blog!! If you’re taking requests for the Spotify thing then my top artist was the neighborhood and top song was reflections.tysm❤️
hi!! tysm!
if your top artist was the neighborhood / your top song was reflections, i'd pair you with...
kenyu yukimiya
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જ⁀♡⊹。° a blessing in disguise
♡ a/n — for my spotify wrapped event! - masterlist -
♡ content — yukimiya kenyu x fem! reader, fem! reader, could be gn but i just wanted to be safe, set in the future, yukimiya and reader have a child, established relationship (married), yukimiya is losing his sight, lowkey i may have extremened his condition sorry
♡ synopsis — yukimiya struggles to see nowadays, but he can still feel your love for him radiating like the sun
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Yukimiya Kenyu never imagined that the world would blur this much. He’d spent so long chasing the perfect shot, the perfect moment on the field, only to find that his vision—his lifeline—was slowly being stolen away from him.
He sat in the living room, the soft hum of the baby monitor filling the silence. His eyes, strained and tired, scanned the pages of a book—an effort that took longer than it used to. His hand trembled as he tried to focus on the text, but the words melted into one another, the letters swirling just out of his reach.
"Do you need help, Kenyu?" your voice echoed from the kitchen, pulling him back to the present.
He smiled, his gaze lingering on the faint image of you, cooking dinner as you always did, your figure soft but strong, just like the life you’d built together. A life full of moments—some bright, some dark, but always shared.
"I’m okay," he lied, though he could hear the tremor in his own voice. He closed the book, knowing full well it wouldn’t do him any good tonight. He didn’t need to see perfectly to know what was going on around him.
You entered the living room, a gentle smile lighting your face when you saw him. "Come on, dinner’s ready. You can take a break."
He allowed you to lead him to the table, feeling the familiar weight of your hand resting on his arm. But something had shifted in the way you touched him lately. More than just the comforting gestures of a partner—there was something deeper now, as if you were holding him together in ways that went beyond love. He needed you, in ways he hadn't admitted before, even to himself.
Your eyes had always been the one thing he could read without a second thought, but now, with his sight dimming, he realized how much he relied on other senses—on your voice, your touch, your presence.
You set the food down in front of him, a little smile on your lips. "You know," you started softly, your voice barely above a whisper, "I was thinking about how far we’ve come. Remember when we used to laugh about the future, not knowing what it would bring?"
"Yeah, I remember," he said, his words laced with nostalgia. "Back then, I thought everything was so... simple. All I needed was soccer, and the rest would fall into place."
You sat across from him, your fingers brushing against his as you reached for your own plate. "And yet, here we are," you said, your voice soft but steady, "together. Even when things got complicated, we figured it out. The future didn’t turn out how we expected, but it’s ours. And I love it. I love you."
He looked up at you, even though he couldn’t see the details of your face like he used to, he could feel the warmth in your gaze, the depth of your love. And in that moment, something shifted in him.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he admitted, his voice trembling now. "I don’t know how I’m supposed to be the man you deserve when everything’s changing so fast."
"You’ve always been that man, Kenyu," you said, reaching out to hold his hand. "And I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere."
His heart ached with the weight of your words, but there was a sense of peace in them too. You’d always been there, always supported him, even in his darkest moments. And as his world grew dimmer, he knew you’d still be there, guiding him through it.
"You know," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "I see you, even when I can’t see everything else. I’ll always see you."
A single tear slipped down his cheek as he realized how true that was. Even if his vision faltered, even if the world became harder to navigate, you were his anchor, his constant. And that was enough.
"Reflections of us," you murmured, leaning in to kiss him gently on the cheek. "We’ll always have that."
And for the first time in a long while, despite the uncertainty that clouded his future, Yukimiya felt sure of one thing: no matter how his sight faded, his love for you would remain as clear as ever.
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stop, if i think too hard about him losing his sight i genuinely wanna die
i hope you liked it!
likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!
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celticcrossanon · 23 hours ago
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BRF Reading - 21st of December, 2024
This is speculation only
Cards drawn on the 21st of December, 2024
Question: Is Queen Camilla envious and/or jealous of Princess Catherine?
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Interpretation: Yes. Kind of. Queen Camilla resents anyone who gets attention and praise from the public that she (Queen Camilla) sees as attention and praise that should be going to herself.
I'm going to start this reading with the underlying energy, because everything in the reading springs from that.
Underlying Energy: The Empress in reverse
The Empress is the card for Queen Camilla in her role as queen. It is also a card that represents beauty, abundance, fertility, charm, creativity, the mother, the divine feminine etc. In represents the planet Venus, the planet of love, female beauty, charm, attractiveness, generosity etc.
Here, the Empress is in reverse. This tells me that Queen Camilla is feeling overshadowed and /or she is acting out of her shadow side. No one is praising her looks, her charm, her generosity, her way with children etc (apart from obvious PR pieces) and she is upset about it. The energy from this card is one of 'I am The Queen, I expect to be praised to the skies' and of someone being very, very upset that this is not happening and that being The Queen has not magically erased her past from people's memories or changed how they see her. Along with this feeling of outrage at not getting the praise and attention that she thinks she deserves, there is a nasty, sulky, spiteful energy that is hidden behind a layer of 'being nice', and that energy is directed at people that Queen Camilla thinks are getting the praise and attention that she herself deserves.
On top of this energy and powered by this energy is the reading itself, as follows:
Card One: The Ten of Swords
This is a card of despair, betrayal, hitting rock bottom, and the energy from this card is a very strong energy of betrayal. Queen Camilla is feeling betrayed. She expected something different from when she was queen, and whatever it was that she expected, she is not getting it. She is disappointed and upset and feels betrayed - the energy is of someone who felt they were promised a lot of things that have not been delivered (It's almost as though she thought she could walk straight into the place that Her Late Majesty left vacant when she died, and just give it a few little tweaks so it fit her perfectly).
Fair enough, a lot of us have had the experience of wanting something and working for it and then when we get it, finding out that it is not what we imagined and in fact it was not worth the effort we put into gaining it.
However, there is a nasty, 'scorched earth' energy to this card as well as the betrayal energy. It feels like that Queen Camilla is reacting to her sense of betrayal by lashing out and cutting down anyone that she sees has having more than her, i.e. as 'taking' what is 'rightfully' hers as Queen (i.e. all the attention, all the praise, all the flattery and grovelling etc). There are many other ways to deal with a sense of betrayal, but it appears that this is the way that Queen Camilla has chosen to deal with it - basically to throw a tantrum and hit out at everyone around her because what she has is not what she thought it would be like.
Card Two: The King of Swords in Reverse
This is a continuation of the nasty energy I felt in the Ten of Swords
The King of Swords in reverse represents being a dictator, being irrational, being cold and inhumane, someone who is controlling, oppressive, ruthless and dishonest.
This card tells me that Queen Camilla is out to destroy people that she thinks are taking what belongs to her. Queen Camilla is being manipulative, controlling, cold, and ruthless in her attempts to regain what she thinks should go to her because she is Queen. She is being dishonest in what she is saying and doing. The aim seems to be to tear the other person down so then she can shine brighter and have all the attention and admiration that is going to that other person (or so Queen Camilla thinks). It won't work - the card in reverse tells me that this is not going to work - but Queen Camilla can not see that. She thinks that if she gets rid of the other person by ruining their reputation etc, then all the attention that the other person gets will automatically go to her.
This is giving me Princess Diana marriage flashbacks. I think that Camilla behaved in a similar way then, and what that behaviour got her was the place of the most hated woman in the UK, but for some reason she thinks that it will work this time around. There is very much an energy of repeating the past here, of doing things that didn't work in the past but somehow expecting them to work now).
Card Three: The Three of Cups in reverse
This is what Queen Camilla wants and is not getting.
The Three of Cups is a card of friendship, gatherings, community, celebrations, being a part of the festivities, having people glad that you showed up, having a warm welcome at events, being an integral part of the community, etc. It's about celebrating the good times together in an atmosphere of joy, getting a success of some sorts (graduation, work promotion, finishing a project etc) and throwing a party to share your joy with others. In this deck it is also my card for weddings, as the picture shown on it is a wedding.
This is what Camilla wanted - a big wedding, a big celebration, all the attention focused on her, for everyone to look at her when she goes into a room, to be the centre of events, the centre of attention, everyone overjoyed to have her at an event, etc.
It is not what she got.
The card is in the reverse. Instead of the big wedding, warm welcome, people delighted to see her where ever she went, being the centre of attention at events, what Queen Camilla got was more along the lines of what the Three of Cups in reverse represents: isolation, failure (nothing to celebrate), gossip, scandal, not being welcome, not being part of the community, getting little to no attention, and/or not having the time to have a social life because of your work commitments, and/or doing things to excess because you feel isolated and alone.
Queen Camilla expected that people would be far happier to see her than what they are, she expected all the scandal of her past to somehow vanish once she was queen, she wanted a big wedding (and turned the coronation into her second wedding imo), she expected every event to pivot around her and to be the centre of attention where ever she went, and she did not expect to have to work as much as she does or to have so little time for her private pursuits. What she got was something very different - more work, more expectations and making nice to people in social situations, continued gossip about her past, less time for her own pursuits, and less attention and praise than she wanted.
Conclusion
Queen Camilla expected to have a very different life as Queen - more time for her own pursuits, more praise and admiration, the scandals of her past to vanish, people to make her the centre of attention etc (I'm getting the impression that she expected the public to give her both what they gave to Her Late Majesty and what they gave to Princess Diana). When this did not happen, she felt betrayed. Instead of e.g. accepting what she had, or doing what she could to change the situation, she decided to lash out and destroy any other person that she saw as having the admiration, attention etc that 'rightfully' belonged to her.
So far, The Princess of Wales has been retired from the public eye this year and Queen Camilla has had the stage all to herself. In that time we have seen articles come out that actively put down The Princess of Wales to elevate Queen Camilla, indicating that Queen Camilla sees Princess Catherine as someone who has the attention, admiration etc that Queen Camilla thinks belongs to her. Once the Princess of Wales is back in her public life, if Queen Camilla continues this behaviour, then I would expect to see both covert and overt undermining of The Princess of Wales as well as using her to boost Queen Camilla's popularity and to present a public image of 'close friends'.
This may not happen. Queen Camilla may change her behaviour. However, if Queen Camilla continues along this path, especially with the King of Swords in reverse as as indicator of her behaviour, then I would expect to see malicious, underhanded, deceptive, back biting behaviour towards Princess Catherine as Queen Camilla tries to 'reclaim' what she sees as 'rightfully hers' in terms of the public reaction to the two women. This would include things like deliberately setting up the Princess of Wales to look bad, lying about incidents to make herself look better when talking to the press, giving the Princess of Wales the wrong information about things and then denying that she had done so, etc. It's going to be Camilla versus Diana all over again.
I hope this does not come to pass, but that depends on how Queen Camilla choses to act in the future - whether she decides to indulge her nasty streak or to rise above it and be a better person.
Edit: This is not a personal vendetta against Princess Catherine. It's how Queen Camilla seems to be reacting to anyone who gets attention or praise that Queen Camilla sees as belonging to her. If Princess Beatrice got the attention and praise, the spite and malice I feel would be directed as Princess Beatrice. If Princess Anne got the attention and praise, the spite and malice would be directed at her. It's not any attention and praise, either - the spite and malice is directed towards people who Queen Camilla sees as getting attention and praise that belong to her as the Queen (i.e. what she expects to be given to her because she is the Queen). She doesn't care about people getting other kids of praise and attention. She only cares about the praise and attention that she thinks belongs to her because she is the Queen. I hope that makes sense.
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chaotictempleknight · 21 hours ago
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Some advice for writers
I would like to offer some advice to my fellow writers. Caution: this post is a bit on the longer side.
If you have any type of series on the internet, please have a master post for that series, or at least some form of organization. No, I am not going to go endlessly scrolling through your blog or website to find the first chapter/page.
Please have links to chapters if you are writing a digital novel/novella. It makes it easier for the reader to get through the story. This is assuming you're not using a website dedicated to literature.
Tag your work with what genre it is. I see a lot of stories and chapters on the internet that don't do that or only tag one genre. I would like to know what genre your story is as I have preferences for what I read.
When writing a synopsis or a pitch, please establish the stakes. Tell me what the conflict is and why I should read. What are the consequences if the protagonist fails? Also don't describe what your story is. I'll find that out as I read.
Plan your story out before you write it. You are not that 1 in a million who's going to be able to write a story as you go along. PLAN OUT YOUR STORY BEFORE YOU START IT. Here's my advice: Establish your plot and ending, write the plot, write your characters, then write an outline for the story. Make sure you're happy with it, iron out any last minute details, then write a rough draft.
Have multiple drafts and don't post the first thing that comes out of your head. Don't worry if you mess up during the rough drafts, you can fix it later. How many drafts you have is up to you, just don't get carried away with them as you'll never finish the story.
The protagonist must succeed. It doesn't matter what they succeed in, they must succeed in something. There's no two ways about it. The protagonist can be anyone, be it a hero or villain. protagonist versus antagonist is not good versus evil, it's a clash of egos and ideals. It doesn't matter who they come from.
Write an evil villain and a strong hero. Let your villain be evil and let your hero be heroic. This is storytelling 101, but so many stories these days try to make everyone morally gray and indistinguishable from each other. You can have sympathetic villains and questionable heroes, just make it clear where the lines between good and evil are drawn.
Stop trying to be relatable and POST SOMETHING. I don't care about how many WIPs you haven't finished or about how your cat keeps interrupting you. Post your story. If you're more concerned about being relatable than actually writing, you're not a writer.
If you're expecting overnight success, you are in for a very rude awakening. No, you will not have overnight success. AND NO, you are not that 1 in a million. It takes time, effort, and dedication for your work to get noticed. I should know: have you heard of ULTRAMagic Alternate? I didn't think so.
If you are writing to make money and become famous, get out. I'm serious, leave. If you just want to make money, go get a regular job. You are legitimately getting in the way of actual writers who actually have a story to tell.
Having beta readers is ideal for improving your story. Find people interested in the genres you're writing and see what they think. You can always go back and fix the story if there is something wrong with it.
This one is for readers: If an author asks you to be a beta reader, they are NOT asking you to edit their story (although you can if you want to). You don't have to be an author, the writer is looking for your perspective as an average Joe off the street. Tell them what you think of the work, even if you have no knowledge of writing.
DO NOT USE AI IMAGES. The instant I see an AI image attached to your post I'm immediately scrolling past it. Either learn how to draw or hire a real artist.
DO NOT USE AI WRITING. I will ignore your entire existence if I catch you copy and pasting stuff from an AI chat bot. I'm okay with asking a chat bot for assistance as long as what is written on the page came from your head and human hands, however. Also newsflash, if AI becomes truly sentient, you are stealing ideas and work from another individual. Let that sink in.
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thelordofgifs · 11 hours ago
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Part 37! In which several people fuck up.
"You are not easy to find, Curvo," Amras says thoughtfully, dismounting. "But I had my suspicions I would find you skulking around the Girdle eventually."
"I'm here, too," Celebrimbor says pointedly. "Much to my regret."
No one pays any attention to this. "Well, this is a surprise, Pityo," Curufin says, looking his brother in the eye. "I did not see you come rushing to our aid when Morgoth's forces overwhelmed the Eastmarch, nor indeed when Himring fell. But I am glad to see you can be drawn out of your fortress eventually, with sufficient... inducement."
"I am impressed you dare speak of the fall of Himring," Amras says, his voice very light and casual. "But then you never did have any shame, I suppose."
Curufin laughs loudly. A bird in a nearby tree takes off in fright. "So you have come to scold me, I see!" he says. "Well, I am afraid yours will have been a wasted trip in that case, Pityo. Have you not heard that I am beyond any sort of redemption now?" He casts Celebrimbor a swift bitter look.
How quickly the mask slips, Celebrimbor reflects, trying not to care. Not five minutes ago was Curufin trying to convince him that he was yet a devoted father.
"You did not need to tell me that," Amras says. "In Nelyo's place I would have disavowed you long ago."
"Oh, so it is Nelyo who sent you," Curufin says; "well, you might tell him that I am of no mind to come flying back to his shoulder like some tame songbird, and he should give up searching for me."
"He is missing," Amras hisses, his eyes bright with sudden anger; "I suppose no-one would have informed you of it while you have been cringing in the forests like the coward you are – he has disappeared from Barad Eithel, they have heard nothing of him for weeks. And you have the nerve yet to speak his name, after what you did to him!"
"This is all very interesting and important," Celebrimbor interjects, "but might you mind having this conversation somewhere else? You could both leave. Without me, even."
"What have you come for, then, little brother?" Curufin says coldly, ignoring Celebrimbor again. "I should imagine you were happier thinking me lost. Yet you have gone to all this effort to seek me out. One might even believe you missed me."
Amras gives him a thin-lipped smile. "Not that, exactly," he says; and then he twitches aside his cloak to reveal the bright dagger gleaming at his hip. "I just think it might be about time I finished some things that had been left undone."
Curufin laughs again. "So little Pityo has decided to assert his claim to relevance!" he says. "Shall you kill me, then – and doom me to the Everlasting Darkness with my Oath yet unfulfilled?"
Amras shrugs. "Why not? If it was good enough for Tyelko, and for – for Telvo, I see no reason why you should yet linger here, when all your machinations but serve to keep the Silmarils in the grasp of others, and condemn all Beleriand to Morgoth's dominion meanwhile."
"Do not speak of him," says Curufin, white-lipped in an instant, "you do not know—"
"You can expect no pity from me, Curvo," Amras says coldly, "you who yet honour our father's name after Losgar." He glances past Curufin at Celebrimbor. "Even to the shame of your own son. Tyelko is dead – and I am glad of it, glad he died when he did rather than fall any further from grace – and it is more than time you followed him, I think."
"You have not the courage," says Curufin, his eyes very bright, "you will not do it."
"Will you try to fight me, then?" Amras asks softly. He nods at the burn on Curufin's hand. "I do not think you will get very far, with that."
Curufin is silent.
"Give me a reason," Amras says very slowly, gripping his dagger-hilt. "One reason only that I should spare you." He meets Celebrimbor's gaze again. "Have you too nothing to say in your father's defence, Tyelpë?"
"Have you not heard?" says Curufin, lifting his chin. "I am not his father any more, he claims."
"I am glad to hear one person in this family has sense, at least," Amras says. He comes to stand before Curufin, who watches him through slitted eyes, and does not move, even when Amras rests the tip of his dagger very lightly at the base of his throat.
"Not a word more to spare yourself, Curvo?" Amras says softly. "I thought your slippery tongue would have more to do in your favour."
Curufin manages, marvellously, to smile. "If only Telvo could have boasted one such tongue," he says, "or Nelyo, for that matter, when he quarrelled with our father about the ships – why, he might not have burned at all."
Not a very witty comeback, thinks Celebrimbor, who has faced the cutting edge of that selfsame tongue more than once. Indeed it seems to him almost as though Curufin is goading Amras deliberately – and even that clumsy jibe seems to have worked, for Amras' eyes are black with rage, and Curufin is still making no move to step away – and then he glances quickly at Celebrimbor and all at once Celebrimbor understands—
Oh, the cowardice of it all! Curufin wants Amras to kill him. He is counting on it, after Celebrimbor's new rejection – thinks it perhaps an honourable ending, as though to scrub out the stains of his ill deeds with his own red life-blood – how much easier, after all, to die simply and tragically than work to fix your own mistakes.
Celebrimbor has always understood his father far better than he wanted to.
He is so angry that he is tempted, for a moment, to say nothing – let Curufin meet his end here at his own brother's hands, it is no more than he deserves – but then he cannot bear either to think of Curufin getting what he wants one last time.
"Stop," he says clearly. "Uncle, stop."
Amras does not seem at first to hear him; he presses the dagger against Curufin's throat again, drawing a bright little bead of blood, and smiles icily.
Curufin's eyes are closed.
"Stop," Celebrimbor says again, and he comes forward to put his hand on Amras' arm, and draws it away from Curufin's throat.
It takes Amras a moment to register that his blade has been moved. He blinks dazedly at his hand, and then at Celebrimbor, and then says slowly, "So you are your father's son after all, I see? He will not love you better for it, you know."
"I care not whether he loves me," Celebrimbor says coldly. "Only that I will not stand by and watch a Kinslaying take place before my very eyes. You ought to want better for yourself, uncle."
Amras smiles again, a flash of teeth. "So you set yourself up as the best of us!" he says. "You forget, Tyelpë, that the House of Fëanor has never had much compunction in spilling its own blood."
Curufin has opened his eyes. He is gaping at Celebrimbor in unbridled awe, his eyes very bright.
Celebrimbor manages a laugh. "For all your disdain, uncle, it seems yet to matter a great deal to you that you belong to that selfsame House."
Amras lifts his chin proudly, stung.
"Tyelpë," Curufin breathes, his voice shaky. "Tyelpë – I knew you did care—"
Don't, Celebrimbor wants to say, disgusted, don't thank me, don't even look at me, I wish you had died after all— But he cannot quite manage the words.
As he is trying best to formulate some scathing remark – wrapping together contempt and anger and exasperation all at once – he hears a voice calling for him through the trees.
"Tyelpë? Tyelpë, is all well?"
"Who is that?" Curufin asks swiftly.
Celebrimbor cannot move.
"There you are, cousin," Finduilas says cheerfully, coming into the clearing, and then she stops short.
Meanwhile in Dor-lómin:
Lúthien is wandering listlessly through the fields.
Departing her father's realm was a relief, but still she cannot deny that this land – which she once looked to with such girlish enthusiasm – can never truly be a home for her.
Beren, at least, is happier here than he had been in Doriath. He speaks little and smiles less, but there is at least now no fine line of strain between his eyes.
Is this what I died for? Lúthien wonders. Is this all that I could ever have hoped for?
In the distance she sees a stooped figure making her way back up to the great house from the well.
Morwen has serving-women to carry her buckets for her, Lúthien knows. She imagines it is some stubborn impulse that has driven her today to fetch her water herself, even now that her belly is beginning to weigh her down, and resolves to do nothing.
Morwen has made it clear enough, time and again, that she does not want Lúthien's help.
Still that reasoning cannot sway her when she sees the other woman stop suddenly, swaying under her burden, and then crumple to her knees.
Lúthien cries out and is by Morwen's side in a moment. "Are you well? I can fetch one of your women – or Rían if you would prefer—"
But Morwen looks more winded than truly hurt. "No," she gasps out, struggling back to her feet. "And especially not Rían, do not trouble her." She stoops to pick up the bucket again.
"I doubt very much she would consider it any trouble," Lúthien says lowly, "to care for one whom she loves."
Morwen merely looks silently at her, and does not answer. She grasps the handle of the bucket and a tiny wince flashes across her face, so swiftly that no mortal vision could have caught it.
"At least allow me to help you with that," Lúthien says, unhappily conscious that she is overstepping; but to her relief Morwen says nothing, and inclines her head with what might be gratitude.
The bucket is weightier than Lúthien was expecting. Her limbs have been heavy these past few days, as though some of the treacly stillness of Doriath's air yet clings to her in the chilly north.
But she manages a smile and sets her course up to Morwen's house.
Morwen rarely feels any inclination to fill a silence. Lúthien had forgotten that in the weeks since she last spoke with the other woman; now her lips keep twitching, stirred by impulses alternately to comment inanely on the weather or to ask, Did I really make you hate me so much that even Beren your cousin is not welcome in your house?
"I do not hate you," Morwen says quietly, with one of those strange flashes of not-quite-mortal insight. "Think you I of all people have no pity in my heart for those exiles of Beleriand, without even a hearth to name their own? I wished you and Beren only good when first you came here. But there is no use in trying to make a barren land bear fruit."
"No land is truly barren," Lúthien breathes. "I cannot be made to believe so."
Morwen gives her a look she cannot quite decipher. "Perhaps not."
"Beren deserves a home, after all he has suffered," Lúthien says. "And I may not rest until I have found him one."
"It is not here," Morwen says bluntly. "You know that. So what are you going to do?"
Again that impossible heaviness deep within Lúthien, an ache blooming at the base of her spine. "I don't know," she says (although she does).
Morwen gives her a level, assessing look. "You will have to decide soon," she says, cryptic again.
They have reached her house. She takes the bucket back from Lúthien and says, all politeness, "I thank you for your kind assistance," and then goes in.
Back in Doriath:
Finduilas is pale, but she keeps her composure admirably, casting Celebrimbor naught but one nervous glance.
Celebrimbor brushes his mind against hers, a fumbling attempt at reassurance, but he knows not what to say. It's all right? Run?
"Who is that?" asks Amras, who does not often leave Amon Ereb, has no interest in feasts and gatherings, and likely last saw Finduilas as a babe in arms.
"Orodreth's daughter," Curufin says slowly. He glances at Celebrimbor. "So you have kept up a friendship with your cousin, I see, Tyelpë. What is she doing here?"
"As if I am likely to tell you that," Celebrimbor says sharply, his hand going to his sword-hilt. "If you have any sense at all you will leave without sparing her another glance – both of you."
Amras bristles. "Think you to tar me with the same brush as your father? I have no record of abducting maidens in the woods."
At the same moment Curufin says, "She comes from within the Girdle, does she not?"
Finduilas has been listening to the back-and-forth Quenya with an uncomprehending frown. Now she bursts out, "Kinsmen, some may consider it discourteous, to guard your thoughts in a tongue not all present can follow."
Amras looks puzzled. "A princess of the Noldor has no knowledge of the language of her own people?"
"It was never spoken in Felagund's halls," Curufin says in Quenya, with a shrug. "The girl ought to have applied herself to studying it if she wished to eavesdrop on the conversations of her elders."
"It is a tongue best-suited to treachery," Celebrimbor says in icy Sindarin, "and you will not hear another word of it out of my mouth."
Curufin's face goes very rapidly from white to red to even whiter, which is what Celebrimbor was hoping his words achieve. The satisfaction is hollow even so, tempered as it is by unease.
Curufin is so inconveniently clever sometimes.
Case in point: he turns to Finduilas with a smile that attempts at avuncularity, and says, "So you were visiting the halls of Thingol, little niece? I did not know that Nargothrond yet maintained relations with the Dark-elf."
Finduilas regards him with unalloyed suspicion, but, remembering her failure, she cannot quite school her expression in time. "It does not," she says, trying to be terse.
"Finduilas," Celebrimbor says quietly, but the rest of the warning freezes at his lips.
"And yet you leave Menegroth alone, not escorted by any armed Iathren force," Curufin observes. "Your uncle yet remembers your kinship, I'll wager."
"Bold indeed for you to speak to me of kinship," Finduilas retorts. "I have nothing to say to you."
"No, indeed," Curufin says softly, reverting to Quenya. "But there is something you could bring me even so."
Amras looks at him with narrowed eyes. "Speak plainly, if you will."
"Do not dare," Celebrimbor says in Sindarin, gritting his teeth.
But Curufin smiles and says, "Thingol of Doriath wrested our father's Silmaril from Káno's very hands as he slept. Perhaps our little niece here will help right that injustice."
Finduilas, catching the word Silmaril in amongst the blur of Quenya, purses her lips. "I have no part in your foolish Oath," she says, "and will offer you no help in it. Do not presume to ask it of me."
"I am not asking," Curufin breathes.
Amras, behind him, has shifted the banked hungry fire of his gaze to Finduilas, too.
Celebrimbor steps in front of her and draws his sword again. "By treason of kin unto kin shall you be hindered," he says quietly. "Mandos spoke truly: I will slay you if you touch her."
"You would not," Curufin says, "mere minutes after sparing me. In truth you do know from where your own blood springs, Tyelpë."
"Is it true?" Amras asks urgently. "Does Thingol yet allow those of the House of Arafinwë past the Girdle?"
The indignity of it, thinks Finduilas with a flash of fury, to be turned away in disgrace from Thingol's halls only for the sons of Fëanor now to see the value in the connection!
"I do not run and fetch on your command," she says, moving to stand by Celebrimbor's side again. "There is nothing that will compel me to steal from my uncle for the sake of a usurper and a murderer."
"Nothing?" asks Amras, wetting his lips a little. He casts a glance, almost imperceptibly swift, at his nephew.
Celebrimbor laughs. "Here, then, is all your righteous outrage!" he cries. "What difference, in the end, between a father who would slay his son and an uncle who would slay his nephew? How swiftly the mask falls, when a Silmaril comes into play once more. But I say to you now that you will never lay a hand on the one in Thingol's halls, either of you."
"Tyelpë," Curufin says, his voice low, "be reasonable—"
"Is it reason that moves you now?" Celebrimbor demands. "Scarce hours ago you were doing all that was in your power to convince me you had changed, and I ought to forgive you – forgive you, as though I am the one you wronged! But one breath of a mention of the damned Silmarils and your true nature comes through in an instant." He casts a disgusted look at Amras. "You are all the same, every one of you, for all your high-minded speeches about justice and shamelessness—"
"Do not speak of that you do not understand," Amras hisses. "I am nothing like your father."
"I have no father," Celebrimbor declares, his eyes bright. "And yet you bear more than a passing resemblance to this pitiful creature before me. Do you claim now that to abduct a maiden in the woods is so very far below you?" He glances at Finduilas, pointedly. "Or else to spill the blood of your own kin, after the threats you have made today? No, uncle, if you are true-hearted in your quest for vengeance you will turn your blade first of all upon yourself – and until then know that you carry on the House of Fëanor's fine tradition of hypocrisy perfectly well."
"Tyelpë," Curufin breathes.
"Come, cousin," Celebrimbor says firmly, taking Finduilas' hand in his. "With luck we will run into one of your father's search parties sooner or later, and then you will be home safe again."
"But will you?" Curufin asks.
Celebrimbor meets his eyes. "Better than I would anywhere else," he says. He pauses, and then adds, "I really might have given you a chance, you know."
Curufin looks after him, silenced, as he leads Finduilas away to where she left her mount.
[his own horse was um. well there were a lot of wolves ok. sadly it is no longer true that no horses were harmed in the making of this fic]
"We can still go after them," Amras says.
"He was right about you, you know," Curufin says wearily.
"He was right about you," Amras counters.
As a child Amras never really squabbled. He and Amrod were so perfectly wrapped up in each other that they had very little inclination for quarrelling with their elder brothers, even Curufin who was not quite out of adolescence when they were born.
Strange now to hear his bickering, and stranger still when it falls so dreadfully flat.
"What now, then?" Curufin asks.
He supposes Amras might still decide to kill him, without Celebrimbor to stay his hand.
Without, without, without – it is over, he is gone for good, another casualty on Curufin's endless blundering trail of destruction—
But his brother shrugs.
"You will see me again," Curufin says in a low voice. "Whatever you proclaim. All five of us living are bound by ties deeper than blood."
"Think you I do not regret that daily?" Amras asks. "Were it not for your foolish scheming the Oath would not be burning in my blood each dawn when I awake. Were it not for our father and his madness Telvo would have at the very least died free."
Despite himself Curufin bristles. "Do not."
"All right, Curvo," Amras says flatly. He manages a wan half-smile, very different from the sharp glinting grin he wore upon first coming across them. "See you then." And he saddles up his mare again and makes ready to leave.
"That's it?" Curufin asks dully. And then, because Amras' icy fury was the most alive he has felt in many months, "I knew you had not the courage to slay me."
"You could call it that," Amras says, without turning to look at him. "Farewell, Curvo."
He is gone before Curufin can think of a response.
For a long moment he stands frozen in the empty clearing, wanting to shout, wanting to beg, Do not turn your back on me now—
He is still there when the call comes.
Meanwhile in Dorthonion:
"I have been thinking, Maitimo," says Sauron, coming suddenly into the cave after days – weeks, perhaps – of darkness.
No games today, at least. There is that to be thankful for. He wears his usual guise, fair-haired and flame-eyed, robed all in white.
Maedhros blinks at him, and says nothing.
(He could not speak even if he wished to – his mouth is bone-dry, his throat parched and stinging.)
Sauron kneels before him, caresses his forehead with burning fingers. "My poor sweet one," he says, his voice tinged with regret. "I would not have to keep you bound were you only a little more – stable."
You made me so, Maedhros wants to cry out. It is good, in a way, that his thirst has gagged him so: he does not want to give Sauron the satisfaction of an answer.
It will not last for ever; soon enough Sauron will grow bored with this dull-eyed silence, he knows.
"But answer me this, Maitimo," Sauron says, his voice soft and thoughtful, "your conscience held you back when last you entered Menegroth, did it not? What makes you so very certain that you will have the mettle to take the Silmaril from Thingol this time?"
It is not that any of this will have occurred to him just now, Maedhros knows. Likely all these arguments and counter-arguments were clear to him in the moment they first struck their bargain; and now, while they wait for Morgoth's answer and the Silmaril from Angband, the Silmaril Maedhros will not be able to touch, Sauron seeks to amusing himself by toying with him.
Well, he will keep his silence.
Sauron shifts so that all his weight – and he can make himself impossibly heavy for all that his form is so slender, as though the mass of all the rocks in the cavern is concentrated in him – rests upon one of Maedhros' shattered legs. "I asked you a question, Maitimo."
His breath on Maedhros' lips is hot and dry, like a desert wind.
O for the gift of Míriel, for her endless, peaceful slumber!
But Maedhros spent long enough yearning for death on the mountain to know it cannot be that easy.
He takes his tongue between his teeth and bites down hard, hard enough that his mouth is filled with hot metallic blood and he can at last wet his lips a little.
"What answer will satisfy you?" he manages to rasp. "That I have faith in myself, or that I do not? Your decision is made either way."
"Still I wish to know," Sauron says silkily. He cups Maedhros' cheek with one hand, and Maedhros leans into the touch despite himself. "You ask me to depend upon you a great deal."
He should not play the game. He should hold his tongue and take whatever beating Sauron metes out in response; it will make no difference either way, the Silmaril is coming regardless.
But Maedhros does so like to be clever.
"Depend instead upon my Oath," he says, "for it compels me to deal death to him who witholds a Silmaril from me. Thingol has bound himself to his fate."
"And yet you walked away from Menegroth, leaving a Silmaril in his power," Sauron points out. "That is not the behaviour of one driven solely by his Oath to reclaim the jewels."
"It was in my brother's possession when I left Thingol's halls in search of the other," Maedhros says. This much at least is true – though he does not like to speak of Maglor in Sauron's presence, does not like to remember that they two both exist in the selfsame world. "I was foolish enough to trust that he would not surrender it. I will not make the same mistake twice." There, that is scorn enough in his voice to fool anyone.
"And yet you trust him now to hold the one in Barad Eithel," Sauron muses. "Do you not claim the jewel for your own, Fëanor's eldest son? You were unkind enough to shine it in my eyes on the battlefield."
"He will guard it with care," says Maedhros, "and it is his by right as much as mine – more, even, for he suffered for it during the fall of Himring, and besides—" He pauses.
Sauron leans in and presses his hot lips to Maedhros', licking clean the last droplets of blood clinging to his cracked skin.
"Besides?" he prompts.
Bile rises in Maedhros' throat. He shudders, but Sauron holds his jaw closed tight, forcing him to swallow it rather than retch.
"I'm waiting, Maitimo," Sauron says softly.
Maedhros spits blood in his face, which seems only to amuse him. "Besides he is better than you," he hisses, "and better than me, and it will never burn him as long as he lives—"
The pressure on his leg vanishes abruptly, leaving him oddly light-headed.
"So it will burn you, my sweet?" Sauron says softly.
His voice now comes from far above Maedhros' head. He tries to tilt his head back to see – long experience has taught him to keep his eyes on Sauron as much as possible – but the cold wall of the cave arrests his motion.
"You and I were always more alike than you wished to admit, my little liar," Sauron murmurs. He reaches down to tousle Maedhros' matted hair. "You will never be able to pass through the Girdle, will you, Silmaril or not? Well, then."
"Are you going to kill me, now?" Maedhros asks, the faint flicker of what may be relief in his chest. "I can be of no use to you after all."
"I keep my promises, Maitimo," Sauron says briskly, "even to those as faithless as you." And with a swish of his robes he is gone.
That is a bad thing – he is sure that is a bad thing – what was it Sauron promised?
But he is so, so tired, and he cannot remember, and now that Sauron is gone he is alone once more with his thoughts, and all he wants to do is sleep until the breaking of the world.
But he cannot – just yet. For Maglor's sake.
For the first time since he came here he opens up his mind, just the tiniest of cracks, and reaches out.
Are you there? I need help.
(to be continued)
the fairest stars: post vii
Yet more of the "Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils" AU! Masterpost with links to all previous parts on tumblr and AO3 here.
Part 35: on stories, and the ways they repeat themselves.
Finrod goes to Mandos' throne room, and kneels – such as it is – in supplication before the Vala.
"Son of Arafinwë," says Mandos. "Having turned down our boon, have you come to ask another?"
"Not for myself," says Finrod. "But for my cousin."
"Whatever vow you have made," says Mandos, "Turkafinwë Fëanárion is not ready to be released from my Halls, even were he willing."
"Not – not Celegorm," says Finrod, "but Amrod his brother. Has no judgement been passed on him? It is many centuries now since he burned to death at his father's hands."
"The judgement was passed," says Mandos, "when he swore his Oath, and bound himself to violence. No one compelled by such a force can be released into the peace of Aman."
"But he regretted it," Finrod argues. "He meant to turn back as my own father did, and beg pardon of the Valar. He would be free of it, if he could."
"But he is not," says Mandos, implacable.
Finrod is good, and pious, and faithful. Finrod is not going to lose his temper with a Vala.
"Is there no pity in these Halls?" he asks. "Is there no way to set him free of a bond he does not want?"
"Lúthien your cousin asked a similar thing when she came before me," Mandos says. "And I will tell you what I told her: it is beyond my power to undo an Oath sworn in the name of the All-father. The Valar are not gaolers, child. Telufinwë's chains were of his own making."
"It wasn't his fault," Finrod says tightly, "it was his father who bound him—"
"I cannot give you what you want," Mandos says, interrupting him.
"Then pass the boon you have given me onto him," Finrod says; "transfer it away from me, I do not want it. Grant him his release, he has lingered here long enough."
"That is not how it works," Mandos says. "You are free to leave these Halls whenever you desire. It is not my way to retract mercy once it has been offered."
Do you call this mercy? Finrod does not say. He takes his leave instead.
“You did not need to do that,” Amrod says, when he returns.
Finrod is in no mood for Fëanorian self-pity. “Do you want to rot here forever, then?” he asks sharply.
“So it was decreed,” Amrod says, “and I told you already that I never expected any mercy for myself.”
“Yet you would have me extend it to your brother,” Finrod says.
“That,” says Amrod, “is not precisely what I said.” He makes some spirit-approximation of a shrug. “You know Tyelko as he is now better than I do. Is he past saving? Perhaps. But it is for your own sake that you are trying anyway, I think.”
“But if even you are condemned to remain here forever—” Finrod says, unable to keep himself from bitterness.
“I’ve killed people, Ingoldo,” Amrod reminds him. “Three of them, in fact.” He shudders briefly. “Why me? Why Tyelko, for that matter? There are many worthier souls in these Halls to demand your attention. After the Dagor Bragollach the Exiles came pouring in here in their thousands, and every one of them lies under the Doom of Mandos – all except for you. You could be pleading for any one of them, instead of your Kinslaying cousins, who are anyway bound by a greater chain.”
“Because,” Finrod says, irritable, “chains can be broken. And I cannot bear to see you deny that, again and again – you as well as your brother! Forever need not always mean forever. There are brighter things in store for you, for all of us, than to mourn here for eternity in the dark. Valar help me, I did not fully realise it, until Lúthien showed me it was so – and yet—” He stops suddenly.
Amrod looks at him with sympathy. "It is not only us you are angry with," he says.
"I do not want to be angry at all," Finrod says wearily. "I want to find a way out, I want to believe that there is hope for all of us – for you and me and your brother and my Ten and those we lost on the Ice and all the doomed and damned and grieving Noldor – can it be so? Or is it always the same story over and over again, all of us trapped in our roles until the end of the time? The Ainulindalë had space in it for new themes, did it not? So why must we condemn ourselves over-hastily, name these chains unbreakable for ever?"
"Perhaps they are," says Amrod, "for the rest of us, if not for you."
"I do not believe that any more," says Finrod. "And I am going to speak to my brother."
Back in Middle-earth:
Finduilas and Celebrimbor have ridden swiftly, their journey uneventful. They are coming now to the borders of the Girdle of Melian.
Finduilas smiles at Celebrimbor, more bravely than she really feels. "This is where we part ways."
To her eyes the Girdle is clearly visible, a sharply demarcated shimmering in the air, whereas all Celebrimbor can make out is a blurred sort of wrongness, as though the world itself is bending around Doriath's border.
"It isn't too late to change your mind," Celebrimbor tells her. "We can go back to Nargothrond, we can tell your father we only got lost in the mists—"
"It has been too late for that for a long time," Finduilas says, decisive. She smiles again. "Don't fret, Tyelpë! The worst Thingol can do to me is speak harshly. I am not the one in danger."
"I will be fine," Celebrimbor tells her. "It is the northern stretch of the Girdle where danger lies thick." He thinks of the desperate flight from Himlad after the Dagor Bragollach, and shivers a little. "You had better not tell Thingol that I am here, not after what my – my father tried."
"You aren't your father, Tyelpë," Finduilas says softly. She leans over to kiss his cheek. "Take heart! With any luck my errand will not be a long one, and we will have an escort of Iathren marchwardens to take us home."
Celebrimbor thinks that is overly optimistic, but he only says, "I will be here when you return – and good luck, coz."
He watches as she rides away from him, through the Girdle and then into the darkness of whatever lies beyond it.
It is a perfectly nice clearing they have chosen for their meeting-place, and he spends some time the next day setting up camp; then he gets bored, and invents a better mechanism for collecting rainwater for drinking, and then makes himself a makeshift chemistry lab out of the weird plants growing near the Girdle; and then he carves every fallen stick in a mile's radius into a miniature wooden animal, and ends up with a host of Eagles and an army of bears and No Dogs At All; and then and then and then
He's really bored tbh.
In Barad Eithel:
One thing about Maglor is that he needs a Job or he will go a little mad.
He is like Maedhros in that, Fingon reflects, and tries not to indulge the stab of the thought.
Unfair, to blame unhappy Maglor for not being his brother, for not having Maedhros' smile and Maedhros' bright thoughtful eyes and Maedhros' commanding presence—
Anyway: usually this does not pose much of an issue, because Maglor has made Maedhros his Job and attends to him both capably and contentedly.
Now, on the other hand, he is restless, and when Maglor is restless he hovers.
Fingon does not mind this most of the time. He likes his cousin's company, despite everything, and also Maglor is a better and more sensible advisor than most would give him credit for.
But there is really not that much for him to do today, and he is maybe driving Fingon a little crazy.
"Makalaurë," he says, "you might go down to the armoury."
Maglor smiles drily at him. "Trying to get rid of me?"
"No," Fingon lies, "only it occurred to me that you are certainly the most skilled person here at testing the metal for minute flaws – the same way you use its resonance in swordplay. And it would be good to make sure everything is in good shape while Morgoth seems to be unwiling to attack again."
“You are trying to get rid of me,” says Maglor, not really offended.
An hour later finds him in the armoury, sorting swords that need mending from those whose metal sings cleanly; he is so absorbed in the work that he does not at first notice there is someone else in the room, until Maeglin comes to stand before him.
“I did not know you had any interest in metalwork,” Maeglin says, in lieu of any other greeting.
“Not particularly,” Maglor says mildly, “but my father was the greatest smith of the Noldor, even so.”
Maeglin’s expression seems to imply that he intends to change that.
Maglor decides he might as well try to be friendly. “We have spoken little since you came to Barad Eithel,” he says; “forgive me, I have been too absorbed in my own affairs to greet you with the courtesy due so close a kinsman. But I am glad to meet Írissë’s son at last.”
Maeglin says, “Were you close to my mother?”
“Not as much as my younger brothers,” Maglor admits, “but even so I thought her fearless, and kind, and never reluctant to speak her own mind.”
“She was different,” Maeglin says in a low voice, “when I knew her.”
Maybe it would be good to change the subject.
"How well do you like Barad Eithel?" Maglor asks. "You have made friends among the lords of the Noldor already, I am glad to see."
Maeglin is looking at him guardedly. "Everyone has been very kind," he says, his voice neutral. "Although my uncle has had less time for me than I hoped."
Maglor bites his lip. "He has much to trouble him at present, too," he says, as evenly as he can. "But you should know he speaks highly of you."
"I am glad to hear it," Maeglin says. He looks at Maglor in silence for a little while, and then says, "You are close in his counsel, I think."
Maglor is kind of regretting his decision to be friendly.
"We have been friends for a long time," is all he says.
"But not as close as he was to your brother," Maeglin says, watching Maglor very carefully as he speaks.
"You were on the field after the battle," Maglor says, trying to keep his patience. "I think you already know the answer to that."
"Forgive me," Maeglin says then, and flashes Maglor a quick rueful smile. "You are all names I have only ever heard in half-complete stories. There is a great deal I must learn. And nobody had ever told me that the High King was wed to his cousin."
"They are not wed," Maglor says automatically, Maedhros' customary rebuttal; then he wonders why he is still making Maedhros' arguments for him, still playing the lieutenant when the war is long since over, and the weight of his loss seizes him around the throat anew.
Belatedly he realises Maeglin is speaking. "Turgon my uncle was not happy to learn of it," he says. "But perhaps it does not matter so much now, since your brother is – well." He has the grace to look vaguely sympathetic, at least. "Some of the other lords are beginning to say that it would be wise for the King to take a wife, now that he is free of any other attachment. But that seems to me unkind."
"Unkind," Maglor asks, "or just contrary to your own hopes, which rather depend on his remaining unwed and heirless?" He raises an eyebrow.
Maeglin tenses. Maglor's eyes rest on him the way Idril's used to, as though seeing some ugly nub inside him, invisible to Maeglin himself.
Maeglin does not want to think about Idril.
"I have told them it would be cruel," he says, "to raise the matter to him while he has so many troubles."
"I see," Maglor says, and some of the pressure of his gaze relents. "Since they seem to listen to you, you might tell them that Fingon loves my brother, and is not so faithless as to waver in his affection now." He manages the flicker of a smile. "Or perhaps it would be wisest if you do not say that: they might like you less, then, after all."
"You are determined to mistrust me, I see," Maeglin says stiffly. "Strange, when half the court thinks you a spy for the Enemy, and your brother his puppet."
"Those accusations," Maglor says, "are older than you by many centuries, and have lost much of their sting. I am not a spy, and Fingon knows that. But you mistake me, Maeglin. I am not determined to mistrust you. I am only worried – for you, not just because of you." He looks directly at Maeglin again. "You are very lonely, I think."
Maeglin lifts his chin. "I am perfectly content," he says, his voice clipped, "and have very little need for your concern, thank you."
Maglor decides to take a risk. "You are not the only one," he says softly, "who knows what it is to drag the weight of a father's madness behind you. I too understand a little of that grief – it is a heavy thing, and solitary. But I am here if you wish to share some of the burden."
But Maeglin bristles. "What do you know of my burdens and my griefs?" he asks, scornful. "Spare me your pity, please. I do not need it – least of all from one cast so low as you. What now is the House of Fëanor but a set of traitors and invalids, clinging to glory they have long-since lost? In truth I think you envy me – envy that the High King trusts me, and gives me duties the likes of which you cannot imagine."
Maglor cannot stifle a laugh at this speech. "Yes," he says, "that must be it."
Maeglin glares at him and then storms out.
"At least you tried," Fingon says later, when Maglor relates the story.
(Some of it, at least. He does not think Fingon will take kindly to hearing about the speculation on his taking a wife; and Fingon is already rather too prone to lashing out at his lords at the moment.)
"You ought to spend more time with him," is all he says. "For your sake as much as his. He is rather too invested in who shall be named your heir, I think."
Fingon smiles drily. "Well, at least someone is looking to the matter of the succession," he says; and when Maglor gives him a Look, he throws his hands in the air and adds, "he's barely out of childhood, Makalaurë! Do you really think he's sneaking about plotting to poison me in my bed? My brother trusted him, clearly."
"Everyone trusted Curvo, too," Maglor mutters, "and look where that got us."
But when Fingon glances sharply at him he subsides. He does not have the appetite to argue with Fingon.
Fingon changes the subject. "I have not heard you speak so of your father before," he says quietly.
Maglor's ears twitch uncomfortably. "How unthinkingly we bound ourselves," he says, "gave up our freedom and our will and our innocence because he asked it of us – and how could we ever do otherwise? He was our father and we would have done anything for him." He draws a shaky breath.
Fingon has his own complicated feelings about his father, but he is simply Not Engaging With Them. "He has been dead a long time, Makalaurë," he says after a moment.
"I know!" Maglor says, bitterly. "I know: and we are still not free. I am tired of it."
Maedhros' name hovers in the air between them. Neither of them speaks it.
"You know my thoughts on your Oath," Fingon murmurs instead. "Chains can be broken, Makalaurë. Just because you have done evil before does not mean you are obliged to do it again." He gives Maglor a sympathetic look. "I am a Kinslayer too, you know."
"Did you tell Nelyo that?" Maglor asks, breaking their unspoken pact, and Fingon flinches.
[this is known as failing the Maedhros Bechdel Test]
After a moment, Maglor says, "I used to think – to hope, even – that maybe you were right, that Lúthien was right to tell me I need not lament forever. But here we are! Five hundred years have passed and the Oath still binds us tightly as ever it did, and he is gone, it has taken him from me once more – must it always be the same story over and over again? Shall I never be singing anything but the Noldolantë – must its themes echo through time for ever? I am tired, Finno."
"I know," says Fingon, "I know," and he puts his arms around Maglor, and Maglor leans shivering into the embrace, but it is not enough.
In Doriath:
Finduilas' entry into Menegroth has gone smoothly, and she is privately beginning to believe that Celebrimbor's fearmongering was just that.
Nobody has stopped her on recognising her (for she came here often, with her father, in the peaceful days of her youth before the Sudden Flame).
Nor does Thingol turn her away when she goes formally to her knees before him in his great throne room, and says, "I have come as an ambassador from Nargothrond, in the name of Orodreth my father."
"Little niece," says Thingol, with a flicker of humour at the corners of his mouth, "strange are the days when you whom I dandled on my knee not so many years ago now come to treat with me as a foreign king. But you will always be welcome in Menegroth, child."
Finduilas beams at him, and feels her confidence wax – until she hears footsteps behind her, which halt abruptly.
"What's this?" Lúthien asks sharply.
Finduilas spins around to face her.
Lúthien looks – good. Flourishing, even. Mortality suits her, adds some shimmering quality of transience to her loveliness, as if some light beyond the circles of this world is already shining through her skin.
A far cry from how she was when Finduilas last saw her, her face blotchy with tears, her nails ragged and torn – help me, cousin, please, let me out—
"Cousin," Finduilas says, summoning up a smile. "I am glad to see you again."
Lúthien ignores the greeting, looking past her to Thingol. "What is the meaning of this, Father?" she demands. "Why have you allowed her past the Girdle?"
Thingol looks troubled. He does not think he has ever seen Lúthien speak with such untempered anger. "The kin of Olwë my brother have always been welcome here, Lúthien," he says.
"Kin," Lúthien repeats. She looks at Finduilas now, her eyes hard. "That is one word for the way they treated me, certainly."
"I am sorry, cousin," Finduilas breathes. "I did not look to find you here, or else I would have come prepared with some gift of apology for you: but it is for that reason that I have come to plead Nargothrond's case with your father, because I am ashamed of how things happened, we are all ashamed – and my father has cast the sons of Fëanor out of the city—"
"I know that," says Lúthien, "they tried to kill me after he did so, you know."
Finduilas bites her lip. This is not going at all how she pictured it.
Lúthien makes a disgusted sound. "I can't do this," she says, and turns to her father again. "Either she leaves or I do," she says; "you know ultimatums are not my habit, Father, but I will not dwell under the same roof as she again."
She walks out.
Once she is gone Finduilas falls to her knees again. "Uncle," she says, "uncle, please. I have come for the sake of both our realms – please, give me another chance."
Thingol's eyes are colder now. "It is not my intention," he says, "to go against my daughter's wishes again."
"Let me make it right with her," Finduilas pleads, "she has every right to be angry, but I would see our old friendship renewed, if I can."
Thingol hesitates a moment, and Finduilas holds her breath. If he turns her away now, it will all have been in vain—
But at last he nods, and Finduilas is directed to Lúthien's favourite haunt, a clearing aboveground (for Lúthien above all other Elves cannot bear to be caged out of sight of the sky).
She stiffens when Finduilas comes across her. "Still here?"
"I know you are angry," Finduilas says, in a low voice, "and I have come to apologise. I should have protested harder when Celegorm sought to imprison you – I should have found some way to set you free – forgive me, cousin. It was not what I wanted: and I was not brave enough to speak against them."
Lúthien makes no indication that she accepts the apology. "Why have you come here, Finduilas?" she asks. "You were never the sort to pay much attention to politics."
Finduilas chews at her lip. "Nargothrond is weakened," she admits. "My father does his best, but after what the sons of Fëanor did – our unity is failing. Nor is he willing to ally with the High King in the north. I would not have us lose all the friends we once had."
"The friends you had," Lúthien says casually, "when Finrod was your King."
Finduilas does not want to agree, does not want to acknowledge that her father is not the king his brother was. But perhaps her silence is agreement enough.
"So you are here to win back Doriath's might," Lúthien muses, "afraid, perhaps, of the prospect of it mustered against you."
Finduilas feels hot with embarassment. "No – no, you mistake me, cousin," she says. "I want to make things right. Nargothrond grieves what was done to you."
"Nargothrond," Lúthien says, her voice now very sharp, "was complicit in it, every single one of you who were too afraid to do what you knew you be right, too cowed by the sons of Fëanor of all people – two cowards who were bested by Beren and a dog, a dog who had more courage in his heart than your whole rotten city put together—" She draws a furious breath.
Finduilas blinks back tears. "I am ashamed of it," she says unhappily.
"But you still do not think you are really to blame," Lúthien says. "Dear little Finduilas, o best-loved niece and least-noticed daughter, the last princess of the Noldor: who could ever fault you for anything? Why do you think my father allowed you to stay? He too holds you blameless in all Nargothrond's failings, naught but a pretty spectator." She looks coldly at Finduilas. "I do not. You should have done better. You should have helped me." She pauses, as if gathering her strength for the blow, and then adds, "Finrod would have lived, had you helped me."
Finduilas draws a breath.
"I was only hours too late for him," Lúthien says, very softly, her eyes distant. "Had I come sooner, he would have been saved." She shudders, and then looks at Finduilas again. "So do not speak to me now of Nargothrond's troubles. They are of their own making."
Finduilas' eyes are stinging again. "Tales are told of your friendship with the eldest sons of Fëanor," she says angrily, "and yet you will not spare so much as a sliver of pity for your own kin?"
Lúthien shrugs, undeterred by the barb. "Call it selfishness, perhaps," she says. "Darling little cousin, did you think to take me for your model, to come here and win my father's quarter with your smile, and carry home some great boon? Give it up. You are not me."
"Does it mean nothing that I am sorry?" Finduilas cries. "Perhaps I am not brave like you, or clever like you, or so well-favoured by the Valar: but I grieve what was done to you! Does that not count for anything?"
"Not really," says Lúthien; "not until you are willing to realise the part you played in it." She looks at Finduilas then and manages a smile, a real one. "You are part of this world too, coz, a strand of the Great Music just as much as all these great lords and princes. Own it: and once you have done so perhaps we might reach some sort of understanding. But for now there is little I can say to you."
Finduilas walks away at that, and Lúthien manages to exhale.
She was harsh, she knows. Unfair, to blame Finduilas for all Nargothrond's crimes, to think of the blood underneath Lúthien's own ragged fingernails as she clawed desperately at the door and pin it all on her little cousin as though she was Lúthien's sole gaoler.
It was Sauron, Lúthien reminds herself, who killed Finrod.
Still she cannot keep the hot tears of guilt from her eyes.
Back outside the Girdle:
Celebrimbor is still Bored.
He is also quite worried about how angry Orodreth is going to be with him for absconding to Doriath with Finduilas.
It would have been easier, he thinks sometimes, had he left Nargothrond with his father and uncle.
Not better. Not right. But easier, maybe.
If Finrod had lived, if he had been the king Celebrimbor had thrown his allegiance behind, it would have been better received, he is sure.
But he could not have gone with his father either, he reasons to himself. Look what became of Curufin! Nobody even knows where he is; but the stain of his deeds marks all Beleriand yet.
Perhaps Celebrimbor might have stopped him and Celegorm from attacking Beren and Lúthien, had he been there.
Perhaps Huan would have stayed – would have lived, if Celebrimbor had been there.
Easy to fantasise. But Celebrimbor did nothing when he had the chance, did not speak against his father and Celegorm until it was too late to mean anything, left Lúthien sobbing in her lonely gaol instead of working to free her.
Lost in these unhappy musings, he does not at first notice how quiet the forest has grown: but there are no birds singing, suddenly, and the rustle of small mammals through the undergrowth has stilled.
It might be the Girdle, and the strange effects of Melian's magic, Celebrimbor reasons to himself.
Then he hears the growl.
The problem is – for just one crucial moment – his traitorous heart stills – and he thinks, Huan is here, he is come back for me as he always did—
The wolf-pack is lining the clearing by the time he realises his mistake, cutting off his chance of running.
Ah.
Celebrimbor has seen true wolves before, as a child in Valinor.
Once his father took him on a hunting-trip in the wilds near Formenos, just the two of them, and bade him be very quiet when they came to the sparse northern plains; and then he whispered in Celebrimbor's ear, Look! and, looking, Celebrimbor caught sight of an animal nearly bigger than Huan and snow-white all over, with a fine thick tail and a proud snout.
Typical, he thinks now, that Sauron could have perverted even so noble a beast: for the werewolves surrounding him now are mangy and thin, their frames twisted in the same painful way orcs are built, their eyes like dull hungry flames flickering in their heads.
It is not fair, a childish part of him wants to cry out, Tol-in-Gaurhoth was cast down, there should be no wolves roaming these lands now—
But Celebrimbor is a Scientist. He knows better than to trust what he believes over what he sees.
He scales a tree.
The wolves close in around its base, snarling up at him.
No Carcharoths, these, only relics of Sauron's experiments: but that will not matter, when their teeth sink into him.
Everything about you is derivative, some ugly voice seems to whisper to Celebrimbor, its sibilance woven into the wolves' growls; Celegorm your uncle was slain by a greater beast than these poor prototypes, and Finrod Felagund whom you loved at least saved another before they killed him, but you are going to die here, alone and forgotten and unmourned—
Celebrimbor grits his teeth, and ignores it.
He is not going to jump out of the tree to some foolish death. He is going to live forever, and leave a greater mark on the world than that of his father the traitor – he will not end like this—
Besides, Finduilas is expecting him to wait for her.
He leans against the trunk of the tree and settles in for a long night.
By the morning things are rather more dire.
The wolves have not tired; Celebrimbor, on the other hand, is very thirsty, and also growing worried for a new reason.
Finduilas is expecting him to wait for her.
If she comes back to the clearing where she left him, and the wolves decide she is an easier target—
She could perhaps run back to the safety of the Girdle in time – but the wolves are fast, and hungry.
Celebrimbor briefly imagines riding alone back to Nargothrond to inform Orodreth that his daughter is dead.
No: he will have to find a way to drive the wolves away, and quickly, for he does not know how much longer his cousin will be.
He grips his sword-hilt and then hesitates.
There is a pressure on the back of his neck, an oddly disapproving one, as though to say, Don't even think about it, child.
"I am not a child," Celebrimbor says aloud, and the wolves look up at him, snarling as though in agreement.
Finduilas is in danger, Celebrimbor reminds himself, and then he draws his sword and jumps down from his branch.
The wolves are upon him almost instantly. There are many of them, but Celebrimbor is quick, and moreover learned to fight wrestling with Huan long before he was ever given a sword.
He ducks and weaves and rolls, slashing with his sword as best as he can; but then one wolf lands a lucky blow with his claws on his thigh, and another collides with him from behind, sending him sprawling onto the ground—
Celebrimbor closes his eyes, and does not bother to cry out, for nobody will hear him.
Then he has the brief muddled impression of a thud, and sudden pressure on his chest, and then before he can catch his breath or work out what is going on the weight on his legs is lifted, and someone is snapping at him, "Get up, Tyelpë!" and his sword is suddenly back in his hand—
Celebrimbor knows that voice. He scrambles to his feet.
Standing before him, currently locked in a struggle with one of the last few wolves, dishevelled and bloodied but very much alive, is his father.
(to be continued)
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growlingven · 2 days ago
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Hey so this is something I put more effort than I expected into. It’s cozy, and a bit depressing. Knifeplay and gore tws, but no consequences. Praise to @butchwolfmom who helped flesh out my ideas.
The tension is what hurt the most. A distinct difference between her life at home and out. She leads her victim by the hand, walking up the step. Sneaking through the front door. Pointing out the stairs which creaked loudest. This aspect of her life that so few knew about. A source of joy, of true talent and utter satisfaction. Steps taken slowly, hands hot with sweat but not letting go, Blood rushing in her ears. Who could have known that breaking into one’s own house could be so exhilarating. This moment was not something she could share with anyone who really mattered to her, except for her love.
She slips inside her room with prize in tow, pulling the door shut. The facade drops, spinning around to press her prey against the door. She prays that her parents just across the hall would stay asleep. Frantic kisses find their way to cheeks and lips, and down jaws. Nails dig into each other’s sides to pull themselves ever closer, burying themselves in their other. Hickeys are left trailing along revealed necks and chests after collars are stretched out of the way. muffled giggles and gasps in equal measure fill the air of the room, moans hidden within deep kisses. She thinks of her parents walking in on them. Of the confusion they would express, their denial or misunderstanding taking over. She pulls her precious thing away from the door and falls forwards onto her bed, ensuring her squirming toy is wrapped up in an embrace under her. How could they ever understand this.
Weak grinding and stolen nibbles, deep kisses and hands slipping up under clothing all work to enflame the momentum of desire. Quickly, rope is wound tight around her victim’s wrists and ankles Leaving it bound down upon her childhood bed. Memories of years past fill her mind. Her staring with a sense of shame and need at similar images of people tied spreadeagle across a bed. Even as her love flexes, the knots made by her well trained hands don’t slip or loosen despite the straining. Remembering, As a child, her not knowing what this was but wanting it nonetheless. And it gasps under her, “w-what are you going to do to me.” These were scenes and images from childhood made real. She trailed a finger up a leg, teasing across the waist, clawing along the neck of her toy, coming to rest upon the lips. Silence ordered, sealed with a kiss. These stories, still hidden in the darkness of her room where none but her should see.
And from under her bed she takes out her set of precious knives, an unmatchable gift which she would use on the very being who gave them to her. With tenderness she began unwrapping the cloth around them. Imagine if her parents saw her now, finally the surgeon they always dreamed of. She lays each one on the nightstand letting the moonlight shining through the window catch them, leaving each knife to shine like liquid silver. Her victim whimpers at the sight, of the tools which would soon be disassembling it. “Ahh ah,” she cools into its ear, “Darling be quiet. We can’t let them hear.” It whimpers again, quieter this time. They’d be horrified wouldn’t they. Seeing the blood and pain that delighted their child so. Unable to cover its mouth, bucking up at her as she straddled its hips, begging for her to finally begin.
She starts by picking a long serrated knife, the kind one would use for bread. She saws the blade down its chest to tear apart clothes, bearing its flesh before her. What did it mean, that she could think of, even dream of carving into this living flesh like marble. It quivers and pleas with its eyes for her, understanding that every noise it would make would only serve to drive her further. A second knife is chosen. One well used, sharpened again and again. Why wasn’t she disgusted by those choices. It struggles not to scream when the knife tip pierces its skin. She couldn’t look at the wound. It refuses to writhe as the blade is dragged along its chest. Leaving it ungagged is a choice, a single torturingly risky decision. And in the moment after the knife is removed, when its freedom is returned, it begs for more. It wants this done to it, wants to be held and hurt and bled. But why, her thoughts scream, would anyone sane want to do this to another, to the person they loved. It begs to have blood running down its body, to have its arms and thighs covered in wounds. It begs to bleed so perfectly for her tormentor. She wants to cut her love apart, needs to give in. Needs to…Needs to stop.
She drops the knife.
“I can’t darling, I…we can’t” she whispers, fumbling in the darkness for the blade, “We can’t have anyone else seeing. If your parents knew-”
“D-did you forget?” It gasped out between slow and delirious thoughts, “I moved out. You can go as far as you want with me.”
With shaking hands she finds the knife. Tears spill onto her sub’s chest, mixing with blood. “I..right. I’m sorry. I forgot.”
And so she cuts. Her hands shake, her eyes fill with tears. And still she cuts. Her victim, suffering at her hands, writhing and pleading, looks up at her. She can’t meet its gaze. She can’t look it in the eyes. Her hands are numb, wet. She can’t stop crying.
It asks if she’s okay.
She carves another small tear-stained heart into its shoulder and nods. She’s fine. The cuts are jagged. It doesn’t look like a heart.
It says stop.
She freezes. She went too far. She shouldn’t have wanted this. She hurt someone she cares about
“Please cut me free,” a voice whispers from under her.
She Does so.
“Are you okay,” the mass of blood and meat under her whispers again.
She can’t look up, she’s stuck staring down at her blood covered hands holding a knife. She says she’s sorry.
She’s so sorry.
Her love places a hand on her cheek, wiping a tear.
“Don’t touch me,” she whimpers, clambering off of it, pulling a mess of blankets with her, “you don’t deserve..this”
Its touch was so cold on her face. Was it dying. Did she do this to it. What would happen now.
“I need you,” the words cut through racing thoughts, and a hand reached towards her.
What choice did she have but to take it. To be dragged from the safety of nothing but herself and blankets and stand staring before the mess that she had made.
She enjoys looking down at that display of cuts, at the hearts and stars and swirls forced into every bit of skin. The way the blood pooled and flowed through furrows of gore. She enjoys this. She did this.
“W-where is the thread, I need you to help me”
She opens the bedside table, pulling out a needle, thread, cloth, antiseptic and bandages. She could fix this, she could undo everything that happened and everything would be okay, and this would never have happened.
So she began to clean, and stitch. Her love’s hand grips her by the hair, pulling and gasping in pain when tears fall onto its wounds.
It holds her, it thanks her, it pulls her close, it doesn’t let her pull away. Its chest is cleaned, red gore replaced with the sheen of clean antiseptic. And she is made to lay beside it, head buried in the crook of its neck, sobs wracking her form. Hands run through her hair. “That was perfect, my love,” it cooed, “You did good.”
They lay there, warming themselves, sweat and tears wicking away. Tears turned to shaking, to words of fear and praise. They pull the Scattered blankets up, the rest of the world forced out
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beevean · 2 years ago
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Everytime I see someone praise the show for its representation, I can't help but laugh knowing that the guy who wrote it couldn't give any less of a shit about said representation, especially on the female side, and most likely just included it in a half assed way because every media nowadays does it and you gotta please the masses on Twitter
I wonder if it's like a requisite for Netflix series
NFCV's representation is really nothing special either. You have a bunch of vampires from all parts of the world... who do jack shit and most of them don't even have a speaking role. You have a lesbian couple... two minor characters with a shallow personality and that by the end they simply peace out (admittedly, they're cute for how little they interact). You have two canonically bi characters who are implied to get together by the end... too bad that their bisexuality is revealed through "hey I had a threesome", and Alucard's threesome was a horrifying experience. You have a character who was made ambiguously brown... and he gets horribly tortured and dehumanized. And hello, Sumi and Taka who look literally identical despite being canonically not related???
The only positive representation is Isaac, a gay black Muslim man who gets all the screentime, badass moments and character development... and the dude spends most of his screentime simping for a white vampire, killing innocents without rhyme or reason beyond "they were mean to me :(", uses his religion as a way to justify working for genocide, and his sexuality is revealed by a flashback where he professes his love to his much older violent owner. So uhhhhh still not great if you really want to flaunt how Progressive you are.
Also Ellis seems to reduce most of his female characters to girlbosses, with Carmilla and Greta being prominent examples (and that one Casca with a haircut character, for what little I remember of her). And Lenore is just straight up fetish material. Then you remember what he was accused of, and yeah :^)
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septimusmoonlight · 3 months ago
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You doing ok?
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hi
#i'm alive. simply being chewed upon by multiple things#work is more stressful than i'd like it to be. for instance i'm hoping that i submitted my time off notification for tomorrow correctly#because otherwise it might read as a no call no show and i would . like to continue having a job#now to be fair. i do have it on the system that i requested it at the beginning of the month and i emailed my supervisor about it last week#so even if i didn't submit it correctly i'm likely in the clear#but nonetheless. i also got a firm talking-to the other day and now i am on ✨thin ice✨ for dicking around too much#because they track ur idle time at my work (computer) and mine was Quite High so my supervisor was like man what the hell is this#but even though she was kind of baffled at me spending so much time dicking around#she couldn't even really be all that mad in the end because i'm still doing good numbers and have made no (zero) mistakes#so she was just like. it's kind of impressive that your numbers look this good when you literally have 50% idle time#so she goes imagine what you could do if you weren't wasting so much time#and yeah i can whip out some Really Good Numbrers when i put the effort in.#so the problem is not my numbers it's just that i'm not spending long enough doing my tasks for the day#but i don't want to drag out those tasks intentionally so i've just been upping my own standards/goals#as much as i hate giving any more of my brain power than is necessary to giant corporations#it's still easy to feel smug after you get Talked To and then immediately turn around and show off#like yeah i coulda been doing this good the whole time. literally pulling up by 20 points. i just didn't want to.#trying to keep everyone's expectations low but accidentally toed the line of um. not working enough to keep my job#...anyway. EAS national weather system issued a . hi#i haven't forgotten about all of you i'm just having trouble tracking all my shit that i got going on ✨ yaaaaaaay#im gonna post things on AO3 soon. i promise. my weakness is that i get sidetracked trying to unwind from work#...i know i said 'soon' last time. but this time for real#asks#not sexy#anonymous
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ravisurendra · 14 hours ago
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"All of them?" Soren challenged, though the slant of his frown was more disillusioned than argumentative. He'd comforted himself with the thought that he wasn't alone in living under the castle but not partaking in it, wanting to believe the people below sympathized with his own thoughts about the slaves inside. The idea that even the non-undead were helping themselves was an incredibly depressing one, though part of him knew there was no chance it wasn't at least partially true. "I'm a lab technician, not a businessman. It cost my organization $700 to have you brought down today. Is it not going to turn heads if I'm dropping twice that just to..." Soren fumbled through words, the first one on his tongue crude and frustrated, shunted aside for something vaguely neutral, "Have you for my own enjoyment?" He couldn't believe he was even debating this. Even so, part of him argued, wouldn't it making less suspicious that he'd rent Taliesin to give him a break from the castle if he was also on paper renting other slaves?
As if even thinking of his brother's name had invoked him in the room, the word 'rescue' left Dmitri's lips and Soren knew he was well and truly fucked. He pursed his lips as the werewitch spoke, his face setting like a statue in an effort not to betray his apprehension. "I know how the castle is," He said gruffly, a poor retort. He expected punishment if he was discovered, yes, but Soren had a difficult time imagining himself in the dungeon below. Of all the compliments he'd be given, no one would ever call the human pretty. Taliesin was the peacocking one. With the kinds of creatures the masters of Krovs had access to, Soren couldn't make himself believe any of them would choose a man like himself for bed-warming. The thought was ridiculous.
Dmitri continued and Soren abruptly dropped that notion, eyes fixed raptly on the slave's face with a dawning comprehension. He'd seen whispers of that story, headlines absentmindedly scanned while his head was elsewhere. There was someone who had tried to kill one of the most powerful men on earth and walked away from it alive. He was sitting on Soren's table. Dmitri looked to him then, face unreadable, and Soren almost flinched. "He's not my boy," He insisted quietly, stilted, forcing the words past the knot in his throat, "He's -". No. No, that had to be saying too much. He desperately needed a cigarette. "I'm not a terrorist. I'm not here to blow up anybody and I can't help you try."
Dmitri tipped his head as he looked at Ravi, like a dog with a question it couldn't render into human language. The more Ravi spoke, the more interested Dmitri became to know exactly what his deal was. He was out of his depth, clearly, which didn't suggest that he was part of some wider organisation. At least not intentionally. Someone on a specific, personal mission then, and wholly unprepared for the reality of a sex castle. The gears turned.
"More suspicious if you don't at least pretend to be fucking someone. People that live in this village spend their money on that, even if they nice doctors like you. Everyone in this clinic goes to castle for fuck, or orders delivery. Except you. Interesting, Da?" Ravi had a kind, if nervous disposition, it seemed. He doubted he had the stomach for violence. Not an assassination then. Theft, perhaps. But the most valuable thing in Krovs were the slaves themselves. The gears clicked into place. "You here on a rescue? Is risky business. Castle won't like being stolen from. You'll end up inside it permanently if you fuck up."
He paused, watched his blood flow through the line in his arm. Soren was already, technically, stealing, if he wasn't truly studying the blood he'd collected, like a sommelier siphoning off a few bottles of fine wine for himself. "Is what happened to me. Meant to blow up Kremlin, kill the Russian councilman. Avenge father. Almost. Only took half his face off. Almost isn't good enough." He met Soren's gaze, a more contemplative expression swirling in his dark eyes. "Which one is he, then? Your boy?"
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tibtew · 1 year ago
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*clutching head* rodya and meursault would have such a good dynamic actually
I wonder if rodya would initially see meursault's indifference as like. a simpler version of her own feigned carefreeness and as a deliberate attempt to place himself as an outsider... only to realise that No, he really Is just Like That. and then she gets annoyed because it turns out that people who don't care about anything don't seem to be any fun.
(ofc he does actually care about a lot of things, just not necessarily his grander place in the world lol)
idk. nihilism vs absurdism. fun duo 👍 rodya would find meursault's genuine comfort with being a speck of dust in the universe baffling, while he would probably find her desire to assert her own importance pointless, but they could probably bond over little things like their shared desire to live in the present and appreciation of/indulgence in earthly joys. and meursault would probably listen if rodya wants to rant about anything without asking any uncomfortable questions. I think they could appreciate each other's presence.
#slamming my conspiracy board#listen it's not my fault meursault vibes with literally the entire female cast#rodya enjoyers help me out here please I haven't read crime and punishment am I talking out of my ass#I just think it'd be kind of interesting if like. rodya kills someone for a very specific reason (to assert herself as special)#while meursault kills someone for seemingly no good reason#but because of time place circumstance etc#meursault is the one made out to be the outsider to society#while rodya goes unacknowledged and all her motives backfire#like I'm not saying that meursault has Exactly what rodya wants or anything#but I think he Does possess a level of guiltlessness that she was trying to achieve through her self-confidence#also I find it interesting how pride is like. a big thing for both of them#like they both have excessive belief in themselves and their own abilities. in rodya it manifests as self-confidence or I guess. an ego#while in meursault it's more about. a belief in his own interpretation of the world rather than himself as a person? I hope that makes sens#also they both reject collectivist ideas which is. fun#neither of them perform to what a society would expect from them but for rodya it's an active effort to assert her individuality#while meursault just Doesn't Get societal conventions from the get-go unless they're explained to him#I think they also both tend to project a lot 💀 meursault expects his own indifference from others while rodya projects her own#experiences onto others' and makes assumptions based on that before knowing the full details#txt#limbus company#I feel too embarrassed to add more specific tags ngl 💀 💀 💀#lcb meursault#lcb rodion#lcb rodya#nvm. feelings of cringe are for Losers I am Strong
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trans-leek-cookie · 6 months ago
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Thinking about geto because I want to pour milk on him and throw him against the wall. Imo his beliefs are inconsistent and self serving (which makes sense because he developed said beliefs at age 16/17 while his mental health was at an all time low). Because while he seems to have the primary motive of "only sorcerers = no curses" taking into account how he treats Maki, who has no cursed energy, it shows that the "no curses" thing isnt the main focus- bc while he decided on tbe "forced evolution" thing, theoretically he should not be Opposed to ppl w heavenly restriction bc. They still fuckin. Don't contribute to curses from what I can tell. Also heavenly restriction is pretty obviously something that is punished by uh. Is it just the Zenin's who have it. Anyway they hated Maki and they Hated Toji so he clearly isn't standing for "oppressed sorcerers" bc if so Maki should be like. The kind of person he wants to help more, as someone who would be oppressed by ppl who aren't sorcerers as well as the powerful clans.
Anyway. While getting rid of curses is for sure part of his motivation, as well as helping sorcerers (see Nanako and Mimiko) id honestly argue that his main problem that lead to him spiraling was. How do I put this. Being knocked off a pedestal
Because he was one of 3 people given the ranking of "Special Grade", and he and satoru are grouped as "the strongest". And consider that satoru comes from a powerful clan and literally has some weird omniscience and invincibility shit going on so that's a whole fucking. That's gotta be a wild ego boost, especially for someone who comes from a family of ppl who aren't sorcerers. Like you spend all this time being a fuckin weirdo and then someone finds you and it turns out you're actually incredibly special and strong, given the same rank as a fucking God Child? You're gonna have some wild self perceptions after that
Anyway then you get to watch your invincible friend get stabbed, watch the girl you became friends with and feel shitty about kinda ruining the life of get shot, and get your whole shit rocked by some guy who can't even use the magic power bullshit you have. (Though he's got a whole physical thing going on because of the trade off)
Also writing all of this out actually makes me understand the Cult Leader progression more, like besides the fact they killed ur friend and you want em dead. You're probably struggling with your ego (especially since your weird God like friend got a whole power boost from the situation) so you create a fucking eugenicist cult where you can consistently prove your superiority to yourself (surrounding yourself with people who will agree with everything you say).
Anyway in a similar vein I wholely believe in "a loving father is not inherently a good father" Suguru + Nanako & Mimiko dynamic
Final thought is roughly I feel like looking at Suguru thru the lense of "this character had a level of privilege that they felt they truly deserved, and after experiencing events that are genuinely traumatic and horrific for any person, they develop reactionary beliefs to try and regain a sense of superiority and control" rather than "oppressed minority who killed oppressors and wants to do eugenics"
#Eugenics TW#cult TW#ask to tag#Suguru when I catch you#Anyway this was me thinking Abt the fact that Toji ISNT a normal human. He just can't use jujutsu. He's like supernaturally powerful anyway#So Geto's whole shit is like. Pretty misdirected. Though also personal thought is I don't think His parents were good (and he's projecting#That onto every other person who's not a sorcerer) mostly cause like. Going straight to murdering your parents is not really expected#Progression in eugenics id think? Bc if you posit urself as the ''superior'' person theoretically ur parents should also b part of that#Bc genetics or whatever. Idk how genetic sorcery shit is but even tho his parents Weren't sorcerers usually ppl would make excuses I think#So. Basically I feel like he probably did not have a great relationship w them. Not that that makes him any better more just like. Thinking#Through what's happening in his head...why the fuck did he decide on a different last name for that woman. WTF is wrong with him#I am suguru's number 1 LOVER and his number 1 HATER. I'm suffering bc none of the fanfic makes him enough of a bitch#It's really fucking something bc like. Looking at him as someone who's had similar thought progressions and is unlearning the kind of toxic#Black/white extremist thinking he has going on. It's cathartic in a way to deconstruct that and be able to analyze my own thoughts as well#But then no one is putting in the effort to actually engage with his ideas and the flaws in them (INCLUDING THE AUTHOR.)#Anyway most people when they have a crisis and reach an extremely bad mental health situation would join a cult rather than take over a cul#But suguru is different. That's why I love him and also why I'm going to break his ribs.#Diversity win this autistic trans guy fucking sucks so bad you want him dead#I need to tag these damn posts w something but I'm too lazyyyu
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