#the delight of misapprehension

[fatale-distraction]

A swim in the sea for Ellana and Solas please from the sensory prompts list!

I am so outrageously happy to receive this one

Because hilariously enough

Ellana can’t swim. 😂

Here’s some Y2K AU

Sensory Prompts

———

Solas let his head fall back to embrace the hot sun above as dark, salty water lapped at his chest. Another few steps and he submerged completely, echoing blue silence enveloping him in a cold embrace.

He exhaled hard as he resurfaced, shaking water out of his eyes as he treaded in place; took a moment to refill his lungs.

He couldn’t remember when the last time he’d been to the beach was, only remembered the horrific burns he’d gotten on his neck and shoulders, Higher Love blasting through the speakers of June’s car radio, the smell of beer, bonfire, and burnt burgers. Sylaise and Andruil stoned out of their minds. The twins wrestling in the sand while Ghil pelted them with marshmallows. It must’ve been ten years at least.

When was the last time he’d spoken to any of them?

Before he could render himself too melancholy, Solas dipped forward and started back to shore with strong, languid pulls. As he drew close enough to touch his feet to the coarse sand, he could make out a smallish, red haired blob sitting in the sand, sorting shells in her lap as the waves teased at her feet. A cloud passed over head and her long, long curls blew in a soft gust of wind.

She usually kept her hair up.

Solas had nearly tripped over Dorian’s beach chair when he’d caught sight of her, the long red mass swinging tantalizingly around her ample hips.

“Miss Lavellan,” he called out as he trudged up the beach, water sluicing down his body. Her violet eyes flicked up and down and he was irrationally pleased to see her freckled cheeks flush. “Why aren’t you enjoying the water with everyone else?”

“Who else is going to catalogue all the different kinds of identical white shells?” She held up a string of them that clattered musically together.

His unamused stare took a moment longer than usual to draw the truth out of her.

“I can’t swim,” Ellana admitted, dropping her hands into her lap with finality. “You go on, I’m perfectly happy guarding the beach towels. And the shells.”

Absolutely not.

“Get up, Miss Lavellan,” instructed Solas, crossing his arms. She was already protesting. “You must know how to swim. What if there’s an emergency?”

“Then someone’s dying, I guess.”

“No, you are going to learn.”

“Nnno.”

“Stand up, da’assan.”

“Make me, hahren.”

Heat raged through his veins. The defiant way she tilted her chin up at him and the bratty retort, mirroring his cadence and elvhen endearment…Ellana had mastered the art of riling him up in a remarkably short time frame. It drove him mad in the worst and best ways.

“Oh,” he huffed a laugh, unfolding his arms and advancing. “Oh, my dear, I would be DELIGHTED to.”

The younger woman crab-scrambled away in vain. “No, I only meant—…”

He leaned down and scooped her up into his arms like she were a particularly loud, flailing sack of flour.

“Professor, don’t you DARE, I will bite you—…” Ellana tried to clamber over his shoulder as he turned and strode into the water.

“Hahren!!” The moment the water rose around her legs, she clung to him like a frog to a tree branch, limbs wrapped around him. Solas kept his own arms tight around her middle.

“I’m not going to let you go, Ellana,” he informed her so softly she could barely make it out over the waves.

A gull cried out. She glanced up at him. He met her gaze soberly. Slowly she loosened her legs from around his waist and let her lower half drift into the cold water. Her arms were still locked around his neck like a vice. He could feel her heart pounding against his own.

“You’re an asshole,” she squeaked.

“You’re a stubborn pest,” he returned without venom.

She was pretty even when she scowled. “If I drown, my sister will murder you so hard they’ll never find your body.”

“I haven’t the slightest doubt of that.” Solas had no misapprehensions regarding Evelyn Lavellan’s determined dislike of him. The dark-haired woman wouldn’t even need as serious an excuse as the untimely death of her favorite sibling. An imagined slight would do just as well to earn her ire.

“You won’t let go?”

“I promise.”

The young woman bit her lips, already pink with the wind and cold water, now reddening so temptingly. Solas felt heat rise all the way up to his ears. With great care, she pried herself loose from his neck and settled for clinging to his arms while she treaded water. True to his word, Solas kept a firm grip on her elbows.

“You see?” he said with encouragement. “You’re doing just fine. Just keep kicking.”

“If you let go I will haunt you,” came the shaky reply.

“Ellana,” the strong tone drew her attention from the water beneath her to his intent gaze. “I won’t let you go.”

[blackjackkent]

Narrator: Your stomach churns around and around. The bile within is unsettled. Each moment brings a new surge.

Gods, her head aches.

It is the worst the dreams have been in a long time. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. The usual visions of battlefields full of broken corpses - and more specific images, too. All those which the beast has wanted her to kill and she resisted. Isobel. Aylin. Jaheira. Dolly. Arabella... images of throats torn out and innocent blood pouring over her hands like rain...

She feels sick and feverish. She must rest - a battle beyond measure waits for them at Moonrise, the battle to take vengeance on Ketheric for good and all. She must sleep, but her brain will not settle, and her stomach spasms with nausea.

She sits up, pressing the heels of her palms into her temples, struggling to beat back the terrible thoughts.

Narrator: Your companions sleep like blissful lumps of meat.

Wyll is asleep nearby. Often he (and Lae'zel) keep watch over her in the night, helping to guard her from the dreams. He's promised he won't let her kill in her sleep again. But he cannot stay awake forever; he too knows the fight ahead will need all their wits.

She watches him through the flicker of the firelight. The man who has helped to make every good part of her that exists in between the rotted instincts and empty memories. The man she loves, and who loves her even though she does not deserve it. In his sleep he looks peaceful; perhaps he is lost in some better dream.

She stands, meaning to pace at the edge of the fire, to perhaps shed some of the nervous, anxious energy until she is too tired for the dreams to take hold... but instead she finds herself simply standing there, looking at Wyll, watching the subtle movements of his eyes under the lids, the slow rise and fall of his chest.

The voice hisses suddenly next to her. "He is an insult to the name of devils, posing as a monster with that sickly good heart."

She jumps violently, spins with one fist lashing out. She has learned - the blow is lower now and very nearly connects, skimming a hair's breadth from Sceleritas's skeletal nose, but he dodges backwards as always, his smirk stretching from ear to ear as if nothing happened.

"You could do so much better, Milady..." he purrs, coming to rest again near Wyll's feet.

"Get away from him!" she snarls. All her rage at herself, all the bloodlust of the beast, she would happily expend instead on this little rat of a creature who finds her at her lowest moments, if he was not so adept at dancing out of her reach.

Sceleritas's smile widens impossibly, straining and stretching the desiccated skin of his face. He leaps over Wyll's legs, closer to her again, that obsequious and cringing bearing contrasting weirdly with the bright cruelty in his eyes.

"I won't lay so much as a talon on him," he croons brightly. "I wouldn't rob you of that delight." He draws slowly closer, step by step, word by word, and she feels her blood run cold. "Your clever mind is penning tragedy as we speak. Your repressed Urge yearns to kill. And kill you will." His eyes narrow with gleeful malice. "Tonight... the moment you close your eyes... your favorite person will be killed."

Wyll.

Her heart drops into her stomach and her whole body begins to tremble. He means Wyll. Of course he means Wyll. There is no chance that he is lying; the dreams have already shown her that she is reaching a breaking point. All those lives she has resisted taking... it only makes the hunger stronger in the end...

"I didn't lay a finger on Isobel," she whispers hoarsely, clenching her fists at her sides as if that action alone could grant her some new conviction. "I can... control myself..."

Sceleritas laughs dismissively, as if correcting the misapprehensions of an illogical child. "It is precisely because you *didn't* touch her that you are insatiable..." he explains. "Your Dark Urge will have death, one way or another." Again that mocking smile. "Tonight."

He circles around her slowly where she stands, opening the way between her and Wyll, then stepping back into it again. "He adores you so blindly..." he hisses. "Like a pup. Don't you find it *sickening*?"

She can feel how the words pull at the beast, rousing it to fever pitch, hungry and full of rage. KILL.

She shudders, trying to force the monstrous thoughts back. Yes - Wyll adores her blindly. She does not understand it; he should have long since seen her for a broken thing and turned aside. But she clings to it with gratitude for every moment that she has it. He has made her who she is, every part of her that she can take any pride in.

She loves him. She has never told him so aloud. Does he know?

Sceleritas does. She can tell by the way he is taunting her, by that infuriating, mocking smirk.

"Have you been watching us while we are together?" she rasps out.

Sceleritas cocks his head as if in apology, as if he is not deeply enjoying putting her so ill at ease. "It is my *duty* to ensure you are making the right decisions, Master," he says, mock-sincere. "There was much... disappointment at your reluctance to kill the little Moonmaiden." He turns aside, gestures with a clawed hand in the direction of Wyll's sleeping form. "You could kill this one deliberately. I'm sure it will be considered a great show of good will. The tithe could still be yours..."

The beast growls and it resonates through her whole body; her skin tingles with the hunger. Yes. Tear him apart. Earn the prize. Let his blood spill out. A final act of love for you, to give his life under your blade...

A soft, whimpering groan escapes her and she squeezes her eyes shut. "You must be joking," she mutters, but the defiant words lack any strength.

Sceleritas's voice whispers in her ear, seeming to come abruptly from all around her. "I do not doubt you will act with the decorum befitting one of your rank..." A soft shimmer of magic dusts along her skin. "Good night, sweet Lady."

She opens her eyes and he is gone. Only Wyll remains, asleep, oblivious to the terrible conflict playing out at his bedside.

-----

(A/N: I fucking LOVE this next sequence for Rakha. For the most part, it fits incredibly well with a number of things I have already established about her story, her Urge, and her relationship with Wyll. However, it does have one critical difference which is that, as written in game, it assumes that she has not told anyone else about any of her internal struggles up to this point, which conflicts with a number of things I've written about Wyll and Lae'zel (and others) knowing about the beast and helping keep watch over her on the bad nights.

With that in mind, I have taken some significant artistic liberties on certain pieces of dialogue here. As usual, italic lines are ones from the game and non-italic are ones I've rewritten or replaced, and I've left footnotes with what the in-game actual dialogue was.)

-----

Narrator: Your companion rests blissfully, without a fear in the world.

She falls to her knees at his side. Her fingers twitch with the terrible urge to rip and rend and tear. The beast is roaring in her head, stoked to a fever pitch by Sceleritas's words and by all the blood she has denied it.

Reach forward to shake his shoulder and wake him.

Narrator: As your hand approaches his body, it wavers. It longs to close around his throat...

[SAVING THROW] Resist. Wake him up.

Terror grips her, widens her eyes to show the whites. With every ounce of resolution left to her, she slams one fist into his shoulder and then jerks backwards as his eyes drift open.

For a moment, still half-asleep and caught in some lingering dream, he only smiles up at her sitting at his bedside. "I love feeling you close..." he mumbles drowsily, reaching for her hand. "But are you sure..."

She can see the moment when the realization kicks in - when he moves from love to concern and fear. The transition claws at her mind.

"Gods..." he whispers, and reaches out towards her. "All right. It's all right. I'm here."(1)

She spasms backwards another step, out of his reach. Don't touch me. She is sure if his skin touches hers again she won't be able to control herself. "It's you--" she groans out. "It wants you--"(2)

At once, Wyll is up on his knees, all his focus coming to rest on her. His hands are spread in a gesture that is not placating but defensive - and she is glad to see it. He should be defensive; he should be ready to fight her off. She is an animal with almost no control remaining to her.

But he doesn't back away, just watches, waits. "You've got my attention," he says gently. Why is his voice so soft, even in this moment of crisis?

Narrator: As you tell your story, fatigue fills your body. Your head swims with the worst headache you've known.

For the first time she tells him everything, even the things she has held back - about Sceleritas, his deals and his tithes, his mocking taunts, his commission for Isobel's death. The words come out slowly, sticking in her throat, heavy with pain and underlaid with a hungry growl. Her head throbs blindingly, white and red by turns at the corners of her vision.

"The beast that killed Alfira will call again..." she finishes in a low, hoarse whisper. "My possessed mind will kill you..."

(A/N: BEAST! \o/ In-game called it the beast, I feel so incredibly validated rn.)

Wyll listens in silence to the chaotic, half-comprehensible explanation. His eyebrows knit together in a worried expression. After everything that has happened, there is no way he doesn't grasp the gravity of the situation, and yet his concern seems more for her than for himself, even now.

"All right. We'll figure it out," he murmurs, deliberately calm and steady against her hysteria. "I won't let you hurt me, Rakha, I promise. Just breathe-- breathe--"(3)

Narrator: Suddenly you become drowsy. Your vision blurs and floods with yellow bile, and you faint in a dizzy blur.

It happens so fast. The beast rises and roars, slipping out of her control, and her eyes roll up in her head. She collapses sideways and her vision slides away from her and for a little while she knows no more.

Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

Narrator: You are not yourself. All control is gone.

She wakes stretched on her bedroll, spasming and struggling. A painful bruise darkens her cheek; someone has struck her. Her hands are tied behind her back and she is being held down by someone behind her, someone with long clawed fingers. Lae'zel.(4)

Wyll is crouched in front of her, one hand resting on her shoulder, helping to hold her down. "Hey. Hey! Stay with me!" he calls softly.(5)

She can't breathe. Can't think. There is so little of Rakha, and so much of the beast. Flailing against the hands holding her back, she jerks her head forward in an attempt to close her teeth on his wrist.

Try to bite him.

He jerks back out of reach before she can land the blow. "Shit. This isn't good," he mutters, his eyes lifting to Lae'zel for a moment, then dropping back to Rakha's face. Undeterred by her animal ferocity, he returns his hand to her shoulder. She can feel the warmth of his palm through her thin shirt.

"Whatever fiend's got hold of you," he murmurs, "it's made a battlefield of your mind."

Narrator: Your hands are raw and bloody as every inkling of your Urge yearns to tear your bindings.

"Rise up!" Wyll says sharply. "Meet its gaze. Show it no fear. And grant it no mercy!"

She wants to fight it. She wants to be the sort of person that he would be proud of, the sort of person who could meet the beast and cow it, slay it. But gods, it hurts. It hurts... it's so hungry and it is tearing pieces out of her brain...

Growl.

It starts as a whimper of terrified pain in her throat and rises into a growling roar like a wounded lion.

"That's it--" Wyll says. His voice is sharp now, trying to rouse her; she can hear the fear in it, and a grief too. The grief is new. "Gather your mind! Slaughter the fiend that stalks you!"

She tries. She tries... for him, she tries, when it would be so easy to surrender, to simply let the beast take her. For him, she would fight until her last breath... but gods... gods, it hurts...

Narrator: The night passes sick and sweating, but bloodlessly.

-----

Somewhere in that long, terrible, endless night, she passes out again. It is not sleep, not really; her head still aches like there is a knife in her temple, and she can hear Wyll and Lae'zel talking in low voices. She can feel the rough dig of the ropes on her wrists, holding her still.

Dim images drift in and out of her awareness. Isobel's face with blood pouring out of her eyes. Sceleritas's mocking smirk. Wyll's throat cut. Lae'zel's back broken. The endless black pain of the corrupted dark that surrounds them.

It is a nightmare that seems to go on for several thousand years.

But slowly... slowly... she does wake up. And the beast retreats, beaten back for the time being, returning to its low background growl.

She opens her eyes and finds Wyll watching her. He looks exhausted, his eyes sunken into his face, and wary and terribly sad. He reads the expression in her eyes carefully, and whatever he sees there seems to satisfy him, for he leans forward and unties the bindings on her wrists.

She rubs at the raw, chafed lines where the ropes sat. The pain does nothing to distract her from her exhaustion and humiliation and terror. This is the worst it has ever been.

She can't look at him as he sits down in front of her again.

"It's all right," he says softly. "It's over."(6)

She doesn't answer. She feels shattered, broken in mind and spirit. She does not deserve his soft words or his reassurance. The truth is inescapable now. She is a mad animal with only the thinnest veneer of reason over it. She could have killed him...

He reaches out gently and takes her hand between both of his. His thumb rubs over her palm just below the scored line of the bindings. "How are you feeling?" he asks. His head dips, trying to get her to meet his gaze. "Talk to me."

What can she say? How can she explain the utter emptiness in her chest, the broken lost thing that she is? How can she even begin to make him understand?

She opens her mouth... but nothing comes out. She simply, and quite unexpectedly, bursts into tears.

Sob. Say nothing.

Even at her lowest points before, she has never cried. There have never been tears. She wasn't sure she was capable of it. But they stream down her face now and she sobs and sobs, all the tension bleeding out of her. And she doesn't resist when he closes his arms around her and pulls her tight to his chest; she just cries bitterly into his shoulder until the cloth of his shirt is soaked with it.

"Should this inner fiend seek battle again," he murmurs in her ear, "I'll give it one. Let it taste the edge of the Blade."

It's an attempt at reassurance, but it doesn't land. If she can't fight it, he certainly can't. Why does he persist in believing she is worth salvaging? Why does he hold her and soothe her after such a brutal display of bestial violence?

She wants so badly to be the person that he sees in her... but why does he not see that it is impossible?(7)

"You are allowed to hate me for this," she mutters brokenly.

"Hate you?" he answers, and though his voice is still soft, the words take on a sudden weight. "The coast would sooner be swallowed whole by the Sea of Swords." His fingers drift over her back, up the back of her neck, along the close crop of her hair. "You don't have to shoulder this burden alone..."

She doesn't understand him. He deserves so much better. But with no energy left, she allows herself to succumb to the comfort, just for a little while. It is the only peace that remains to her.

-----

(1) In-game line: "Gods, what's the matter? You look like you've seen a gravehound's ghost."

(2) In-game line: "You are in a lot of danger. We need to act fast."

(3) In-game line: "You wouldn't. You couldn't. Could you? You're not in your right mind. There are healers in the city, clerics who can help. You should've told me sooner - we could've figured something out. This is what happened with Alfira, isn't it? By Balduran's helm, if only I'd known."

(4) Artistic license. Lae'zel is not involved in this scene at all in-game, but I've already established in drabbles that she helps Wyll keep an eye on Rakha and the beast.

(5) I swear to god I had not seen this scene or knew anything of it when I wrote this drabble.

(6) In-game line: "Looks like you're back to your old self. Poor Alfira - if only she'd been so lucky."

(7) One of the dialogue options here actually is "I promise I will be the person you see in me," which is excellent, but Rakha absolutely doesn't feel capable of it at the moment.

[baejax-the-great]

Chrysalis

Thanatos x Zagreus | M | Chapter 1 | AO3

Thanatos didn’t notice his body forming until he felt itchy for the first time. It was a curiously human sensation, as was scratching the itch with fingernails he did not know he had, though he never managed anything so uncouth as sneezing or yawning. He thinks the hood was there first before his head to fill it, but he isn’t sure. What he knows is that his body reflects his purpose, and it reflects how the mortals think of him: Terrifying.

He is taller than their greatest warriors, powerfully and needlessly muscular. His face is gaunt, hard, empty of pity. He does not have laugh lines as their elderly do, so despite his lifeless and bloodless skin, he is relatively youthful in their eyes. Those who perceive Death’s physical form are under no misapprehensions that they could possibly overpower him. They cannot, though this has nothing to do with his muscled body or fearsome expression.

Thanatos does not know how much of himself was shaped by their beliefs and how much was shaped from his own; he is not even certain when he began to know his own face, and whether that knowledge locked it into its current mold, but it does not matter. With a human body came other facets of humanity, and Thanatos is no longer merely an immutable fact of nature; he is also a man.  

Zagreus is the only god of the Underworld who was born fully in his body, even if he was dead at the time. He is more human than any of them with his red blood and propensity for dying, always dying, his shade calling out to Thanatos before it remembers it already knows the way home. He is noisy and purposeless and spoiled in a way no god of the Underworld has been spoiled before, and he doesn’t even know it. He strives in a place where there is no need to strive, there is nothing to strive for. He seems to fight his very nature, and that is as human as it gets.

It is his influence, Thanatos thinks, that taught him irritation. That emotion was easy to understand, the mental equivalent of itching, most frequently caused by Hypnos. And it is Zagreus’s influence, Thanatos thinks, that taught him to sense humor in things. This one is harder to describe, where it comes from, why it happens. There was no laughter in the House of Hades before Zagreus, and now there is, still mostly from Zagreus himself. Thanatos did not have a laugh for most of his existence, and now he does, and when he utilizes it, Zagreus smiles as big and brightly as he can. Thanatos experienced a new feeling then, delight, he thinks. He once considered laughter a strange and loud quirk of humanity, but now when he hears it in the world up above, he is satisfied, knowing what the mortals must be feeling.

Before Zagreus, Thanatos never considered what his feet were doing—he had never even noticed if he was standing or hovering until Zagreus complained about him looming over him. He had never considered whether his hair, unwittingly grown, held any value until Zagreus commented on it after he had cut it. He had never wondered whether he was attractive or not. Not until Zagreus. The dead have no need for mirrors, but Thanatos had stood in front of one on the surface and wondered what Zagreus saw when he looked at him.

Read the rest here!

[thetravelerwrites]

Ynghadin (Minotaur)

Rating: Mature Relationship: Female Elf/Male Minotaur Additional Tags: Exophilia, Monster Boyfriend, Interspecies Romance, Reader Insert, Minotaur, Manhwa Tropes Content Warnings: Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Kidnapping, Death, Murder, Abduction Words: 4651

A slave girl for an information guild learns that her parents are looking for her and escapes with the investigator sent to find her, only for her savior to be murdered right before her eyes. She meets her savior's son, who is now a captive of the guild, and swears she'll do whatever she can to help him escape. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler's Masterlist The Towns (Beyond Shelter Forest)

All you knew was the guild.

The guild leader, Marcus, was a cruel, cynical man of mixed-orcish descent who had always made it very clear that he was not your father. The first time you asked who your parents were, he made the off-handed remark that they had sold you to the guild for a pouch of tobacco and two pints of beer. The second time you asked, he slapped you and told not to ask stupid questions. You didn’t ask again.

You’d been the maid for the guild for most of your life, though you were locked inside a windowless closet that served as your room when the sun was up, and only permitted to do your work at night when most other people would be asleep. If you set foot out of the closet for a single second during the daytime, you’d be beaten to within an inch of your life. You didn’t mind it working the night shift, though, despite the fact that you couldn’t eat or relieve yourself until Marcus unlocked the door in the evening. Since the other guild members delighted in bullying and tormenting you, it was preferable to work when most of them were unconscious or out on jobs.

Marcus was strangely possessive of you and didn’t want people seeing or interacting with you besides himself and  his most trusted men, and even that was closely monitored by Marcus. You were not to speak to anyone other than Marcus, so most people, including many of the guild members, were under the impression that you couldn’t speak at all. You had to wear a heavy cloak and boy’s clothes far too large, stuffed with cloth, to hide your body shape, making you look more like an adult gnome than a human child. Marcus regularly shaved your head as well, telling you that he hated the color. Most of the guild, the ones who knew of you, believed you to be a boy rather than a girl, a misapprehension Marcus did not correct. 

The guild dealt in information, and all of its members were angry, violent men who would do whatever was necessary to get what they wanted. You’d often witnessed the aftermath of such interrogations and had been made to clean up the blood, teeth, and body parts. You tried to close your heart to it and not think about it, but it was very hard to do, especially since you weren’t even six years old the first time you’d been given the task of mopping up the remains. 

Secretly, the guild was also quite adept at political kidnappings and would periodically abduct family members of high-ranking officials and dignitaries, sometimes for ransom, sometimes to cause unrest among the nobility or destabilize a certain family they felt had too much power, and sometimes they did it just for fun. They were discreet, careful, and masters of their craft: they never spoke around the captive, never revealed their faces, and the abductee had their hands tied and their eyes covered at all times. They often employed the use of drugs and potions to both incapacitate the victim as well as wipe their memory in the unlikely event they managed to escape. 

You had always been tasked with feeding and caring for the abductee, who were kept in a special cell built into a crawl space in the basement. Very few ever got returned, even if the ransom was paid. You always felt sad when Marcus told you, with a glib smile, that you didn’t need to feed the captive anymore, because it usually meant that they were either dead or had been sold into slavery abroad. 

One evening when you were ten, you had awoken at your usual hour and were sitting on the threadbare blanket laid over a scattering of straw that served as your bed, waiting for Marcus to unlock your door so that you could get started cleaning, hoping to dodge as many of the guild members as you could. 

Except the door never opened. You listened with your ear to the door and heard nothing. Daring to look out of the gap at the bottom of the door, you saw that the common area where most of the guild members hung out was completely empty, looking as though it had been cleared out in a hurry. There was even half eaten food, half drunk tankards, and coats left hanging on the back of chairs, abandoned in their haste. 

While you felt a little bit of relief at the idea of not having to deal with the guild members for a little while longer, you were also anxious at the prospect of what could have caused all of the members to flee the guildhouse quickly, leaving you behind forgotten.

Suddenly, you heard footsteps and edged away from the door, feeling panicky. The footsounds stopped at your door, and the person outside fiddled with the lock momentarily before breaking the lock altogether and pulling the door open. Standing there looking down at you was a massive minotaur, silver in color with a black ruff around his neck and a white strip of fur down his forehead that merged at a gradient with the silver fur of his face. There was a black square at the tip of his nose that spanned the length between his nostrils. He wore trousers and a closed vest with weapons here and there. He seemed imposing, but the look on his face was wondering and reverent. 

“Oh, gods,” He breathed. “It is you. He tried to disguise you, but he can’t fool me; I’d know you anywhere.” 

You’d never seen him before, but Marcus had mentioned a minotaur like him several times, telling you that he was a monster who would kill and eat you if he caught you. Before, you thought it was just a scary story he told you to keep you obedient, except now the proof was standing right in front of you.

He took a step forward, and you shrank back from him and huddled against the wall in fear. Sensing your terror, he knelt down and held out his hands. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart, it’s alright. I know you’re scared. My name is Yngan. Can you tell me your name?” 

You didn’t answer, hoping your expression appeared as though you didn’t understand the question.

“I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, sweetheart. Your mummy and daddy miss you very much.” 

Despite your misgivings, you stopped cowering a little at those words, though you were careful not to speak. 

“I’m going to take you away from this place, alright? If you want,” He said, reaching for you but not picking you up, instead waiting for you to come to him. “I’ll take you home. Do you want to go home?” 

You hesitated, fearful of Marcus’s retaliation for disobeying the rules, but eventually you got up and walked into his arms slowly. He was gentle when he picked you up, shaking his head in disgust. 

“My word, you’re naught but bones. You hardly weigh anything at all. Does that bastard even feed you?”

You looked up at him, surprised, but didn’t answer. 

He tsked sadly and reached into his pocket, pulling out some dried jerky. “Sorry, this is all I’ve got on me. Don’t worry, little one, there will be plenty of food where we’re going. Mountains of food, the best there is. You’ll never, ever be hungry again after today.” 

You nibbled on the jerky and blinked at the thought. Did your parents own a farm? Were they grocers? 

“You look just like your father, did you know? You’ve both got the same eyes and that upturned button nose. We’re friends, I grew up with him. He’ll be so happy to see you again. Your mum, too.” 

He looked around, pausing for a moment to listen, and hunched a little as he continued, trying to move quickly but silently. 

“We have to go quietly if we’re going to pass through the net they’ve spread,” Yngan said. “Stay quiet, alright, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, and he smiled. 

He climbed up a hill with you on his hip like a small child, stealthing through the underbrush and staying under the trees. Out of nowhere, there was a shout at the base of the hill to the right, and the Yngan swore under his breath. 

“Hold on to me, sweetheart, we have to run!” 

You dropped the jerky and gripped the fur of his neck, holding on for dear life as he sprinted through the trees. A whistling sound came at you rapidly and you heard a sick, wet THUNK as it connected.

“Shit!” Yngan exclaimed, falling only momentarily before regaining his footing and setting off again, only he was limping badly. Crying in terror, you clung to him as he ran. Another whistling and THUNK impacted Yngan’s body, and he cried out in pain, but didn’t stop. He was grunting and snorting through his wide nostrils, his breathing labored, and you could see an arrow sticking out of his back. 

“Stop, you son of a bitch!” You heard Marcus call from behind you. You were unable to suppress a cry of fear, which made Yngan clutch you tighter to him. Another three arrows pierced his back, and he bellowed, slowing to a stop and falling to his knees.

“I’m sorry,” He wheezed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry, Larongar. I’m so sorry.” 

You had just enough time to pat his face in a weak attempt to comfort him when you were snatched out of his embrace by Marcus, who held you up by your collar. Within seconds, the three of you were surrounded by Marcus’s men, all leveling weapons at Yngan’s supine form.

“Let her go, you fucking monster!” Yngan shouted over his pain. Blood was trickling from his mouth and nose.

“So the pot calls the kettle,” Marcus sneered, laughing. “Bet you thought you were slick, setting up that ambush. Nary a one of those pissants you call men left to save you. Is this what you wanted?” He said, dangling you in front of Yngan. “This is worth dying over, eh? This stick of shite? Are you going to lecture me on how I’ll never get away with this?” He kicked Yngan in the teeth. “Spare me. And you!” Marcus threw you to the ground and drew his sword. “Look close, bitch, this is what you get when you don’t follow the rules.” 

He raised his sword with both hands and brought it down into Yngan back, straight through the heart. A wail of anguish escaped your lips and you fell to your knees next to Yngan’s body, weeping. Marcus grabbed your face in his thick fingers and forced you to look at him. 

“You don’t follow the rules, people die. You understand that?” 

Sobbing, you nodded as best you could with him holding you, and he released you forcefully.  

“Put this thing back in the cupboard,” He ordered one of his men, and he picked you up forcibly and bodily threw you to someone opposite him. “No food or water until I say so.” 

The man Marcus handed you to hauled you up over his shoulder and carried you off, and you looked back at the body of the only person who had ever shown you kindness. You’d only known him for thirty minutes, but it had been the warmest thirty minutes of your short, sad life. The cold that settled back into your body was all the worse for having a single taste of that warmth, and the weight of the guilt crushed your heart.

You spent the next few days locked in your cubby, immobile and staring at the wall, recovering from the savage beating you’d endured that night when Marcus returned. On the fourth day, the door opened and Marcus, holding a tray, instructed you to feed the new prisoner, telling you that the two of you could share the meager meal between you. It was the first scrap of food you’d even seen since that jerky Yngan had given you. Numbly, you took the tray of rock-hard bread and boiled carrots downstairs into the basement and had to crouch to get into the crawlspace to reach the cramped cell.

In the cell was a boy, a minotaur. You couldn’t determine how old he was, since he was far larger than you and you hadn’t really met any other kids besides yourself, but you knew he was still a kid since he didn’t have horns yet. His fur was pale in color, like unripe wheat, and his eyes were black. He looked at you and snorted heavily with hostility, until he saw that you were quite a bit smaller than him and in rather poor condition, with your bruised face, black eye, and split lip. His demeanor went from aggressive to simply distrustful.

“Who are you?” He asked, his tone far from friendly. He rattled the bars on the cell door. “Let me out!”

You didn’t answer him. Instead, you sat on the dusty floor in front of the bars and held out the cup that had the water in it to him through the bars. He hesitantly sat and took it, sniffed it, and sipped slowly. While he drank, you split the bread in half and gave him some of it, dipping your own in the water the carrots had been boiled in to soften it before eating it. 

“You’re beat to hell. Are you alright?” He asked.

You still refused to answer. You weren’t going to break any more rules and get anyone else hurt. 

“Who are you? Are you being kept here, like me? Did those bastards kill your dad, too?”

You looked up at him in surprise. Oh.This boy was Yngan’s son. Before he could say anything else, your face crumpled and you cried, unable to stop, though you did what you could to prevent yourself from making any noise. The boy didn’t try to comfort you, but neither did he admonish you for being upset or laugh at you, as Marcus would have done. 

“My name is Ynghadin,” He said. “Can you tell me your name?” 

Ordinarily, you didn’t give people any indication that you understood much of what they said, so that they wouldn’t continue trying to converse with you. But you owed this person for getting his father killed, so you shook your head; as long as you didn’t speak, you weren’t breaking any rules.

“Can you speak? Or… did they order you not to talk to anyone?” He asked, and you nodded. “Ah, I see.” He examined you carefully. “Aren’t you human?” 

You nodded.

“But… why is your blood blue?” He asked, reaching a hand out to point at your split lip. “Most folks bleed red.”

You pulled away instinctively. Marcus told you that you had some sort of disease that dirtied the blood, and that’s why you must never meet with people outside of the guild, since others would only see you as a spreader of plague and have you killed and burned to protect the village from disease. He said that you should be grateful he was being kind and housing a sick person like you.

But you couldn’t tell him that, so you only shrugged and motioned for him to eat. He fished out chunks of the carrots and ate them, but left the bread untouched. 

“You can have that,” He said, pointing at the bread, which he had set back down on the tray immediately after you handed it to him. “I can’t eat it. Makes me itch.”

You didn’t need telling twice. You snatched back the bread and soaked it in the carrot water. 

Once the two of you had finished eating, you took the tray and left him staring after you with mild confusion and no small amount of worry. 

Several days passed in this manner, with you only being let out to feed Ynghadin, and eating the only meal you’d get for the day with him. You weren’t sure when Ynghadin would be sold off or ransomed. That is, if there was anyone left to pay the ransom, as his father’s guild had been wiped out following Yngan’s break-in and flight with you, adding to your sense of guilt.

Sitting in your locked closet with your back to the door gave you at least something to listen to, since the closet was located toward the end of the bar of the guildhouse, even if the conversations the numbers conducted were vile and evil in nature. You hadn’t really met most of the members, since they were usually asleep or out on missions when you did your work, so their voices kind of blended together, but you could pick out one or two familiar ones. Marcus’s always stood out.

“When are we getting rid of the brat downstairs?” One of his closest men asked. “Little git nearly bit my thumb off yesterday.” 

“Soon,” Marcus responded. “No one’s ponied up the money to bail him, so we can dig and dump him whenever I’ve a mind to it.” 

Your blood ran cold and your heart stopped. “Dig and Dump” was code for burying a person alive. It was one of Marcus’s favorite ways of disposing of troublesome captives. 

“Oh, wah?” The man replied indignantly. “You’re not having me dig the damn hole, are ya?” 

“Nah, nah, nah,” Marcus said with a laugh. “I’mma make the pipsqueak do it. Punishment for that runner he did.”

His friend snorted. 

You tuned out the rest of the conversation. They were going to kill him, and it was all your fault. There had to be something you could do to help him. 

Marcus pulled you out of your closet early that evening and marched you out to the forest with two shovels on his shoulder. Once you got to the site where the grave would be dug, Marcus chained you to a nearby tree and instructed you to dig. It was going to take you the better part of a week and several beatings before you’d have the job done, but you hoped that you’d figure something out before the hole was dug.

When morning broke, your hands were badly blistered and bleeding, and you’d only dug a foot and a half into the earth while Marcus had dozed. He snorted awake and took the shovel from your hands, giving you a raw potato and a half-filled water skin, and instructed you to return to your cubby. Someone else had apparently fed Ynghadin in your absence. Or at least, you hoped that was the case.

Each day that passed, where you were digging Ynghadin’s grave and not having a chance to see him, your panic rose steadily. If you couldn’t figure out what you could do to help him, he was going to die. 

The fifth night of the dig, you finally stumbled on the answer. As you were inside the now four-foot-deep hole in the ground, digging, and Marcus was snoozing against the tree to which you were tied, you heard the shovel hit something metallic. Your heart rate ratched up and you glanced at Marcus, who didn’t wake up, and knelt slowly to excavate with your bare, damaged fingers. A few seconds unearthed the solution: the broken tip of a sword about four to five inches long, rusted and jagged, but the point of it was still razor sharp. Where it had come from, why it was there, and how long it had been buried might have been questions you’d have had interest in in another situation, but right now, it seemed like a divine gift from the gods. 

For the first time in your life, the too-big, bulky boy’s clothes that Marcus made you wear had a practical use. You were able to hide the sword fragment in them without any of the shape showing up outwardly. You got back up and continued digging. 

When dawn arrived, Marcus determined that the hole was deep enough and led you back to the guildhouse, instructing you to go down and feed the boy for the final time, since he would wait until dark to finish him off. With your heart in your throat, you collected a tray of gruel from the kitchen and wiggled your way into the crawlspace. 

Ynghadin looked up and jumped to his feet when you arrived. 

“Are you alright?! I haven’t seen you in days, I thought they killed you,” He said, gripping the bars. 

You put the tray on the ground and gripped his hands, speaking to him for the first time. 

“Keep quiet! They’re going to kill you,” You whispered, your voice weak and scratchy from disuse. “Tonight. Marcus is going to bury you alive.”

He was momentarily stunned to hear you speak, but then he grew serious. “How do you know?” 

“Marcus has had me out digging your grave every night,” You told him, showing him your bloody, blistered hands. 

“What do I do?” 

You looked back at the crawl space opening before reaching into your clothes and retrieving the broken sword blade. “I found this,” You said, handing it to him. “I wish I had more, but this is all I can give you.”

“No, this is plenty,” He said, taking it and hiding it inside his own clothes. “Are you coming?” 

You shook your head. “I’ve only been sent to bring you your last meal. They’ll lock me up again when I’m done.” 

“Can you get out?” 

“No. my cubby is just outside of the main common area and it has no windows.” 

“But…” He said, frowning. “I can’t just leave you here.”

“I’ll just slow you down. I can buy you time. You have to go without me.” 

He blinked, staring at you as if you’d evaporate. “I’ll come back,” He said. “I’ll come back and get you. I promise.” 

You shook your head and smiled sadly. “I’m nobody you need to worry about. Run far away, Ynghadin. Don’t look back.” 

“Oi, bitch, get out here!” Marcus called after you. You prayed he hadn’t heard your conversation. You made to move away, but Ynghadin seized your hand to hold you there for another moment. 

“I promise,” He said quietly. “I’ll come find you no matter what, I swear.”

Gently, you pulled your hand from his and rushed to exit the crawlspace.

You were unable to sleep that day, jittery and shaking from worry, and when night fell, you began anxiously pacing your room, chewing your thumbnail. For a few hours, all was quiet, but just as you had sat down and had nearly dozed off, the sound of a flurry of activity snapped you awake. Your door flew open and one of Marcus’s most trusted men, a rakshasa named Toru, snatched you up and carried you out of the room under his arm like a small dog. You looked around and saw everyone tearing things down and packing up anything that could be useful in one hell of a hurry. 

Did Ynghadin escape successfully? He must have; the guild had never been this panicked before. Your heart swelled with hope, even as the entire guildhouse was being dismantled around you. 

Toru opened a trunk, threw you into it, warned you to keep quiet, and closed the lid. You then felt the trunk being lifted and moved onto a cart, and the cart took off at a moderately speedy pace. 

In the dark, cramped space of the trunk you were locked in, a rare smile softened your face. He made it. You really did help him. He’d leave this awful place and survive somewhere else. The thought made you happy, and while he had made you the promise to find you, you’d simply be glad if he thought of you from time to time. That way, if you died, you wouldn’t be forgotten. That was enough.

Your happiness was short-lived. When the cart slowed to a stop, the trunk flew open and Marcus reached in and pulled you out by the throat. He had a large gash from his chin to his hairline on the left side, and his left eye was bandaged.

“It was you, wasn’t it?!” He spat in your face. “You gave that son of a bitch the metal! This is all your doing!” 

You didn’t deny it, not even by shaking your head. Marcus punched you in the gut hard, and the air was sucked out of your lungs. 

“Hope it was worth it, because you’ll never see sunlight again!” He put you back into the trunk and closed the lid. 

You struggled to get your breath back. You knew life was about to get worse for you, and you were sure how long it would be before it would get better, if it ever did. But you knew one thing for certain. 

It was absolutely worth it.

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience! To help me continue creating, please consider buying me a Kofi, becoming a Patron, or donating directly to my PayPal!

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[saintsenara]

Trick or treat! 🐈‍⬛

thank you, pal! happy halloween!

you definitely deserve a treat - so you can have an irish lesson, a halloween folklore fact, and a sneaky little peek at a bit of the next chapter of one year in every ten, which features the reunion nobody asked for: tom riddle vs ginny weasley...

ginny is, naturally, going to wreck him.

irish language treat: the irish for trick or treat is... tabhair féirín dom, nó buailfidh mé bob ort.

halloween folklore treat: tom riddle's favourite halloween food? soul cake. obviously.

sneak peek treat: here we go...

‘I have no intention of listening to you whining about settling scores,’ he hissed, still pacing back and forth like a particularly sinister tiger. ‘I have rather more important things to worry about.’

‘You brought it up.’

‘And will you shut that child up!’

‘He’s two. He’s going to cry sometimes. Deal with it.’

He let out a burst of humourless laughter. ‘God, you’re self-righteous. No wonder you couldn’t make your marriage work.’

‘How dare you bring up my marriage? When you’re the person who’s ruined -’

‘You ruined it by yourself, Ginny,’ he drawled, leaning against the wall, looking so delighted at her anger that she could have killed him on the spot. ‘I know it’s a comforting little fantasy to pretend you’re the injured party here, but you would have managed to drive Harry away without me. I have never devoted a second more attention to you than you deserve.’

‘Except for the fact that you spent a year trying to destroy my life.’

‘Your life wasn’t interesting enough to be destroyed. I caused you to incur a few minor inconveniences. All of which would have been perfectly irrelevant to you once you were dead.’

‘I was eleven. I was small and naive and so excited about coming to Hogwarts. I’d been waiting my whole life for it! And you ruined everything about it and I’ve had to spend half my life trying to make sense of that, and -’

‘What is there to make sense of? This happened because you were there. You were the person who opened the diary.’ He began to pace again. ‘I hope you weren’t labouring under the misapprehension that I thought you special in some way -’

‘Of course. That makes perfect sense. I’m not special. You changed the course of my entire life, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m not special.’

‘I had quite enough of you complaining that nobody realised how brilliant you were when you were a child. I have no intention of indulging it now.’

‘Harry’s special, though. Isn’t he? That’s the only reason why you “indulged” my complaining. Because I told you all about him. I led you straight to him. And it made him obsessed with you and it made Dumbledore and the Order and the whole fucking world obsessed with him too. And obsessed with him being obsessed with you. And I just had to be there. I was just the girl he had to keep safe, the girl who was going to wait at home for him to come back from fighting you.

‘Except it didn’t matter a fucking bit, because the fighting ended and he was still fucking obsessed with you. He’s spent ten years thinking about you - ten years when we were supposed to be free to live our lives! - and lying to me and pretending he wasn’t, and I’ve tried so fucking hard, but he was always yours, and now - now you’ve stolen him from me for good.’

Al was still howling. You and me both, kid, thought Ginny, as tears began to roll down her cheeks.

‘I want to be angry. But I can’t be. Because it’s my fault. Because I knew - I knew that we weren’t really happy, I knew that what Harry went through in the War changed him and what I went through changed me, and that even once it was over we could never be the way we had been before. And I didn’t say anything. Because I’d thought that our life - him - was what I really wanted, and I knew he felt the same. And when I realised it wasn’t, when I realised that he thought it wasn’t, it was impossible to say anything..

‘What the fuck am I going to do? We got engaged the second the battle was over. I’ve never lived on my own. I’m going to be a single mum and I’ve never even lived on my own. And there’s all these things that Harry does around the house and I’ve just never bothered learning how to do them. And I’ve got a date on Sunday, but I haven’t been on a date with someone who isn’t Harry since I was fifteen. What if it goes awfully? What if it goes well, but then it goes awfully? What if the kids end up really fucked up? What if they blame me? What -?’

‘Will you be quiet?’ Tom snarled.

Ginny braced herself. She knew very well what was coming; the words which had smashed her into pieces for that whole, horrible year - I loathe little girls who snivel like you do; it’s no wonder you don’t have any friends; how could you be the person behind these attacks, when you’re a talentless, worthless child? - and which would smash her into pieces again.

Lord Voldemort had played the long game, it seemed. It had taken him sixteen years, but he was about to succeed in destroying her.

‘God,’ he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

‘Sorry,’ she spat. ‘I know how much snivelling bothers you.’

‘Listen to me. Do you think that I was thrilled about being unceremoniously dumped in a toilet by you?’

‘What?’

‘Do you think that any of my other Horcruxes were ever treated in such a ridiculous manner?’

‘Yeah, I’m so fucking sorry that I didn’t show the bit of soul you were using to possess me enough respect for your liking. How dare you criticise me for that? I was a child! I didn’t know what else to do to get rid of you, so -’

‘Exactly. You were an eleven-year-old girl being possessed by the greatest wizard of all time -’ he punctuated this with a flounce of his robes, which Ginny was pretty certain was involuntary - ‘and you still managed to fight back in the best way available to you. Half the Ministry of Magic can’t say the same.’

‘Huh?’

‘Whatever else I may think of you, you aren’t a coward. You weren’t even then. You’ll be fine.’

‘Oh.’

Al had stopped screaming. He pointed a chubby fist in Tom’s direction and babbled. 

‘Which one is this?’ He looked intensely wary.

‘Albus’

‘What on earth possessed you to agree to that name?’

‘I didn’t agree to it. I picked it.’ He raised an eyebrow, Ginny put on her haughtiest expression. ‘I hope you don’t think so little of Harry that you reckon he’d deny me a say in the names of my own children?’

‘But Albus -’

‘Dumbledore was very kind to me after what you did to me. It was like I was sleepwalking. Nothing felt real, but everyone else was acting like everything was fine - Ginny’s back to normal with no lasting effects! - and I was just having to pretend that they were right. But then I was wandering around one afternoon - everyone else was out in the grounds, but I couldn’t face it - and I ran into Dumbledore, and he said “how are you?” and I said “oh, right as rain again” and he just looked at me, you know the way he used to look at you, like he could read your mind. And it just all came bursting out of me. That I wasn’t better, and I didn’t know if I ever would be, and I thought that a little bit of me had died in the Chamber, that my soul had been broken by what you did to me and it could never be fixed. And he looked at me and he said, “that may very well be true, Miss Weasley. But you must never forget that the parts of us that are broken -”’

‘- let the light in.’ He sneered. ‘I’ve heard that too. I should have known that it was a pre-rehearsed line.’

‘I remember thinking of it when he died. Because he was all broken. Mangled. I remember thinking, “where’s your light now?”. But it turned out that he knew what he was doing in the end.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘And then we picked Severus for his middle name because we thought it would annoy Snape and that would be funny. And it did and it was.’

‘He looks like Harry.’ He coloured slightly, and Ginny couldn’t help but suspect that he’d not meant to say that aloud. And she wondered…

‘I know. It’s -’

‘- the eyes.’

[callunavulgari]

Scrapbook 2024 | Pt I

For anyone that’s new to this, this is how I keep track of all of the things that I enjoy and/or create throughout the year. I have literally been doing this since I had a livejournal.

It’s a nice little snippet of my life and helps to organize my brain.

A reminder:

Normal font - Indifferent/Neutral Italicized font - Enjoyed bold font - Loved with an asterisk* - All time favorite (bracketed titles) - Re-watches/Re-reads strikethough - Disliked

Goals are: read 70 books and write at least 50k of original content.

Past Years

MOVIES

January

N/A (yet)

TV SHOWS

January

You Are What You Eat: A Twin Experiment

Percy Jackson & the Olympians

Delicious in Dungeon, s1

Little Women: Limited Series

The Brothers Sun

(Stranger Things, s2)

YOUTUBE CHANNELS

January

Beryl!

Watcher: Making Watcher

BOOKS

January

Fugitive Telemetry by Martha Wells [Fin]

(Sabriel by Garth Nix) [Fin]

The Daughter of Doctor Moreau by Silvia Morena-Garcia

PODCASTS

January

Watcher Podcast

The Adventure Zone: Live In Seattle

VIDEO GAMES

January

LoZ: Tears of the Kingdom, looots of hours [Fin]

(Ghosts of Tsushima), 22 hrs [Fin]

Baldur's Gate, 82 hrs

POSTED FIC

January

you let me complicate you | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 5,219 words | “But I thought—” Eddie starts, sucking in a deep, quelling breath when Steve sucks a mark into the side of his throat. His pulse ticks just a little higher. He tries again. “I mean, you’re straight?”

WIPS | UNPUBLISHED | ORIGINAL

January

600 words of Dead Girl Walking (sequel to you let me complicate you)

152 words of Steddie singing neighbors meet cute

Fanmixes/Spotify Playlists/Graphics

January

2024

put your back into it [a playlist for getting closer to god]

Stranger Things: the Musical

DELIGHTFUL FIC

January

they're going to send us to prison for jerks by greatunironic | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 16k | In which Eddie is TikTok famous, and his personal favorite creator just had an unexpected face reveal.

can't live long on starvation rations by ghostoftonantzin | WWDITS | Nandor/Guillermo | 6k | The temperature goes up, the air conditioner goes out, and Nandor is reminded what it's like to be driven near mad with lust.

in the backseat of your (boy)friend’s car by greatunironic | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 4k | A story about a first time.

Five Times Steve Surprises Eddie by nbfutureboy | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 5k | “We are some kind of after-school dads, my friend… Extra-curricular fathers. A real pair of paternal putzes.”

Let The River Run by astolat | GOT | Jaime/Robb/Brienne | 61k | The deep satisfaction of having made the right choice; of having found a clear-flowing wellspring of true honor to protect.

hold me now, i need relief by ToEdenandBackAgain | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 26k | “Sorry. Couldn’t die without knowing what that felt like.”

think kindly of a stranger by magneticwave | GOT | Jon/Sansa, Robb/Dany | 16k | The dead walk again.

crashing high by brawlite | X-Files | Krycek/Mulder | 3k | Handcuffed in the freezing cold, Krycek comes down on Walter Skinner’s balcony. It’s not ideal, but he’s had worse crashes in his time.

Show Me Your Teeth by entanglednow | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 8k | Eddie Munson apparently didn't get the memo that you can't just bite the people you're interested in. But Steve decides that he's surprisingly willing to hear him out.

I Want to Hold Your Hand by Peachesandpears | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 4k | Steve, on the heels of Starcourt, tries to drown his memories with cheap beer. At least until Eddie Munson checks in on him.

In the Kitchen or the Tulips by teddywesworl | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 34k | Did he touch me? Did he touch me? Did he touch me?

Alive and Kicking by gayhandshake | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 13k | Eddie is laboring under a misapprehension about the nature of his relationship with Steve Harrington.

Vino by teddywesworl | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 39k | Eddie comes back hungry. It doesn’t go the way you think.

Dissonance Theory by colossalflea, teddywesworl | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 30k | In the most exclusive luxury attraction on Earth, Steve Harrington follows a scripted loop of violence and cruelty.

Fight the Hurricane by spqr | Hannibal | Hannigram | 6k | “He’s the best Jaeger pilot we have,” Jack says, grimly.

look what you've done, now i'm a mess by Civil_Hearing | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | “That’s it, baby, look at you,” Eddie coos from beyond the wall.

We Better Make a Start by thefourthvine | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 11k | As soon as Eddie gets to the counter, Steve turns to him and says, “Back me up here. Kissing is no big deal, right?”

smoking guns (hot to the touch) by fivecenturiesverse | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 7k | “Your boner is digging into me,” says Robin, and Steve snorts a tired sort of laugh.

so let's sneak in from the cheap seats, honey by pricklywhicket | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 14k | The Hawkins Public Pool is open from Memorial Day to Labor Day, 8AM to 8PM, seven days a week. It employs three lifeguards, two of whom work each day: one from 8 to 2, and one from 2 to 8.

steve harrington's six-step guide to getting the guy. by oaseas | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 35k | Lucas needs love advice, Dustin & Robin despair, and Steve's a regular Casanova.

four puffs of farrah fawcett spray (and a mouthful of UD pollen) by oaseas | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 17k | Steve Harrington can take a hit. He can take many hits. In fact, thanks to the Upside Down, there isn't a hit Steve can't take.

STRIKE TEN. by oaseas | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 16k | One double scoop of pining, please!

time you taste it. (don’t need to wait for an invitation) by oaseas | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | 5k | Eddie gets a tongue piercing. Steve despairs.

DELIGHTFUL FANVIDS

January

2023 Movie Trailer Mashup

2023 || Multifandom Mashup

Doctor Who - Here We Go Again

if I could go back in time ┃ steve & eddie

Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson | Make Him Pay

Steve Harrington || No parents, big house

steve & eddie | bad habits [+s4 v1]

Steve & Eddie | One Night

Eddie Munson - Lovely

Steve Harrington | You're On Your Own, Kid

(ST) Steve Harrington | The Babysitter

► Eddie Munson | Heroes

Didn't run away | Stranger Things

DELIGHTFUL MUSIC

January

i believe - christina perri

dear arkansas daughter - lady lamb

yes i'm a mess - ajr

goodbye - bo burnham

my sails are set - sonya belousova

and the world was gone - snow ghosts

waiting in the wings - annapatsu

dandelion - gabbie hanna

child of ashes - madds buckley

you will be okay - annapatsu

the jellyfish song - kleonlumi

murder on the dancefloor - sophie ellis bextor

won't stand down - muse

mount rageous - andrew rannells

nothing can take from me - rachel zegler

bad idea, right? - olivia rodrigo

alice - peggy

bring me to life- corvyx

revived - derivakat

you will be okay - sam haft

the sound of silence - disturbed

paint it, black - ramin djawadi

only the lonely survive - marianas trench

red flag - billy talent

sleep walking orchestra - bump of chicken

waiting for the end - linkin park

spice up your life- spice girls

blood - starbenders

waterloo - abba

white rabbit - haley reinhart

closer - nin

sweet dreams - marilyn manson

[dangermousie]

Was thinking of rereading Sharon Kay Penman’s Falls the Shadow, which largely centers on Simon de Montfort, father of Parliament, brother in law of the King he fought against etc etc.

Reading FtS for the first time is actually a super vivid memory - sitting in my college dorm, listening to music and binging until after 3am in non-stop frenzy. It remains my favorite book in her Welsh trilogy (The Reckoning is brilliant but so horrifyingly depressing that she literally had to create a couple of minor fictional characters just so at least someone would escape the grinder and Here Be Dragons is a rare Penman with a happy ending but I still prefer Shadow.) It’s actually probably my favorite of all her novels except The Sunne in Splendour.

It’s funny, there are not that many novels about de Montfort as main - Edith Pargeter’s The Marriage of Megotta features him as a major character (if you want a truly depressing read, boy do I have a novel for you!) and then there is an utterly hilarious Virginia Henley romance novel, The Dragon and the Jewel which turns him and Eleanor into a romance novel couple and it’s totally hilarious:

Father of the English Parliament the way you’ve never imagined him, I bet 😂

Anyway, wish there were more novels about him because he’s had a totally insane life.

I did just get my hands on Elizabeth Chadwick’s A Marriage of Lions which, truly unusually, centers on Henry III’s half brother who fought AGAINST Simon in support of Henry. That will be a truly interesting take.

Side note: de Montfort and Roger Mortimer, lover of Queen Isabel and ruler of England after they overthrew Edward II until he himself was taken out by Edward III, are my favorite relatively obscure Medieval English barons. Insane lives, both of them.

I’ve had a thing for Mortimer ever since I read Maurice Druon’s The Cursed Kings series as a tween. It was very very age-inappropriate (my parents being under the delightful misapprehension that classics, and foreign ones at that, were always appropriate. They did NOT read Apuleius like I did at 10. Or Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer. Or Druon.) N. Gemini Sassoon has a great duology about Mortimer and Isabel. Though she chose to avoid tragedy and end it before Mortimer was murdered. And Anna Belfrage’s The King’s Man series, which is awesome, has Mortimer as one of the major characters (ML of that novel is Mortimer’s knight.)

Anyway, I wish England was more like Korea in making proper period shows about their cool historical people.

[mimble-sparklepudding]

Saw your tags on a recent post… Now I’m painfully curious.

What are mimbles hygiene/grooming habits? Does he have a favorite soap scent? How about when out on an adventure? And, what inspired it all… Eyebrow tweezing?

And THEN… Favorite type of socks? fluffy ones? tall ones? Does he sleep with socks? How would he react to getting socks for starlight?

Haha :)

Apologies for my silly tagging, I was just trying to think of an example of something random and trivial and daft. But of course I shall be delighted to answer your questions. After all there is nothing wrong with being random, trivial or daft (I am frequently all of these things).

Mimble is fastidiously hygienic and hates getting dirty or sweaty, especially if there is very little possibility of a hot bath in the near future. Mimble likes hot baths, preferably with lots of bubbles and a loofah, and is not massively keen on roughing it during adventures involving camping out under the stars or fending for himself in the wilderness.

As with a lot of things, Mimble does tend to "put it on a bit" when it comes to getting grubby or frequenting unsanitary locales, and indulges in as much theatrical grumbling as he can get away with. In reality, when circumstances dictate, he will put such considerations aside, such as when journeying to Dravania with Alphinaud or treating the illnesses of street children in Ul'dah.

However, when left to his own devices, Mimble is very keen on grooming and personal care. He has various favourite soaps (people sometimes bring him some back from their travels). At the moment he is quite enjoying some Lemon and Perilla Soap that Tataru gave him - lemon always smells particularly clean in Mimble's view.

When out travelling, especially in places with uncertain lodging arrangements, Mimble always makes sure to keep a supply of soap and washing paraphernalia. At the very minimum he will have nail scissors, tweezers (for ensuring his eyebrows are shaped nicely), a hand mirror, spare soap, tooth powder, face razor, tissues and a cloth. On the occasions when he has had to perform his ablutions out in the wild, under a waterfall or in a stream, he will ensure his privacy by singing, or at least threatening to do so. Mimble's singing is unfortunately (or in this instance, fortunately) so absolutely terrible that it not only keeps away his companions, but also discourages bandits and scares away wild animals.

Mimble is tremendously fond of socks. Especially fluffy warm ones for wearing when tramping around Ishgard or the Azim Steppe. He does have lighter cotton ones for wearing with suits or his normal everyday attire (which is usually some variation of a suit, because Mimble is like that). He will happily wear fluffy lambs wool socks to bed when staying in Ishgard or other chillier locations, but will forgo them when sleeping in Thavnair or Kugane.

Mimble would be delighted to receive socks for a Starlight gift. Being a gentleman, he would be appreciative of whatever gift he was given, but socks are always useful. Probably best to check the size though - he did once accidentally purchase some thick winter knee socks, designed for the fuller figured Roegadyn customer, under the misapprehension that they were a pair of Lalafellin sleeping bags.

Thank you for the ask @healersadjust

[acalavidyaraja]

Three Principal Aspects of the Path by Je Tsongkhapa Lobzang Drakpa"Homage to the precious noble masters!The very essence of all the buddhas’ teachings, The path that is praised by the noble bodhisattvas, And the entrance for all fortunate ones desiring liberation— To the best of my ability, I shall now set forth.You who are unattached to saṃsāra’s pleasures, And strive to make full use of the freedoms and advantages, You who follow the path delighting all the buddhas— Fortunate ones, listen well, with a clear and open mind.Whilst lacking pure renunciation there is no way to pacify The continual thirst for pleasure in the ocean of saṃsāra, And since all living beings are bound by their craving for existence, You must begin by finding the determination to be free.The freedoms and advantages are rare, and there’s no time to waste— Reflect on this again and yet again, and dispel attachment to this life. To dispel attachment to your future lives, contemplate repeatedly The unfailing effects of karma and the sufferings of saṃsāra.When, through growing accustomed to thinking in this way, Hope for the pleasures of saṃsāra no longer arises even for an instant, And throughout both day and night you long for liberation, Then, at that time, true renunciation has been born.Yet if this renunciation is not embraced By the pure motivation of bodhicitta, It will not become a cause for the perfect bliss of unsurpassed awakening, So the wise should generate supreme bodhicitta.Beings are swept along by the powerful current of the four rivers, Tightly bound by the chains of their karma, so difficult to undo, Ensnared within the iron trap of their self-grasping, And enshrouded in the thick darkness of ignorance.Again and yet again, they are reborn in limitless saṃsāra, And constantly tormented by the three forms of suffering. This is the current condition of all your mothers from previous lives. Contemplate their plight and generate supreme bodhichitta.If you lack the wisdom that realizes the nature of things, Although you might grow accustomed to renunciation and bodhicitta, You will be incapable of cutting through conditioned existence at its root. Exert yourself, therefore, in the methods for realizing interdependence.The one who sees that cause and effect operate infallibly For all the phenomena of saṃsāra and nirvāṇa, And for whom any objects of conceptual focus have subsided, Has set out upon the path delighting all the buddhas.The knowledge that appearances arise unfailingly in dependence, And the knowledge that they are empty and beyond all assertions As long as these two appear to you as separate, There can be no realization of the Buddha’s wisdom.Yet when they arise at once, not each in turn but both together, Then through merely seeing unfailing dependent origination Certainty is born, and all modes of misapprehension fall apart— That is when discernment of the view has reached perfection.When you know that appearances dispel the extreme of existence, While the extreme of nothingness is eliminated by emptiness, And you also come to know how emptiness arises as cause and effect, Then you will be immune to any view entailing clinging to extremes.When, in this way, you have correctly understood The key points of the three principal aspects of the path, Withdraw to solitude, dear son, strengthen your diligence, And swiftly accomplish the ultimate and lasting aim.This advice was given by the bhikṣu of extensive learning, Lobzang Drakpé Pal, to Tsakho Önpo Ngawang Drakpa."

"The Three Principal Aspects of the Path" by Je Tsongkhapa Lobzang Drakpa is a profound Tibetan Buddhist text that serves as a comprehensive guide to spiritual liberation. Through clear explanations and insightful teachings, Tsongkhapa outlines the fundamental aspects of the Buddhist path, providing practitioners with practical instructions for progressing towards enlightenment.

Renunciation:

The first aspect of the path emphasized by Tsongkhapa is renunciation (Nekkhamma). Renunciation refers to the sincere determination to be free from cyclic existence (samsara) and its inherent suffering. Tsongkhapa highlights that without renunciation, it's impossible to pacify the constant craving for pleasure within samsara. He urges practitioners to reflect deeply on the impermanent nature of life, the suffering inherent in cyclic existence, and the rarity of obtaining a precious human rebirth. Through contemplation and introspection, one develops a strong determination to break free from the cycle of birth and death and strive towards spiritual liberation.

Bodhicitta:

The second aspect of the path is bodhicitta, the altruistic intention to attain enlightenment for the benefit of all sentient beings. Tsongkhapa emphasizes that true renunciation must be accompanied by bodhicitta to become a cause for the perfect bliss of unsurpassed awakening. Bodhicitta arises from recognizing the interconnectedness of all beings and cultivating compassion for their suffering. By generating bodhicitta, practitioners dedicate themselves to the welfare and liberation of all sentient beings, aligning their spiritual practice with the altruistic aim of enlightenment.

Understanding Emptiness:

The third aspect of the path is understanding emptiness (Sunyata), the ultimate nature of reality. Emptiness refers to the absence of inherent existence in all phenomena. Tsongkhapa explains that understanding emptiness is essential for cutting through the root of conditioned existence and attaining liberation. He elucidates the interdependence of cause and effect and the emptiness of all phenomena. By realizing the inseparable nature of appearance and emptiness, practitioners gain insight into the true nature of reality and transcend all forms of misapprehension. Understanding emptiness liberates the mind from grasping onto inherent existence, leading to profound wisdom and spiritual awakening.

Conclusion:

"The Three Principal Aspects of the Path" provides practitioners with a clear roadmap for spiritual development and liberation. Through cultivating renunciation, bodhicitta, and understanding emptiness, individuals can progress effectively on the path towards enlightenment. Tsongkhapa's teachings offer profound insights into the nature of suffering, compassion, and wisdom, inspiring practitioners to embark on a journey of profound transformation and spiritual realization. By integrating these three principal aspects into their spiritual practice, practitioners can navigate the challenges of samsara and attain the ultimate goal of liberation from suffering.

[girldigital]

permanently altered

I randomly got the urge to get a back tattoo today...

I won't do it, obviously, but if I did I think I would get a Falak. A snake from The One Thousand and One Nights Tales who is able to destroy everything but doesn't do so out of fear for Allah (or for me: my mother!)

I was initially thinking about having it in a circle in the middle of my back, maybe as an Ouroboros but I'm unsure if that's not a little too overdone.

Then, either inside or around it, I'd want a quote in Arabic from the Rumi poem that made me cry today: "On Patience"

“I’ve said before that every craftsman searches for what’s not there to practice his craft.

A builder looks for the rotten hole where the roof caved in. A water carrier picks the empty pot. A carpenter stops at the house with no door.

Workers rush toward some hint of emptiness, which they then start to fill. Their hope, though, is for emptiness, so don’t think you must avoid it. It contains what you need! Dear soul, if you were not friends with the vast nothing inside, why would you always be casting your net into it, and waiting so patiently?

This invisible ocean has given you such abundance, but still you call it “death,” that which provides you sustenance and work.

God has allowed some magical reversal to occur, so that you see the scorpion pit as an object of desire, and all the beautiful expanse around it as dangerous and swarming with snakes.

This is how strange your fear of death and emptiness is, and how perverse the attachment to what you want.

Now that you’ve heard me on your misapprehensions, dear friend, listen to Attar’s story on the same subject.

He strung the pearls of this about King Mahmud, how among the spoils of his Indian campaign there was a Hindu boy, whom he adopted as a son. He educated and provided royally for the boy and later made him vice-regent, seated on a gold throne beside himself.

One day he found the young man weeping. “Why are you crying? You’re the companion of an emperor! The entire nation is ranged out before you like stars that you can command!”

The young man replied, “I am remembering my mother and my father, and how they scared me as a child with threats of you! ‘Uh-oh he’s headed for King Mahmud’s court! Nothing could be more hellish!’ Where are they now when they should see me sitting here?”

This incident is about your fear of changing. You are the Hindu boy. Mahmud, which means, Praise to the End, is the spirit’s poverty, or emptiness.

The mother and father are your attachment to beliefs and bloodties and desires and comforting habits.

Don’t listen to them! They seem to protect, but they imprison.

They are your worst enemies. They make you afraid of living in emptiness.

Some day you’ll weep tears of delight in the court, remembering your mistaken parents! Know that you body nurtures the spirit, helps it grow, and then gives it wrong advice.

The body becomes, eventually, like a vest of chainmail in peaceful years, too hot in summer and too cold in winter.

But the body’s desires, in another way, are like an unpredictable associate, whom you must be patient with. And that companion is helpful, because parience expands your capacity to love and feel peace.

The patience of a rose close to a thorn keeps it fragrant. It’s patience that gives milk to the male camel still nursing in its third year, and patience is what the prophets show to us.

The beauty of careful sewing on a shirt is the patience it contains.

Friendship and loyalty have patience as the strenght of their connections.

Feeling lonely and ignoble indicates that you haven't been patient.

Be with those who mix with God as honey blends with milk, and say,

“Anything that comes and goes, rises and sets, is not what I love.”

Live in the one who created the prophets, else you’ll be like a caravan fire left to flare itself out alone beside the road”

[ireneartofseduction]

Greetings! Indulge me in proclaiming and tackling my enacted ordinances for erudition‚ and eschew any misknowledge. I am the one who oversees this account. However‚ the conveyed amendments should be abided by my peers on this account in an attempt to uphold the conducive atmosphere in my area and avoid any misapprehension. This area may also count as bestowing a friend request on those individuals who sent their invitation to become my pals. I hereby annunciate that for prompt acknowledgment of your requests‚ drop “Mother of Art’s seduction ” for quick acknowledgement. Best regards to those who sanctioned my requisitions.

 

Henceforth‚ I implore you to grasp all of the details provided going forward in order to minimize the potential ambiguity of my structured ordinances‚ set standards for this account and hinder this area from lapsing into chaos. My intention in depicting my chosen model is to portray her without impairing her reputation as an idol. My sole desire is to portray her in a constructive way. I have no linkage with the real Bae Joohyun; instead‚ I portrayed her ethically. In terms of how I construct my subtitles‚ I foresee typographical and syntactic errors because English isn’t my first language. Expect some bloated words added by the proprietor to add another flavor to it. Moreover‚ Refrain from plagiarizing my work‚ as I exerted effort in all my compositions. All individuals possess peculiarities in wide areas; thus‚ we must not play dirty by copying someone’s work. Additionally‚ Please be advised that I acknowledge meliorate‚ but only in a professional manner without degrading the owner of this account or uttering below the belt utterances. If you find my presence bothersome‚ I strongly advise you to unfriend or block me for your own tranquility. I don’t chew over bizarre poppycock remarks on my field‚ so if you have an oppressive perception of the proprietor. don’t be hesitant to approach me and let’s settle the arbitration that involved the two of us behind close doors.

In addition‚ the depictions you may have seen while using the proprietor did not originate with her. Prioritizing credit to be given to the registered proprietor of the raw materials may have been second nature to the operator prior to the completion of my epistles. I extended my approval to allow you to email me any questions or thoughts you have. The link can be found in my disclaimer. With my utterances‚ I anticipate we settled the potential misinformation on my conveyed articulation‚ and I’m delighted to you for devoting some of your time to comprehend and scan my articulation.

[allsoulspriory]

Our Assent

Saying, “Amen! Praise and glory, and wisdom and thanksgiving, and honor and power and strength be to our God forever and ever. Amen!” — Rev 7:12

Amen means, “So be it—certainly.” It is the word constantly translated in the Gospels by “verily.” It contains the consent of the heart and the response of the life. Amen means that you appropriate each spoken word, that your heart says Yes to it and stamps it with the seal of its consent. Let your life speak “Amen” to God, “Amen” to Providence, “Amen” to Redemption, “Amen” to the Song of Heaven.

When tried and perplexed with the troubles and problems of life, turn from these—which make the brain dizzy and the heart sick—and consider the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ—“Our Father”—from whom every ray of love in the universe has emanated; and remember that nothing can be permitted or devised by Him which is not consistent with the gentlest and truest dealings that an earthly father could mete out to his child. So shall you be able to say: “Amen, Lord.”

We must not dwell upon the dark and perplexing questions that seethe and boil around us. We must look up to the blue sky of undimmed sunshine, our Father’s heart. He must be Love, beyond our deepest, tenderest, highest conceptions of love. In His dealings with us and all men, love is the essence and law of His nature. In proportion as you humbly believe in the Father, you will be able to say “Yes,” which is an actual rendering of the Greek word in our version, translated as “Even so” (Mat 11:26).

Our Lord was able to say not only “Even so, Father” but “I thank Thee,” and there shall come a day when the four-and-twenty elders. Representing the redeemed Church, shall see the judgment of her great opponent, and say, “Amen, Hallelujah!” (Rev 19:4). Here we can say “Amen” and not often “Hallelujah”; there the two—the assent and the consent; the acquiescence and the acclaim; the submission to the Will of God, and the triumphant outburst of praise and adoration. Let us anticipate that age when we shall know as we are known; when we shall be delighted, perfectly jubilant, perfectly blessed; when every shadow of misunderstanding and misapprehension shall be dispelled, and we shall join in the Hymn of the Redeemed Church: “Great and marvelous are Thy works, O Lord God, the Almighty; righteous and true are Thy ways, Thou King of the Ages.”

Prayer

O God, we dread many things, but we are enclosed in Thee; they cannot touch us except by Thy permission, and if Thou dost permit things that seem evil to enter our life, it must be well. Make us believe that all things are working together for good. Amen.

[hawkepockets]

elaborating. i have 3 main criticisms of c77 in its current form, and none of them are to do with its issues on release! the bug fixes, 2.0 patch, and dlc have really transformed the game and belatedly delivered on its marketing promises imo and my playthrough was remarkably clean of bugs. i thought the presentation of trans npcs* & bodies was a bit timid but inoffensive, the character creator was a swing and a miss when it came to trans inclusivity but i do think it boldly & sincerely swung before the rest of the AAA game industry. the combat was fun. the open world felt lively to me, the lore is clever and appealingly goofy, and the story, character writing, music, voice acting, and sound design were all elevated. visually it’s stunning. facial animations are a massive W. photomode and wardrobe system delighted me consistently.

*jago & claire

that said, my points against—

1. no faction approval mechanic. i don’t generally like to criticize a game on what it’s not and never tried to be—but this really does feel like a missing element.

night city’s gangs are colorful and visually distinct & each control a different neighborhood, but they’re all equally hairtrigger hostile and have no ability to remember whether you’ve helped or crossed them in previous gigs*. variable levels of hostility & willingness to give quests based on your choices would go far in making these gangs and neighborhoods feel like more than map areas with mobs on them.

*i marked 3 times that gang members brought up that i’d previously fucked with them, but both referred to required major story steps, not player choices or open world activity.

the cops also behave like killer wasps, with a hive mind that lets dozens of them swarm to your location in seconds if you shoot, shove, or accidentally walk too close to a cop… or happen to be caught in the crossfire of some randomly generated gang violence… or jump while an officer is looking at you… but as soon as you escape their sight lines they will rapidly forget what they were doing. you can’t gain lasting notoriety with the ncpd (or cred with the gangs) by killing cops or committing crimes in front of them, nor can you please the cops (and antagonize the gangs) by completing police gigs and narcing on your fellow criminals*. so the city is kind of just covered in wasps…

*i’ve seen some posts and comments under the misapprehension that u can, and that this is a major problem with the game. but it is not so.

2. the corporations do evil cartoon violence and are great at it! like the acts of villainy featured in the main story are truly villainous and fun. but i feel like the realistic corporate violence—the abuse of workers and destruction of communities—happens mostly offscreen and mostly for jokes or set dressing. corporate employees are shown to be stressed and isolated on the job, and termination is often violent and unfair, but outside of the corpo prologue this doesn’t affect the player at all. i don’t think the game has any janitors in it. i don’t remember ever seeing a janitor*.

*edit: my roommate says she found a janitor! ☝️ one.

the map is also thickly decorated with the visual markers of poverty, but since it’s so easy to amass hundreds of thousands of eddies, there are no rent, debt, or cyberware maintenance mechanics at all*, and none of the companions’ storylines are really about needing money or the experience of being working class in this hypercapitalist, “cyberpunk” setting…….

*not necessarily fun, but hallmarks of older cyberpunk games like shadowrun.

like take river, an indigenous ex-cop living in a crowded trailer park with his sister’s family at the edge of town. his storyline is not at all about poverty and barely winks at police corruption—it’s about a nefarious gay batman villain sex pest who kidnapped his nephew.

consumers are consistently mocked for being gullible and exploited in night city, but money isn’t real! class isn’t felt! money and class can’t be not real and not felt in a cyberpunk story. i think @/antisocialxconstruct’s use of “cyberpop” is really really apt*.

*i’m not going to tag rom on an opinion post but u can read what it said right below this on my blog!

like as a counter-example, i think the outer worlds, which presented itself as a facetious space western (not the be all and end all of cyberpunk feat. keanu reeves), did a much better job reflecting current work conditions and bitterly satirizing companies like amazon and johnson&johnson and the golden age robber barons, since it worked wholly with the genuine past & “unthinkable present” rather than speculation on the future, and with characters who are convincingly political and down on their luck.

3. endgame trigger available too early in the game. it was lit up on my map for over 55 hours before i finished the game. literally just hold your fucking horses! i understand that inserting dlcs into the existing main story can be tricky, but it made the pacing feel sort of precarious… wouldn’t be a problem if AAA games were released with completed stories to begin with uhh.

but it was more than just a minor aesthetic annoyance—because of the urgency of v’s storyline, it doesn’t make sense that they would hesitate in rushing to that endgame trigger. as the player i know that there’s more game. as a character, v doesn’t know that there’s more game! they don’t know they can take their time shopping around for better endings than the one you get if you barrel straight through the main story!

so it destabilizes the pacing and suspension of disbelief in a way. draws back the curtain on the fact that, because this is an rpg, the progression of v’s terminal condition is sped or slowed based on how many hours of c77 you want to play. it’s not a real, independent threat on its own narrative timer. if that makes sense?

ultimately though, all the positives i mentioned at the beginning hugely outweighed these issues for me. “the thing that makes u a protagonist is KILLING YOU!!” is a fairly common plot hook for rpgs (e.g. the prothean beacon in mass effect, SAM in andromeda, anchor in da:i) and one of my favorite tropes, but i’ve never seen it built out into a whole main story like this—it was the high of playing “trespasser” but for 85 hours. like the premise is just so up my alley, this hole was made for me. the cast of characters is very dear to me. the game is simply fun to play! and again, music & voice acting—always something that massively weights the scales for me personally.

so that’s my real review 👍 as a cyberpunk narrative i think it failed much more than it succeeded, but for its merits as a game i give it a 7/10. plus an extra star for silverV making me cry. plus another one for phantom liberty. that’s an A minus!

don’t pay full price to grizzle this bocce ball

it really was a lovely game… flawed 2 b sure but well worth playing. especially for $0 and this long after release

[largethingslargerthings]

Meditative Week of Poetry: John Wall Barger

Ever hear, far off, a grinding, 

some big machine in the wrong gear— 

then realize with a pang 

it’s an animal in pain? 

Once I heard a hawk scree, 

opened my door to find 

a kitten, a stray, gazing at me, eyes cold. 

It’s hard to hear right. 

Just ask the Arizonan mother 

resting her head on the chest of a girl, 

not resting, listening 

to her son’s heart, transplanted 

into this tiny brown chest. 

In antique times those who died abruptly 

they called gods. Since that’s not 

an Arizonan custom, 

the dead boy (still just a boy) leans his ear 

on a splintered wall, 

listening to the dogs fighting 

just beyond it. 

Which is a woman 

breathing.

[lalainajanes]

For the square “water park” on my Klarosummerbingo card! Might be my worst title ever but it’s actually better than the original one so  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Slip and Slide

Caroline speedwalks through the lobby, weaving around people who seem to think it’s the appropriate place for an early morning stroll. “Hold the elevator!” she calls, ignoring the few disgruntled looks she receives.

She hadn’t been that loud, and she’s nearly late for a critical meeting. It’s the first one with a new client, and she’d hate to make a bad first impression.

She’d had to head to the dry cleaners before work, had gotten caught in a traffic snarl in an area she wasn’t that familiar with, and it had taken her way too long to figure out the detour. She should have left her place earlier.

She gets to the security gates, juggling a garment bag, her briefcase, and a portfolio. Her ID seems to be just out of reach, and she jams her hand further into her purse. Albert, her favorite guard, murmurs, “Take a breath, Ms. Forbes.”

She blows one out, frustrated. Rolls her shoulders in an attempt to relax. “Sorry. I’m just…”

“Stressed? I can tell.”

Yikes. Caroline hopes that doesn’t mean her hair has exploded.

She smiles weakly, “Big day today.”

A brand new project, after the last one had been a disaster. Caroline’s comfortable with stress, thrives on high stakes, but she could totally use a win.

Her fingers touch the familiar edge of her badge, and she pulls it out triumphantly. She taps it on the sensor, walks through the revolving gate. “Good luck, Ms. Forbes,” Alfred murmurs as she passes.

It’s a little thing, but Caroline feels a little better knowing someone’s rooting for her.

She’s relieved to spot that one of the elevators is open, a man holding the door, his eyes on her. She doesn’t recognize him, but that doesn’t mean anything. The building has 55 floors, offices for more than two dozen companies within it. He’s dressed in a suit, like the vast majority of the men she sees in the building. His is nicer than most, charcoal grey, perfectly fitted, with a very subtle pinstripe that she only notices when she gets closer. Caroline hurries into the car gratefully. She leans forward, punches 32. “Thank you so much,” she says to him, turning so they’re shoulder to shoulder. “You’re a lifesaver.”

The man on her other side makes a noise, a tiny scoff. Caroline glances at him quizzically. He’s stoic, eyes forward, but she’s sure there’s a hint of amusement on his face.

An arm brushes against hers, drawing her attention. “Feel free to ignore him,” the man who’d held the elevator says. His voice is low, smooth and she’d be charmed by the accent if they’d met in a social situation.

Or any situation, if she’s honest.

“My brother would probably describe me as more of a troublemaker.”

Huh. She hadn’t have figured brothers. They’ve both got attractive and well-dressed going for them but little other familial resemblance. Caroline’s head swings back, “Are you a trouble maker?”

His amusement is plain. His full lips curl, and deep dimples appear in his cheeks.

Oh yeah. Definitely a trouble maker.

“I’m about twenty minutes early for my meeting today; how much of a trouble maker can I be?” His tone is playful, a touch too innocent to be believed.

Damn it. Caroline does not have time for an attractive man this morning. At least she hadn’t changed into the frumpier outfit in the garment bag. Hopefully, she’ll run into this guy again.

“I think I need more info. Could be a one-time thing. I’m almost late for my meeting, which is wildly out of character.”

“Not the trusting sort, are you?”

Caroline shrugs, raising her brows expectantly.

He laughs briefly, “Well, I did send an email ahead to inquire about the coffee preferences of the team I’m meeting. I’m stopping at one of the cafes to pick it up now. Would a troublemaker do that?”

“Hmm, maybe. Could be an underhanded tactic to get on a good side before the trouble starts.”

Dimples’ brother chimes in again, dry this time. “I believe your assistant sent that email. And that she learned the practice from my assistant.”  

Dimples glowers, and Caroline must admit this is a delightful distraction from her anxiety. She glances up at the panel above the door and is disappointed to find they’re almost on her floor. “If you’re going to the café on 36, I recommend the oatmeal raisin cookies. Most people go chocolate chip. Trust me, that’s a mistake.”

The elevator pings, the doors sliding open. Caroline smiles, hitches her briefcase higher on her shoulder. “This is me. Thanks again.”

The receptionist spots Caroline, stands up, a sheaf of papers in her hands, and Caroline’s reminded about how much she has to do. She hurries out, her heels clicking across the shiny tiles of the lobby.

She still glances back at the elevator, can’t help smiling, pleased, when she finds her new friend from the elevator watching her as the doors close.

Even if she never sees him again, he’d made her morning a little brighter.

Now, though, it’s time to work.

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Caroline’s pacing in her office. She’s pinned her hair back and changed into the purple pantsuit she’d picked up at the dry cleaners. It’s a great color but not the most flattering fit. The pants are fine, but the jacket’s boxy, and she’s wearing a plain pink blouse underneath, buttoned to her throat, a thick silver necklace threaded through the collar. There’s a pair of glasses perched on her nose, and she’d changed into sensible flats.

She’d learned her lesson last time, at the first meeting where she’d been the project lead. She’d been called ‘Honey’ and other more annoying pet names and asked to serve coffee and fetch snacks. She’d received skepticism when she’d introduced herself. By the end of that first meeting, Caroline had wanted to scream her credentials – a B.A. and a Master’s in Civil Engineering, a whole pile of certifications, several prestigious internships, and stellar work references, thank you very much – at most of the people in the room.

Ultimately, the project had been successful, but Caroline had experienced frequent bursts of frustration that bordered on rage. Her suggestions were met with questions that made it clear her intelligence was doubted, her corrections with condescension, even though she’d usually been the only one in the room with any significant scientific expertise.

Expertise that’s kind of crucial in designing a water park. It wouldn’t have been a good look, or a sound investment, if guests were to end up injured or dead after paying exorbitant ticket prices and expecting a fun day.

Her skin has thickened considerably, but Caroline hopes that’s less necessary this time. Her boss had assured her that this job would be easier, and Caroline’s choosing to believe her. It’s even potentially exciting – these clients own several international resorts, the park she’s pitching on will be built in Spain.

Being project leader, she’d traveled to oversee construction on the nightmare build, but Tennessee doesn’t carry quite the same appeal as the Spanish coast, at least from the photos Caroline’s seen.

At the very least, it can’t be a worse experience. She hopes.

She hears Katherine coming her way, takes a final deep breath before Kat breezes into her office. “What are you wearing?” Kat asks, sounding both mystified and vaguely disgusted. She pauses in front of Caroline, fingers pinching her lapel and tugging. “Is this polyester?”

“Maybe. I thrifted it.”

Katherine’s face twists in the sort of revulsion one would expect if Caroline confessed to grave robbing the ensemble.

“Ew, why?”

“Figured I needed a costume. To make sure that this time, no one in there thinks to call me ‘sweet cheeks.’”

She’d been paired with another designer last time, Matt Donovan, who was a nice enough guy but had been pretty useless in the having her back department. Caroline likely wouldn’t have cried into her Ben and Jerry’s quite so often had Katherine been her partner. Kat has the unique and impressive ability to make demands and issue orders and have people thank her for it.

Kat snorts, “Elijah Mikaelson would never. He’s aggressively polite. I haven’t spoken to him yet, but I doubt Niklaus would either. I assume he has the same hot accent.”

That’s a new name. Caroline doesn’t like surprises. “And who is Niklaus?”

“A brother. And a business partner. He wasn’t originally scheduled to be here but is unexpectedly in town. What do you think the British equivalent to sweet cheeks is?”

Caroline’s eyes go wide, a few puzzle pieces clicking together. British brothers, twenty minutes early for a meeting. What are the odds?

Crap. Had she been flirting with a client? In front of another client?

There’s a tap at the door, her boss’ assistant’s head poking in, “They’re ready for you in the conference room.”

Ugh. Maybe she’s cursed.

* * * * * 

The presentation goes fantastically.

Katherine had been correct – the Mikaelsons don’t seem to labor under the misapprehension that a conventionally attractive blonde woman can’t grasp complex concepts. They’d shaken her hand when she’d arrived; Niklaus (or Klaus, as he apparently prefers) had looked a bit puzzled when they’d been introduced, Caroline had chalked that up to the outfit. He’d said it was nice to see her again. Explaining her mad dash to the elevator, and Klaus’ assistance, to the room had broken the ice nicely.

Kat kicks them off, and her design is gorgeous; Elijah and Klaus appear suitably impressed. When it’s Caroline’s turn, her nerves fall away by her second PowerPoint slide. She knows her stuff backward and forward, and she’s incredibly pleased with her innovation.

She also begins to feel less bad about the flirting once she sees that Kat throws Elijah a few looks that are borderline inappropriate for the office (that he seems pretty pleased with).

They ask questions, pour over the mock-ups and technical drawings Caroline and Katherine had prepared. Their ideas are actually good, which is a nice contrast for the last project. She’d done far too much lying and finessing to attempt to steer the previous park into a less terrible direction. The Mikaelsons have far fewer notes than Caroline had anticipated, and she promises to put together an update ASAP. They schedule another meeting.

She thinks Klaus’ handshake lingers when they say goodbye, but maybe she’s just riding high on adrenaline and imagining things.

She kind of hopes she isn’t. It’s probably too messy to date a client, but a girl can fantasize, can’t she?

Caroline helps herself to the cookie tray, pleased by the generous helping of oatmeal raisin she finds. Kat’s disappeared, but she knows their boss will want to debrief. Caroline collapses into one of the conference chairs, pulls out her phone to check her messages.

She replies to a few emails before she notices one that’s just arrived.

 Hello Caroline,

I enjoyed your presentation today. I look forward to the next.

Warmly,

Klaus

 She grins to herself, slumps lower in her chair. Clearly, she hadn’t imagined anything if Klaus is emailing her when he’s barely out of the building. She takes a risk and sends a slightly more casual reply than she’d usually attempt at this point.

If he reacts badly, she can up the formality later on. If he doesn’t, well… she’s only fostering a good working relationship. That’ll be essential if they land this contract.

And she’s like 90% sure it’s in the bag.

 Hi Klaus,

Thank you!

The photos your team sent over of the location were gorgeous; both Kat and I were inspired. I think this is some of our best work to date. I’m excited to dive into the updates and meet again next week.

Best,

Caroline

P.S. Thanks for the cookies.

His reply comes minutes later.

Caroline,

I believe it. Your work is impressive, as I’m sure your new ideas will be. Have you ever been to Spain? The pictures hardly do it justice.

Warmly,

Klaus

P.S. You’re welcome. Which coffee order was yours?

 Well, that’s the opposite of a bad reaction.

Caroline sets her phone aside, tells herself she has to be smart here. She’s reasonably sure she’s not doing anything that’s prohibited. The emails will speak for themselves, and they live on the company server. Neither she nor Klaus are offering anything untoward for the contract. If things go well, she may just have to fill out an HR disclosure form. She’ll double-check the firm’s code of conduct.

Just in case.

[theodoradove]

"All this part of the business was the commonplace mechanics of the detective-novelist’s job. The new and exciting thing was to bring the love-problem into line with the detective-problem, so that the same key should unlock both at once. I had Harriet, feeling herself for the first time on equal ground with Peter, seeing in the attractions of the intellectual life a means of freeing herself from the emotional obsession he produced in her, and yet seeing (as she supposed) that the celibate intellectual life rendered one liable to insanity in its ugliest form. I had Peter, seeing the truth from the start and perfectly conscious that he had only to leave her under her misapprehension to establish his emotional ascendancy over her. The temptation to take advantage of her mistake had to present itself to him in some form or other. That he should consider abandoning the investigation and leaving the upshot in doubt was too crude. It would be enough if, while she was still hesitating, he was tempted to use his physical charm to precipitate an emotional surrender from which there could be no subsequent return. I presented him with three opportunities for betrayal: once when Harriet exposes her own weakness in a sentimental moment on the river; again, when in the Botanical Gardens he warns her against letting emotions interfere with judgment; and finally, when she throws herself into his arms under the shock of finding the mischief-maker’s malice turned against herself. In the meantime, I had made Harriet’s surrender easier by letting her see Peter's weaknesses instead of (as hitherto) his strength: his jealous irritation at the misdeeds of a prodigal nephew; his personal vanities, his carefully concealed sentimentalities, his resentment of his own small stature and its compensating outbursts of childish exhibitionism; the mere helplessness of physical fatigue and so forth; and had further enhanced his attractions by making somebody else fall in love with him. I had also, to my great delight, succeeded in working into the book my original idea of a proposal from another man, in the imbecile episode where Mr. Pomfret avows his undergraduate passion in the grim presence of the Proctor. Thus, the train was laid for the overthrow of Harriet’s defenses if Peter chose to fire it.

"This was where the theme of intellectual integrity came in. Peter's honesty of mind had to tell him that if Harriet accepted him under any sort of misapprehension, or through any insincerity on his part, they would be plunged into a situation even more false and intolerable than that from which they started. She must come to him as a free agent, if she came at all, and must realize that she was independent of him before she could bring him her dependence as a willing gift. At all costs, and even at the risk of losing her altogether, he must prevent her from committing the greatest treason: 

To do the right deed for the wrong reason, 

and (through the machinery of the detective plot) show her the final baseness of which love was capable before he could asks her to risk the adventure with him."

The essay “Gaudy Night” by Dorothy L. Sayers, discussing the hows and whys of her writing of the novel. First published (in a longer version) in Titles to Fame (1937), edited by Denys Kilham Roberts, in which several authors reflect on their most well-known work.

I could not marry Peter off to the young woman he had (in the conventional Perseus manner) rescued from death and infamy, because I could find no form of words in which she could accept him without loss of self-respect. I had landed my two chief puppets in a situation where, according to all the conventional rules of detective fiction, they should have had nothing to do but fall into one another’s arms; but they would not do it, and that for a very good reason. When I looked at the situation I saw that it was in every respect  false and degrading; and the puppets had somehow got just so much flesh and blood in them that I could not force them to accept it without shocking myself. So there were only two things to do: one was to leave the thing there, with the problem unresolved; the other, far more delicate and dangerous, was to take Peter away and perform a major operation on him. If the story was to go on, Peter had got to become a complete human being, with a past and a future, with a consistent family and social history, with a complicated psychology and even the rudiments of a religious outlook. And all this would have to be squared somehow or other with such random attributes as I had bestowed upon him over a series of years in accordance with the requirements of various detective plots.

Thanks, smokeandsong, for sharing this!

Bonus: the first page of a typescript of the essay (from the Dorothy L. Sayers Papers at the Harry Ransom Center, University of Texas at Austin):