#the vision is there but i lack the skill to execute this so here you go hsldjfskldf

[zhongrin]

drawing series idea titled "smitten" where it's just a series of 'your pov' where a character is staring at you in different day-to-day situations/routines with lovestruck eyes and mayhaps an equally soft smile on their lips.

zhongli smiling at you from across the table while you're both eating out at wanmin; multiple dishes fill the furniture's surface and steam is rising from the hot pot in the center of your table, but the love in his amber eyes are as clear as ever.

al haitham peeking subtly behind his book as you're reading your own choice of literature, his eyebrows relaxed and the corners of his eyes crinkling - it's such a shame that you'll never see him smile behind that academic journal he borrowed from the house of daena just the other day.

jing yuan sleepily looking up at you with that signature grin of his, while his head rests comfortably on your lap, his red ribbon wrapped around your wrist as you play with the white mane of a hair splayed across your thighs.

blade looking down at you from the corner of your eyes as you bandage his arm, half-lidded crimson eyes soft and studying. his expression is as stoic as ever... and yet his ears are slightly reddened behind his bloodstained navy locks.

[hrizantemy]

Day 3 of ACOTAR Games: This or That

Thank you for yesterday's response. Here is a respite after the harrowing recollection of Cassian’s wrongs.

Who should be deposed from their position in Night Court?

Morrigan: Third-in-Command to High Lord

Feyre: High Lady

[Rhysand would be in the running if magic hadn’t chosen him and he could be dethroned.]

You may recruit your tribe in your crusade if it pleases you. Your contenders: @litnerdwrites @fenrysmoonbeamswife @gwandas @positivelyruined @yaralulu @kataraavatara @umthisistheonlyusernamenottaken And, our very first penalty goes to @achaotichuman!

Feyre, as High Lady, holds an enormous amount of power and influence over the court. Yet, her decisions, particularly her dependency on Rhysand’s guidance, often undermine the independence and strength that a High Lady should embody. While the title of High Lady was a groundbreaking step for Prythian, Feyre’s execution of her role hasn’t necessarily lived up to the expectations. Instead of standing as an equal to Rhysand, she often seems overshadowed by him, more of an extension of his rule than a true partner with her own political vision. This creates a dynamic where the supposed equality of their titles feels performative, and the Night Court lacks the balanced leadership it could have with a more independent High Lady.

On the other hand, Morrigan as Third-in-Command is deeply flawed in her role, but her position doesn’t carry the same weight of direct governance. Her neglect of Hewn City and the women suffering there is inexcusable, and her actions have made her unworthy of representing the ideals of the Night Court. Yet, the damage she causes is more contained. If she were removed from her position, it would disrupt the inner workings of the court but not the entire foundation of its rule. In contrast, Feyre’s deposition would signal a much-needed shift in how the court is governed at its very core.

As much as I dislike Morrigan, I can’t deny that people respect her and listen when she speaks. Despite her glaring flaws—her neglect of Hewn City, her hypocrisy, and her apparent lack of accountability—Morrigan’s reputation as a diplomat and warrior carries weight in the Night Court. She’s built an image of strength, independence, and loyalty to Rhysand, and even if I feel her actions don’t always back up that image, her words still hold influence.

It’s frustrating, honestly. For someone who seems to have done little to truly earn the title of Third-in-Command beyond her personal loyalty to Rhys, she commands a level of respect that feels disproportionate. People trust her judgment, they value her perspective, and they give her grace in ways they wouldn’t for others.

But that’s the thing about Morrigan: she knows how to carry herself. She’s charismatic, intelligent, and skilled at playing the part of someone who’s always in the right. Even when I can’t stand her, I can see why people respect her. She represents what the Night Court wants to be seen as—progressive, strong, and unyielding. That respect is what makes her so hard to challenge. For all her flaws, she’s convinced the court—and most of Prythian—that she deserves her place. It’s infuriating, but I can’t pretend it isn’t true.

Firstly, the lack of respect the High Lords have for Feyre is undeniable, and while some of it may stem from their own biases, the blame ultimately falls on Rhysand. From the very beginning, he set the stage for Feyre to be seen as less than her title demanded. The most glaring example is when he forced her to drink faerie wine and perform the humiliating “dance” Under the Mountain. While it was framed as a way to protect her or gain Amarantha’s favor, it reduced her to a pawn, a plaything to be used for his schemes. Even if Rhysand’s intentions were strategic, the impact was lasting: the High Lords first came to know Feyre as a woman who danced at Rhysand’s command, a performance that degraded her before the most powerful beings in Prythian.

That impression didn’t fade once she became High Lady. Instead of giving her space to establish her own authority, Rhysand consistently kept her in his shadow, using her more as a symbol than a leader. High Lady is supposed to be a title of partnership and equality, but instead, Feyre often feels like an accessory to Rhysand’s rule. When they appear before the other High Lords, she’s seen more as Rhysand’s mate than his equal, and that’s entirely his fault. Rather than elevating her to stand as a true counterpart, he treats her role as if it’s just another way to glorify himself and his court.

Even in how Feyre is portrayed within their inner circle, Rhysand’s treatment of her damages her credibility. The Night Court prides itself on being forward-thinking, but Rhysand’s actions undermine that at every turn. A High Lady shouldn’t be anyone’s pawn, and yet that’s exactly how Rhysand introduced Feyre to the world. The High Lords may dislike or distrust her for their own reasons, but their lack of respect is rooted in the image Rhysand allowed them to see—an image of Feyre as someone easily controlled and used for his purposes.

If Feyre had been given the opportunity to command respect in her own right, things might have been different. But Rhysand’s decisions have done nothing but make her seem like an extension of him rather than a leader in her own right. He might claim to cherish her power, but his actions suggest he’s more interested in wielding it than sharing it. That’s why the High Lords don’t respect Feyre—because Rhysand didn’t let them see her as someone worth respecting.

Secondly, Feyre is a child in both experience and mindset when it comes to ruling Prythian. She knows almost nothing about its history, politics, or culture beyond what Rhysand has spoon-fed her, and yet she’s been thrust into a position of immense power as High Lady. The problem isn’t just her ignorance—it’s her refusal to acknowledge it and her tendency to act on whims without considering the long-term consequences.

Time and time again, Feyre has proven that she’s not equipped for leadership. She’s impulsive, emotional, and reckless, traits that might serve her well in battle but are disastrous in governance. A prime example of this is her destruction of the Spring Court. While her anger toward Tamlin was understandable, her decision to infiltrate his court and dismantle it from within was shortsighted. She tore apart its structure, left its people vulnerable, and destabilized an entire region of Prythian—not for the greater good, but because she wanted revenge. It wasn’t a strategic move; it was a tantrum disguised as a mission.

Her actions often have devastating ripple effects, but Feyre rarely seems to consider—or even care about—the consequences. She acts as though being High Lady is an extension of her personal life, not a responsibility to an entire court and its people. Worse, Rhysand enables this behavior by shielding her from criticism and treating her mistakes as charming quirks rather than the serious missteps they are. Together, they create a bubble where Feyre never has to face accountability, allowing her to remain naive and reckless.

Even in the Night Court, Feyre’s lack of understanding is glaring. She knows nothing about the intricacies of its politics, the history of Illyria, or the dynamics of Hewn City, and yet she’s supposed to represent these people. Her leadership isn’t grounded in knowledge or experience; it’s propped up by Rhysand’s influence and the loyalty of his Inner Circle. But loyalty only goes so far when the person in power acts like a child playing dress-up as a ruler.

Thirdly, Feyre’s elitism is one of her most glaring flaws and a significant reason she’s ill-suited for leadership. Despite her humble beginnings as a mortal who struggled to feed her family, she has grown into someone who consistently looks down on those she deems beneath her. This attitude not only alienates the people she’s supposed to serve but also highlights her lack of understanding and empathy, two qualities essential for a ruler.

Feyre’s elitism is especially evident in how she views and interacts with the other courts. She holds a superiority complex about the Night Court, parroting Rhysand’s belief that it is somehow better, freer, and more progressive than the rest of Prythian. This blinds her to the flaws within her own court, such as the rampant misogyny in Illyria and the oppressive conditions in Hewn City, which she shows little interest in addressing. Instead of acknowledging these issues, Feyre focuses on criticizing other courts—like the Spring or Autumn Courts—while doing nothing to improve the lives of those under her own rule.

Even within the Night Court, Feyre’s elitism is palpable. She aligns herself almost exclusively with the Inner Circle, a group of privileged individuals who have little to no connection with the common fae. There’s no indication that she spends time understanding the struggles of ordinary citizens or engaging with anyone outside of this insulated group. Her actions, like her decision to buy an extravagant estate for herself while Illyrian soldiers live in squalor, reveal a staggering disconnect from the people she’s supposed to lead.

Feyre’s elitism also manifests in her relationships. She often uses her past hardships as a shield to deflect criticism, as though her experiences make her inherently more deserving of power or respect. However, she rarely extends the same compassion to others who have suffered. For example, she shows disdain for Tamlin, not just for his actions but for his struggles and his attempts to rebuild after the war. Instead of offering him—or anyone outside her circle—empathy or assistance, Feyre places herself on a pedestal, acting as though she’s above them all.

Fourthly, Feyre’s dismissal of the suffering in Hewn City, and her assertion that the people there have “every comfort” yet still aren’t satisfied, is a deeply problematic reflection of her lack of understanding and empathy. To say that the people of Hewn City have every comfort is not only an insult to their struggles but also a glaring example of how out of touch Feyre is with the realities outside her bubble in the Night Court.

Hewn City is a place where women are oppressed, where fear and silence reign, and where survival often comes at the cost of dignity. Yet Feyre, who has never had to live under such conditions, seems to believe that material comforts—luxury, wealth, or simple pleasures—are enough to erase the systemic abuse and hardship these people face. Her statement reflects a level of privilege and naivety that she, as High Lady, should have long outgrown. She fails to understand that comfort is not just about material wealth or having basic needs met. It’s about safety, about autonomy, about freedom from the constant threat of violence and degradation.

Feyre’s words ignore the real problems faced by the people of Hewn City: the lack of agency, the cycle of trauma, and the suppression of their rights and voices. To dismiss these struggles by suggesting that the comforts they already have should be enough shows her total disregard for the deeper, more complex issues at play. It suggests that, in her mind, these people should be grateful for whatever scraps they’re given, and that any dissatisfaction they express is simply unreasonable.

Her attitude also reveals how little Feyre has done to change the situation. Instead of recognizing that the people of Hewn City need more than just the illusion of comfort, she resorts to this misguided, condescending justification. By saying it’s “still not enough,” she shifts the blame onto the people who are suffering, rather than examining the structural issues that perpetuate their oppression. In her eyes, if they have comforts, they should be grateful—there’s no recognition of the need for true reform or for real, meaningful change in their lives.

Fifthly, Feyre’s cultural appropriation of Illyrian wings is a troubling example of how she takes from a culture she doesn’t understand or respect without considering the deeper significance those wings hold for the Illyrians. Illyrian wings are a symbol of strength, honor, and identity for the people of that culture, representing both their warrior status and their connection to the harsh, rugged lands they inhabit. For Feyre, however, these wings have become little more than a trophy—a physical manifestation of her newfound power as High Lady, rather than a symbol of the sacrifice and history they represent for the Illyrians.

The act of Feyre wearing Illyrian wings, especially after spending little time in the culture or even attempting to understand its struggles, is an appropriation of a deeply sacred aspect of their identity. She takes something that is integral to their way of life and uses it for her own purposes without regard for its meaning or the people it belongs to. The fact that she can wear the wings and gain admiration for them while the Illyrians themselves are constantly belittled and oppressed under the same system she now stands at the head of is both disrespectful and tone-deaf.

Feyre has the privilege of choosing to adopt this aspect of their culture, but the Illyrians don’t have that luxury—they are born with their wings, bound by them, and expected to live up to their cultural ideals and roles. Feyre, by contrast, is able to take them off at any time, returning to her privileged life as High Lady of the Night Court. She doesn’t have to live with the burdens and expectations that come with the wings, nor does she have to deal with the discrimination and judgment the Illyrians face for having them. She can pick and choose when she wants to be “one of them,” which in itself trivializes the gravity of their culture and the heavy history they carry.

Her actions also overshadow the real Illyrian warriors, particularly the women who have fought for recognition and autonomy within their society. By wearing the wings, Feyre gives the impression that she has earned the same respect and status without doing the work or facing the challenges that the Illyrians, especially the women, must endure. It’s another example of how Feyre’s position as High Lady allows her to take what she wants, without truly earning or understanding the weight of what she takes.

The Illyrian wings were never meant to be something to wear like a costume or a badge of honor for someone who doesn’t truly understand or respect the culture they represent. Feyre’s appropriation of them highlights her ongoing pattern of acting without fully considering the consequences or the lives of those whose cultures, struggles, and identities she takes from without a second thought.

Sixthly, Feyre’s condemnation and tear-down of Nesta’s apartment is a striking example of her hypocrisy and disconnection from the realities of those who are truly affected by her decisions. Feyre justifies the destruction of Nesta’s space by claiming it’s for a noble cause—turning it into a refuge for displaced people of war. While on the surface this might sound like a compassionate and selfless act, it completely overlooks the fact that by doing so, Feyre is displacing people who already lived there, including Nesta herself, who has worked hard to carve out a space for herself in the aftermath of the war.

This “noble” gesture conveniently ignores the needs and rights of the people who already occupy that space. Feyre’s willingness to destroy the apartment without considering the emotional or practical consequences for those who had made it their home demonstrates just how out of touch she is with the lives of others. Nesta’s apartment, as broken and imperfect as it was, had become a symbol of her healing and independence—a space where she was slowly rebuilding her life after everything that had been taken from her. For Feyre to come in and justify the destruction of that space in the name of “helping others” is not just thoughtless, but deeply disrespectful.

Even more troubling is the fact that while Feyre claims to be creating a haven for displaced people, she’s simultaneously off decorating a new mansion for herself—a mansion that symbolizes her privilege and separation from the lives of those she claims to help. Feyre is not living in the same conditions as those displaced people, nor does she seem to grasp that taking someone’s home, even for a “good” cause, is still an act of displacement. She’s actively contributing to the problem of homelessness and dislocation while hypocritically positioning herself as a savior.

This disconnect between her actions and her supposed intentions shows Feyre’s lack of true understanding. She wants to be seen as doing something good, but her actions demonstrate that she is willing to trample over others in the process of her own self-image maintenance. While she’s off living in comfort, focusing on decorating a new mansion, those who are displaced by her decisions are left to fend for themselves. Feyre’s behavior is not one of selflessness or true leadership; it’s a display of privilege masked as charity, with little regard for the impact on those who are already suffering.

Seventh and lastly, Feyre’s failure to do anything meaningful for her people is perhaps the most damning critique of her leadership. As High Lady, Feyre holds immense power, influence, and resources—yet she consistently does nothing to address the real needs of those she governs. She might parade around the Night Court and its grandeur, but when it comes to truly serving the people, Feyre’s inaction speaks volumes.

For all her supposed efforts to improve Prythian after the war, Feyre has shown little interest in enacting actual change for those who are suffering. She rarely engages with the common folk, nor does she seem to care about the systemic issues that plague the courts and the lives of their inhabitants. In her time as High Lady, she has failed to take meaningful steps to address the conditions in places like Hewn City, where women are still oppressed, or the devastation left behind in the aftermath of the war. The people of Prythian still live under poverty, fear, and inequality, and yet Feyre is more concerned with her own status and maintaining the image of a benevolent ruler than doing the hard work required to fix the broken system.

Despite her claims to care about those who suffer, Feyre’s actions show a stark lack of follow-through. She might make gestures like turning Nesta’s apartment into a shelter or bringing up the idea of helping others, but these are empty acts that do nothing to address the root causes of the suffering. Feyre does not actively work to create sustainable solutions or to shift the power dynamics that keep the people of Prythian oppressed. Instead, she continues to allow the elite, including herself, to remain at the top while the rest are left to fend for themselves.

In essence, Feyre’s leadership is marked by a glaring absence of true action. She might speak the words of change, but when it comes to real responsibility, she is nowhere to be found. She does not use her power to improve the lives of the common fae or to dismantle the systems of control that keep them in suffering. Instead, she remains wrapped in the comforts of her own position, untouched by the struggles of those she claims to protect. This is not the hallmark of a true leader—it is the behavior of someone who is content with the image of power rather than the reality of actually wielding it to make a meaningful difference.

In A Court of Silver Flames, when Feyre says, “What gives them the right to rule over anything else if they can’t even control their sister?” it’s a deeply revealing moment that sheds light on her flawed view of leadership. Feyre’s words aren’t just about Nesta, but about her entire perspective on ruling. Her focus is entirely on control—control over individuals, control over situations, control over what is perceived as order. She reduces the complex and nuanced role of leadership to nothing more than domination and subjugation, expecting her subjects, even those closest to her, to fall in line according to her will.

This mindset is troubling because it shows that Feyre’s understanding of leadership lacks the compassion and empathy required to truly lead people. Leadership isn’t about making people do what you want or forcing them to conform; it’s about guiding, supporting, and empowering others. Feyre, however, seems to view her position as one of power in which her control should extend to every aspect of the people around her, even to her own sister’s choices and behavior.

By framing her inability to “control” Nesta as a failure of her right to rule, Feyre reveals that her primary concern is the appearance of control and authority. She doesn’t seem to grasp that true leadership isn’t about exerting force over others; it’s about understanding the needs of those you lead and providing them with the tools and support to grow and succeed. Feyre’s focus on control also speaks to a lack of trust in those around her, as she equates control with competence or worthiness to lead.

This moment also reflects Feyre’s lack of awareness about the complexities of familial relationships. She sees Nesta’s struggles and behavior as something to be “managed” or “fixed” in order to maintain order, rather than recognizing the importance of healing, personal autonomy, and allowing people to come to terms with their trauma in their own way. By using control as a measuring stick for her ability to rule, Feyre shows that her leadership is not about service or care, but about maintaining an image of authority at all costs.

In the end, Feyre’s statement exposes her skewed understanding of what it means to lead. Rather than embracing a leadership style that fosters understanding, collaboration, and growth, she sees it as a matter of imposing control, which speaks volumes about her limited view of power and her inability to engage in the more difficult but necessary aspects of leadership.

I could go on and on, delving deeper into every action, every decision Feyre makes, and how each one highlights her flaws as a leader and as a person. There are so many layers to unpack, from her misguided sense of control to her disregard for the people she claims to care about. It’s clear that her actions often contradict her words, and the deeper you look, the more you see just how much she prioritizes her own position over true responsibility. But for now, I’ll stop here. There’s only so much you can say before it all becomes too exhausting, and some things are better left unsaid—because at the end of the day, Feyre’s behavior speaks for itself.

[simslegacy5083]

Not So Berry (Straud Descendants) Gen 9

Today's (8/13/2024) Episode: Making The Pitch

When Luigi put his mind to something it usually wasn’t long before he’d achieved his goal, and his proposal for Noemi’s boss was no exception.

Working late into the night he outlined his idea for a new life sim. He’d played Sims Forever since he was young and had been programming mods to enhance his gameplay almost as long. The popularity of those mods made him confident that he understood what would appeal to other gamers.

Noemi had been right that Luigi’s name being attached to the project would get her bosses attention.

Her supervisor had looked skeptical when she’d dropped a proposal from her fiancée off that morning, but by lunchtime Patricia caught her in the breakroom with quite a different attitude. “I looked into your boy’s plan.” She said, wolfing down a quick sandwich between meetings.

“A respected Sims Forever modder with a couple other claims to fame developing a competitor to the classic game?” She rapped her knuckles on the table for emphasis and pointed. “Get him here ASAP for a meeting with me and Daniel from investment! I’m positive the community will eat this up.”

A couple days later Luigi found himself in the conference room of Rainy Day’s downtown headquarters. He and Noemi worked for different branches of the same parent company, and he’d met her boss a couple times in passing, but the investment guy was new to him.

Used to public performances he was at ease, smiling brightly as he shook hands and settled down across from the other two sims.

“So…” Patrica began “I read your proposal and I’m intrigued. I want to hear more about what you think you can bring to the table to set your game apart from Sims Forever. We’ll want to attract its audience and bring in new players – how do you intend to do that”?

As he’d gotten older Luigi had learned how to use his cheerful nature to his advantage. To that end he didn’t attempt to hide his enthusiasm, letting his excitement shine through and captivating his audience as he launched into an explanation.

"Sims Forever has been my favorite videogame for as long as I can remember. I love it, but I’m also very aware of what it lacks, the things I got into modding to fix. I want to develop a game that has options for more control, and more chaos. One with randomly generated NPCs that didn’t dress themselves in the dark, who have skills and backstories to match their traits and preferences.” 

Luigi paused to take a breath, but before he could continue Daniel held up a hand to stop him. "I've heard enough. Your project writeup outlined this quite nicely. It’s clear you have the passion to execute your vision; and I’ll be counting on Noemi here to manage the team needed to back you up."

Luigi gave Daniel a sincerely thankful smile as they discussed the contractual details, but Patricia didn’t let him escape on a high note.

"Before you go, there is one issue we need to talk about. You got yourself into quite the pickle the other night with that little mouse fiasco. I trust the PR department is helping you clean up that mess?“ She looked at him expectantly as he did his best to suppress a flash of irritation and shame. 

"Of course," he lied "they're all over it.“ In reality, the “damage control” team were all over him to address it publicly, but he’d been stonewalling them. He’d hoped the whole thing would just blow over in time without requiring him to take an active and risky role in repairing his reputation.

 As he and Noemi walked out to grab lunch, Luigi’s excitement at his win was dampened by worrying about what he was going to say to the team’s publicist later that evening. It looked like he was going to need to cooperate with them after all.

View The Full Story of My Not So Berry Challenge Here

[mariacallous]

I can predict with safety that the prosecution of 700 innocent postmasters and mistresses will be remembered for decades.

It was not just that when the Post Office jailed employees and drove them to suicide it presided over one of the gravest miscarriages of justice in modern British history.

It is that the injustice will be remembered far beyond the UK. The technology said the postal workers were guilty of stealing from their tills, and everyone – judges, juries, police officers and government ministers – believed the faulty software rather than innocent men and women.

As facial recognition technologies take over police work and AI determines job prospects, the story of how the Post Office computers got it wrong will be a part of 21st century folklore.

But this terrible scandal deserves to be remembered for one other reason: the attitude of managers, who did not for a moment think there was something wrong in believing that hundreds of their colleagues were criminals.   

The notion that the accusations must be flawed because the scale of the alleged fraud and the numbers of suspects beggared belief never occurred to them. They justified their salaries and bonuses as a legitimate reward for presiding over underlings who were no better than common criminals.

Chris Dillow, the author of the Stumbling and Mumbling economics blog, is one of the best critics of the managerialist ideology that drove the Post Office scandal. You can listen to my Lowdown interview with him via the links above.

I thought it would be worth going through the evidence we discuss on the show as we look at the dictatorial attitude of so many managers.

We are not making an argument for anarchism. Successful organisations have successful managers.

They tend to be modest managers who understand that it is impossible for the people at the top of complex organisations to know all they need to know.  They have genuine consultations with their staff to fill the gaps in the knowledge. They do not behave like dictators by insisting on subservience and by refusing to allow criticism.

However many managers, perhaps most managers, are not like that. And here is the main reason.

They have been imbued with the ideology of managerialism, which holds that organizations in the public and private sector can be run from the top down by an elite of experts.

Instead of valuing specific knowledge about a company or organisation they believe in a generalist skill of “management”; and that a managerial elite can move from company to company, public body to public body, without losing effectiveness.

In place of specific, practical knowledge about the institutions they are meant to control, they offer “visions” and demand obedience.

Paula Vennells, was the chief executive of the Post Office as the number of false imprisonments rocketed.  She had not spent a working lifetime getting to know her colleagues. She had flitted between  Unilever, L'Oréal, Dixons Retail, Argos, Whitbread, the Cabinet Office and the Anglican Church.

If the people at the top of organisations cannot know all they need to know, and if their subordinates know they must suck up to the boss and tell him what he wants to hear rather than what he needs to hear, then you have miniature versions of Vladimir Putin’s Russia where no one dares contradict the big boss.

The type of people who thrive in these conditions are, frankly, psychopaths. By which I do not mean mass murderers but egomaniacs with no capacity for empathy or remorse.

According to a study dating back to 2010, there were at least three times as many psychopaths in executive or CEO roles than in the overall population. More recent data estimated that psychopaths filled 20 percent of executive posts

The Dutch management scholar and psychoanalyst Manfred F.R. Kets de Vries described managers who were

“Outwardly normal, apparently successful and charming, [but] their inner lack of empathy, shame, guilt, or remorse, has serious interpersonal repercussions, and can destroy organizations. Their great adaptive qualities mean they often reach top executive positions, especially in organizations that appreciate impression management, corporate gamesmanship, risk taking, coolness under pressure, domination, competitiveness, and assertiveness. The ease with which [they] rise to the top raises the question whether the design of some organizations makes them a natural home for psychopathic individuals.”

Shareholders may think that psychopath bosses will benefit them by keeping the profits flowing. As one business theorist put it in 2022

“Being a CEO or in a position of true power requires certain skills and abilities that psychopaths exhibit with ease. Making objective, clinical decisions entirely void of emotion, planning meticulously and in great detail, being patient, restless and confident, having a need to be in control… are all characteristics that psychopaths and prominent leaders share.”

And it is true that I have never heard of a CEO or head of HR refusing to fire subordinates because they could not bring themselves to ruin the lives of people less fortunate than themselves.

For all the talk about woke corporations and management diversity and inclusion initiatives, when it comes to mass sackings the new boss is much the same as the old boss. And you can see why that might please the shareholders.

Chris Dillow explains it thus

“People who are unusually concerned with status and power are precisely those who aim for the top of hierarchies (whereas many others of us just want to get on with our jobs), and psychopaths' superficial charm and fluency appeals to hirers. As David Allen Green says, "the likes of Paula Vennells are always with us and will always somehow obtain senior positions." This is consistent with a finding by Luigi Zingales and colleagues, that a lot more corporate fraud occurs than is actually detected. What's more, companies also select for over-confidence as they mistake ‘competence cues’ - the right body language or the illusion of knowledge - for actual ability. (All this might also apply to politics).”

You might think shareholders have nothing to complain about because vicious management protects dividends. But, as I have seen happen many times in the media, brutal managers can destroy businesses.

Chris explained the tension

“Often a company needs to cut costs and a psychopath who doesn't care about making people redundant, might be better at cutting costs than someone who's more empathetic. On other hand, we know that, psychopathic tendencies, can be very corrosive to an organization because it leads to managers who don't listen, managers who are so determined to make cuts to their organization that they end up cutting not just the fat, as they like to think, but, but cutting the meat and the muscle as well.”

If you listen to the podcast, you will hear a long discussion on why checks and balances don’t work. In theory shareholders are in control. In practice, as economists have recognised since the 19th century, they do not have day to day power. Managers can enrich themselves and follow disastrous policies without being stopped.

In the case of the Post Office, all checks and balances failed including, and most ominously, the checks of the legal system.

Dismal though that picture is, I will not end with it. One point that is not made often enough is that today’s full employment in the UK and the US is freeing workers. People who are stuck in terrible organisations with psycho bosses can just walk out and w​alk into other jobs.

Full employment is not high up on progressive wish lists. But for millions it is a liberation.

[buzzdixonwriter]

AI-ssues

I keep starting this post, and reality keeps overtaking it, so I’m hoping what I write remains pertinent by the time you read it.

As far as the issue of so-called AI “creativity” (art / music / writing) is concerned, the genie not merely escaped the bottle but the bottle got sent to the recycling plant and converted into a cell phone.

Sold by the genie.

AI is here now and there’s no dodging that fact.  It won’t go away, it isn’t going to collapse the way cryptocurrency and NFTs collapsed.

(Actually, what collapsed was speculation in cryptocurrency and NFTs; the underlying blockchain technology that made them possible is still being used by banks and businesses in a non-speculative manner.)

AI already impacts us (i.e., both the public at large and creators in particular) so we might as well look at the implications.

AI devalues talent, skill, and knowledge

When asked, I tell people I can be considered an artist only insofar as I put marks on paper and a cartoonist only insofar as people can guess what those marks represent.

What I lack in skill and talent, however, I somewhat compensate for by learning from far better artists who demonstrated what makes certain artistic approaches better than others in given situations.

That makes me a pretty fair art editor because I can identify a problem on a page or in an illustration and explain it well enough for the artist to correct.

This is different from telling AI, “No, do it again.”

A human artist working for an AI prompt taskmaster would go insane, effort after effort rejected, being told to try and try again until the boss is happy.

That actually happened when I first started working at Ruby-Spears Productions.  Joe Ruby bounced scripts back with nothing more detailed than FIX -- MAKE BETTER scrawled in red ink on the cover sheet.

AI creativity lowers the bar for human beings in all fields.

In fact, it lowers it so far as to make it flush with the floor.

Many AI prompters suffer the same mindset as the various suits we needed to deal with when creating shows.

People with the ability to veto, but a complete lack of vision to steer a project or the competency to course correct if needed.

And I’ll repeat what I’ve said elsewhere: I have no objection to AI creativity as a toy or a game, or using AI to fill in blank spots in a human executed project.

But as been demonstrated, AI doesn’t even require human beings to create finished product from scratch, not even to the most rudimentary point of coming up with a basic idea.

Not all people dream or imagine equally. 

A significant portion of the population can’t mentally visualize anything.

Ask them to think of a horse and they can’t picture the animal in their head.

Most other humans conjure up some vague image of a horse, anything from a faint hazy outline or a somewhat cartoony image, but some can imagine a horse in photographic detail.

The same applies to all other human creative endeavors.

We are not all equal in the distribution of talent or the mastery of skills.

One can make the argument this is unfair, and from one perspective that’s true.

But eradicating all minimum standards may not unleash human creativity so much as hamper it.

For a big part of the 20th century, people presumed everyone dreamed in black and white.

Turns out this was a direct result of humanity adapting motion pictures and television as a primary for of visual input.

Until the late 1950s, most motion pictures released in the world were shot in black and white.

Color television didn’t become prevalent until the late 1960s / early 1970s.

For much of humanity, their dreams became limited by what they saw.

AI imagery may very well shape our culture in ways we cannot comprehend at this moment, not just in obvious ways such as subtle commercials and product placement, but in how we process what we view in the world around us.

AI images don’t merely devalue human talents and skills, by “creating” based solely on what has been done before, it undermines the development of new ideas and modes of expression.

Currently the most popular music of Spotify was recorded over 20 years ago.

The market for new music shrank when people could begin accessing anything they wanted whenever they wanted it.

The business model that made the promotion of new music profitable is being done in by an audience who only wants to hear what they always heard.

The same applies to films and other forms of creativity.

The financial model for film makers is currently best served by endless sequels / remakes / ripoffs.

It is possible to make a feature length film for just a few hundred dollars using iPhone technology and apps, but except for streaming services like YouTube or PornHub, very difficult to make enough to break even.

Mind you, in very many ways this is a good thing, return creativity to its amateur status, motivate by the desire to express ideas and moods, not to earn enough to live on.

But that’s the rub, ain’t it?  How do we keep creative people creating and not wasting their time laboring for pennies on non-creative / non-productive on schlub work that does no one any good?

(And bit by bit the schlub work jobs will get replaced by AI as well, so what do we do then?  Marx may get the last laugh after all.)

AI devalues identity

One huge problem racing towards the major corporations like a runaway freight train powered by Saturn 5 boosters remains the issue of copyright / trademarks / fair use.

If I draw a cartoon of Mickey Mouse making a satirical statement of some sort, I can get away with it under what’s commonly considered “fair use”; i.e., the right of any creator to comment on the work of another creator in what is called a “transformative manner.”

That’s what I do with my illustration fictoids:  I take old advertising / pulp magazine / comic book / etc. illustrations and add (hopefully) funny captions to them, typically changing or subverting the meaning of the original. 

This is what MAD magazine did with their famous movie and song satires.

It’s what porn does when they release XXX-rated versions of hit films.

It’s what Weird Al does when he parodies pop music.

It’s long been considered a legitimate artistic / creative expression -- only it’s never been fully vetted in court!

Nobody ever officially drew the line.

Disney infamously went after the Air Pirates -- a scruffy band of underground comix artists in the early 1970s -- when they released their second Mickey Mouse comic book parody.

The House of Mouse claimed once was fair usage, but twice infringed on their copyright and trademark, and they subsequently prevailed in court.

But even though they won a substantial punitive penalty against the Air Pirates, the House of Mouse didn’t dare collect because over 80 other underground comix artists vowed to do their own one-shot parodies of Mickey if Disney didn’t let the Air Pirates off the hook.

Rather than endure a tsunami of Mouse-related porn parodies, Disney agreed not to collect on the legal judgment  against the Air Pirates.

If 80 scruffy underground cartoonists could intimidate the House of Mouse, how can they stand against literally millions of AI prompters?

AI devalues emotion

AI images aren’t created by cutting and pasting elements of different works together.

Rather, it analyzes a vast repository of images and breaks them down into different categories representing different values.

A picture of a banana, for example, contains information of the shape of a banana, the color, the surface texture, etc., etc., and of course, etc.

And not just simple basics like “bananas are yellow” but exactly which shades of yellow, the hues as it ripens and rots, and enormous number of distinctive informational bits that AI can breakdown faster than a human being could.

Prompt AI to do something different with it -- “Show me a five day old pink banana” -- and it will search and combine all those elements with the new required information.

A creative human mind does exactly the same thing, only it seems instinctual in comparison because we do not break down every image we encounter into hundreds of distinct data points even though we recognize those data points subconsciously.

This is where human emotion adds value to a work.

The challenge for the trademark owners cited above is that in its sampling, AI can take all the elements that make a trademark or brand identity recognizable yet put them together in a manner that differs enough from the original that make infringement difficult to prove.

AI can issue an endless stream of knockoffs in blinding fast fashion, easily overwhelming and subverting the original IP’s identity and value.

Currently AI never responds twice to the exact same prompt with identical output.

This is a bug that will be addressed shortly; you want the ability to stay on model from iteration to iteration.  Coming up with the ability to say to AI “take this particular character and have them ride this particular bicycle down this particular street” will make sequential story telling far easier.

Right now AI images -- regardless of apparent skill level -- are as artistic as a Rorschach ink blot.

As one wag observed when astronomer Percival Lowell and others claimed to find canals on Mars, the canals were doubtlessly the product of intelligent beings, the real question resting on which end of the telescope those beings sat.

As noted above, AI deals card until it delivers a perfect hand.  Each card in and of itself is no different in value than any other card in the deck.

From AI’s point of view, 52 jokers are no different than a regulation deck.

The value of any 5 cards rests entirely upon the value human beings place upon it.

Different games with different rules present different values, even when using the same deck of cards.

In many ways, AI images -- and stories, and music -- are no different from those mass produced paintings one finds in home décor stores.

“Oh, look at that one, with the nice big orange sunset.  That will go just lovely against our teal living room wall.”

There’s nothing wrong with that, you’re certainly entitled to decorate your home in a manner that pleases you.

But there’s nothing unique about it, either.

AI is the 21st century version of Bob Ross 

It’s fun, it produces pleasing works, it gives the minimally talented and woefully underskilled a chance to feel creative.

But it ain’t art.

Bob Ross deservedly stands out today as a popular pop culture icon, but I challenge anyone to name a single painting of his that’s memorable on its own.

Those paintings of his that sell to collectors do so as artefacts of the man, not as works worthy on their own.

AI can do many things well, but they’re all surface, not substance.

It has a brain…

…but no heart.

 © Buzz Dixon

[nad-zeta]

Mitsuhide- Mealtime Mayhem

Fandom: Ikesen

Pairings: Mitsuhide x Reader

Genre: Fluffffff

Words: 1700+

Comments: Eeeeep HAPPY BIRTHDAY MINEKO!!!! Whooop Whooop! //dances around ❤❤Hope you have the best day! ❤😳🥺! 🥺😳❤🌈 @mineko811

.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’･ﾟ｡.*:・’ﾟ: ｡.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ

You reached for the doorknob of your shared apartment, key turning slowly as you went to step inside. Feet aching after the long day at work, you passed through the doorway, excited to greet your lover but instead being met with a puff of white smoke. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth as a cough ripped through your chest. You dared to trudge deeper into the apartment, kicking your heels off and leaving the door ajar— in hopes that the smoke would disperse to hopefully at least restore some of your vision.

You felt around the room blindly, cautiously walking to avoid stubbing your unsuspecting toes against any chair legs or counter corners.

You spotted him there— amid the smoke— white hair blending in all so perfectly. That dense mist-like smoke creating an eerie feel of mystery and danger, perfect to disguise the mischievous fox within. You couldn’t help but think it suited him.

You sauntered up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and standing up onto the very top of your tippy toes to peek over his shoulder to see the absolute disaster he was creating. “Whatcha making there love?” you asked curiously, giving him a loving peck on the cheek.

Mitsuhide turned around, a snakelike smile plastered across his features as if there was nothing out of the ordinary— as if he wasn’t there setting your house on fire with his culinary train smash.

He expertly evaded the question— master of avoidance and deception— or so he liked to claim—standing in front of the smoking mess, to shield it from your prying eyes. “Welcome home, my dearest mouse,” he beamed, holding your cheeks hostage between his hands to keep your eyes focused solely on him.

To humour him or not to humour him, that is the question?

Making your choice, you ducked down around him, shaking your head at the scene in front of you. “What in the world? Are you trying to imitate your latest investigation?” you teased, shooting him a playful little grin over your shoulder.

“It’s nothing to be concerned with, my dearest; now pray tell how your day has been,” he hummed out, trying once more to distract you with hands falling onto your hips, nuzzling his nose against you lovingly.

“My day,” you started, sparing the dodgy pan a final glance before turning to shrug off your coat as you took up residence atop a nearby kitchen counter. “ Was busy as usual, nothing to write home about,” you reported nonchalantly.

It was a long and tedious day, filled with the usual work, politics and chaos, certainly not the most ideal way you wanted to spend your birthday. On the contrary, you wanted nothing more than to spend your birthday at home, with Mitsu. Guilt tugged at your heart when you thought back to the morning— being greeted with soft cuddles and golden eyes filled with a dazzling glint of excitement at the prospect of a day off. He rarely got time off, and your heart sank even further, knowing the amount of effort and strings that needed to be pulled to allow it. Yet alas, the universe had different plans for you, as shortly after hearing out all the thrilling plans he had made, you had gotten a call summoning you into work.

“Whiskey?” you sighed out, breaking the comfortable silence that fell between the two of you. Without waiting for an answer, you reach across the counter to take hold of the whiskey bottle and two glasses. You poured the golden liquid into the glasses, adding a few ice cubes before holding one out towards Mitsuhide.

“My, are you certain you would not like to write home about your day? The stiff drink certainly is telling, mouse”, he teased with amusement and hints of concern, swishing the knife in the air casually before cutting up some onions and throwing it with the unidentified contents of the still smoking pan.

“Would you write back if I do,” you met his tease with a tired smile, handing him his drink and clicking your glass with his.

Mitsuhide simply shook his head, chuckling while taking a sip of the golden rye. “If your heart desires it, little one, now wash up. Dinner shall be ready momentarily,” he nodded, turning back the pan and adding some water from the kettle with brows furrowed in concentration, causing even more smoke to rise up.

You hummed contently, hopping off the counter, changing from your work clothes into your PJs— not wanting to linger too long; after all, you did want a kitchen to come back to. You crossed the threshold of the dining room only to see Mitsuhide set out two bowls onto the dining table with a proud smirk plastered across his face.

You swallowed, preparing yourself for the horror that was the meal you were to eat. Making your way closer, you inspected the bowl of goo with wide eyes. “So what do we have on the menu tonight chef,“ you asked, slipping into your seat—hoping to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

Mitsuhide shrugged and booped your nose in response, “just a simple meal made with love.”

You hummed, picking up a fork —ooh, you could not bring it over your heart to take a bite— so instead, you just moved the food around in the bowl like a fussy child at dinner time.

“Gracious, you’re not even touching your food, my love. Here, shall I help you.”

He scooped up a healthy helping of the sludge-like substance onto a spoon and held it out for you to taste. Your lips pursed, eyes narrowing at its contents. What in the 7 hells was this supposed to be? He brought the spoon closer to your lips, leaning forward to rest his chin on his other hand.

“Come now, little one, how are you to grow into a mighty mouse if you don’t eat the special birthday meal your husband lovingly prepared for you, hmm."

“I don’t think I will grow at all if I eat that; if anything, I think death will be imminent,” you quipped back.

“My my, how you wound me so, if you keep rejecting me, I may very well just burst into tears,” Mitsuhide sighed out dramatically, bringing his hand over his heart in mock hurt— yet the way his golden eyes shone told you he was anything but hurt.

“Fine! Fine!” you finally huffed out, turning your face back, wrapping your hand around his to bring the spoon to your mouth. Only a little taste, you thought with a gulp. You stopped short of your lips, praying to any and every god that you would be spared from the horrors of food poisoning.

Oh, how he tried, it warmed your heart, really it did, but the culinary genius inside you was screaming. Finally, you closed your lips around the spoon, letting the flavours coat your tongue; whatever it was, it was beyond fixing, so much so that you could almost hear Gordon Ramsay’s comments of the meal echoing in your head. Of course, the texture would be fine, Mitsuhide could execute that part well enough, but the taste, GOD, the flavour was a dead giveaway of a certain someone’s taste or rather lack thereof.

You swallowed the contents, trying to school your features into a carefree smile, only the delicate muscles of your face had not gotten the memo, instead pulling into a sour, scrunched up expression. “Mmm, this is great,” you managed to get out, sounding far less sincere than you had meant it to.

Mitsuhide, on the other hand, burst into a fit of cackling laughter. You realized then, you had been played. The cackling continued even after you narrowed your eyes, sending him an icy glare,” oh dearest, this is precisely why I love teasing you so.”

You crossed your arms and turned your face away with a ‘Hmpf.’

He tried to get your attention, but each time you turned away with a huff. “Has a cat caught my darling wife’s tongue,” came the amused words from the man you loved so dearly as he curled a stray lock of your hair around his fingers.

You dared to cautiously sneak a glance at him, only to see a broad grin littered with mischief. You quickly turned your face away once more, fearing he might see straight past your pouting facade. With mischief marrying his eyes, his hands moved toward your sides to tickle you mercilessly, “perhaps I shall use my skills as a detective to get you talking.”

You held out as long as you could, but the ticklish sensation caused laughter to bubble from your chest, “M-Mitsu s-stop, -stop,” uncontrollable laughter wasn’t the only sound to file into the room as your stomach let go of a large growl in hunger.

Of course, you had not eaten all day and, that, whatever it was, was less than satisfying to the taste buds.

Mitsuhide continued to chuckle as he shook his head, pulling out his phone to give it a sparring glance, “truly you amuse me to no end, my love.”

He leaned forward to kiss the tip of your nose while gracefully swooping up the unfinished bowl of goop. Taking elegant strides back to the kitchen, he shot you a smile from over his shoulder, “the pizza should be here soon,” the confession finally came.

Jumping from your seat, you ran after him. “You massive troll!” you accused, rolling your eyes and reclaiming your spot on the countertop to wait for the ACTUAL food to arrive while watching him clean his mess.

“How you flatter me so,” he purred out, slithering closer to you. That earned him another roll of the eyes, yet, you still found yourself inching closer to rest your forehead against his as you exchanged loving smiles. He met your soft lips in a fleeting kiss, then, hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.

“Happy birthday, my dearest,” was all he said, planting one more kiss onto your lips. You felt him slip something into your hair, and before you could question, his phone rang, causing him to turn on his heel and attend to it.

With a dazzling smile, you gazed upon the bellflower pin he had placed into your hair. His features softened as he matched your smile with one full of love for you. One thing was for sure, Mitsuhide may be an incorrigible tease, but you knew when it came down to it, he loved you with all his heart.

[sneezefiction]

please don’t go

Ushijima x Reader - Scenario

@moonlightaangel‘s event request: “congrats on reaching 600 followers!! �� can i request ‘please don’t go’ with ushijima, if it hasn’t been requested yet! i need some angsty feelings in my life”

a/n: mmmm angsty Ushijima is my aesthetic :,,)) i also messed around with some flashback formatting, so i hope you enjoy!!

warnings: angst, breakups

wc: 1640

---

“Please don’t go.” It’s a soft, tearful whisper.

“I thought you would understand, y/n. We had established this.” His reply was blunt. Like a dull knife to the chest, digging deeply only to pull right back out, leaving you gushing and writhing at his words.

“Please don’t.” Your cry reached his ears this time.

“I need to focus.” He sighs, twinging with guilt. 

Why didn’t you understand? Had you not known that his career would come first? Above everything else?

Or had he misspoken at some point, giving you the false assurance that this relationship would work forever? That he could always treat you as though it were possible to balance both you and his life’s work.

“Then I won’t distract you! Just don’t leave me. Please.” You begged, knees painfully falling to the cold floor, but your cries fell on deaf ears. 

He remains resistant to change. Without accommodations. Nothing left to give or take.

“Maybe someday, y/n. But this isn’t working out for me anymore. I have to leave for now.” Ushijima’s response is icy. 

He meant for those words to somehow be heartening. Promising, even. That maybe this was just the wrong time and place for a relationship. Where time could ebb and flow and someday he would be able to draw you back into his life.

Yes, there would be a day where you could take priority.

Because he wanted you… but not above his first love. Not above his skills and lifestyle. Not enough.

Volleyball comes first. Plain and simple.

And for that, he wouldn’t compromise.

---

White, crisp linens and fresh lemony scents.

Fluffed pillows fitted with new covers and soft patterns. Feather filled duvets. Curtains drawn to keep out the early morning light. 

Everything has stayed clean, clear, and Pristine. Even the dust particles, dancing around the room, have always seemed to find their own peace, settling mildly in gentle formations.

You sleepily blink open your eyes, rustling your arms over the bedspread to what should be a happier sight. Soft pillows hugging your sides, the gentle birdsong outside your window, a conceivably delicious cup of coffee to be made in the kitchen.

Yes, you should be filled with contentment. You were safe. Physically you were fine, and nothing was on your checklist for today.

In fact, things had appeared fine for months now...

Yet all you notice is who’s missing.

There’s no longer a delicate divet where his dozing head used to lay. The scent and shape of the pillow had only recently dissipated thanks to your citrusy laundry detergent and the slow passing of time.

You don’t awaken to a recently showered, olive-green eyed boyfriend. You could still picture the water droplets, hanging freshly on the tips of his tufts of hair. How the towel draped around his neck, over his shoulders, catching the drips and drops as they fell.

That warm smile he shared with you before placing a chaste kiss upon your forehead, caressing the side of your face. It was pure. You can almost feel the ghost of his lips. Still lingering. Mocking you.

You were liberated from his presence… but you never wanted to be.

Being absorbed in his chaotic life had kept you busy, but you had never minded it. There was never a doubt in your mind that volleyball would be his first priority. That he would follow his passions. His plans. His abilities.

You just wanted to tag along. To sincerely celebrate his victories and mourn his losses. Supporting him and holding onto him when he needed it. Yes, he got home late at night, left early in the morning, and only connected with you on his very few off days… but you cherished every second of it.

Because you loved him. You poured your soul into watching him flourish and thrive. It made you feel whole.

However, eventually, to Ushijima, you started to rival volleyball, becoming a distraction. He had made space for you in his already complicated life. And at first, it was a welcome change. A breath of fresh air to his methodical and planned out character. You were complex, bringing new perspective and sunshine into his typically boring apartment. Beautiful in a natural, yet eye-catching way. Furthermore, you somehow knew how to keep up with his hectic pace along with his gruff personality. 

In every aspect, you were perfect.

Expect one.

You were a diversion from the life he had in mind.

And even though you never pushed him to give you more… he longed to give you more of his attention. More time. To share his success with you. To love you deeper. To give you what you deserved. Because you are a profound being… and it burdened him to have to choose between his two greatest desires.

But, as most things do, these thoughts of love and devotion go unspoken, coming out all wrong. Mangled, unemotional, and misrepresented. Looking back, Ushijima wishes he’d been able to express it to you with empathy. To erase the tears that followed his brutal narrative. But softness isn’t his strong suit… and he needed you to know that, as powerful as he was, he wasn’t strong enough to balance you and volleyball.

---

“Ushijima, if you leave…” You take a deep breath, tears slipping down your face, “... you have to promise me you’ll never come back.” You choke out, your request came out in a sobering snarl.

For a moment, you question your own words- but your dignity was on the line.

“You can’t just break up with me and expect me to be there when you get back. I’m not disposable, you know?”

His body goes rigid. He hadn’t meant it that way.

You meant more to him than words could express… so why couldn’t he get it out clearly enough? How could he make you understand the gravity of his choices?

“...Y/n, it doesn’t have to be like that. I just need to concentrate right now.” The alarm, though subtle, shines in his eyes.

His usually composed, confident figure began to show cracks of uncertainty. He didn’t want you out of his life… Not at all.

He just needs you out of his mind for the time being. Just until he had things settled. You could come back at some point and he could love you so well. Just the way it was supposed to be.

But clearly he’d struck a deeper chord. He’d selfishly assumed you would wait for him. You weren’t some prized pony.

You’re a person. Someone with worth, plans, and dreams, just like him. He’d failed to acknowledge just how demeaning the truth of his actions were. But it’s too late.

You haven’t replied and the pain is etched intricately across your face.

“Okay, fine.” He breathes in deeply, letting out one final exhalation of defeat, “I... I’m sorry, y/n.” His brows furrow in deep, conflicted thought, but his mind is made.

He won’t be back.

---

Ushijima’s life hasn’t changed much.

It’s the same old routine. The standard, grueling workouts. Typical volleyball practice, group meetings, finances, paychecks, physicals, doctor’s appointments, fan meet-n-greets.

The usual.

But there’s a void settling like glacial frost in his soul. A snowy blue that seemed to melt into his bones, slowing him down.

He didn’t go a week… a day...  a minute without thinking of you.

Even now, lying in bed, the room cloaked in a tranquil darkness, you rest on his mind.

It’s not just the emptiness of the bed or the lack of physical touch. It’s the bitter, clawing memories of what he’d done to you and your gentle spirit. His body is frigid and forever frozen in the recurring visions of his foolish explanations, by how heartless and indifferent he’d seemed.

He’ll never get over the venomous tinge to your words.

You’d felt used.

He’d never meant to make you feel that way.

But since he moved out of your apartment, everything has felt glaringly hollow. The icy, barren tundra he crosses every time he realizes he won’t come home to your sunbeam smile and those thoughtfully lit candles, wears on him. How you would lavish him in comforting words, lulling him into a restful sleep.

Ushijima hardly remembers the last time he slept well.

Those dark circles under his eyes follow him everywhere. His whole team can see the exhaustion seeping into his execution of serves and spikes. He’s never struggled with his game performance before, but somehow the crashing reality of you leaving him has broken his patterns and systems.

He’s weary from searching for an answer to his emotions. Your warmth gave him life… and with that gone, what was the point of all of this?

And then it struck him, the realization sinking its needle-sharp claws into his soul, shredding it in seconds.

He’d found something far more valuable than any unique skill. More remarkable than the legacy he’d built as a world-class volleyball player. Someone who wanted to be with him just for the sake of… love.

And for the first time since he was young, he lets a tear slip into his white pillowcase.

Just one.

But it’s for you.

Because in chasing after what made him feel known and alive...

He’d lost the only person who had ever wanted to show him that he was important all along. The only person who was satisfied with his bizarre schedules. Someone who expected nothing more than gentle kisses and weekend dates.

But you were right.

You aren’t dispensable. Nor are you someone to drop for the purpose of picking up later, like loose change on a sidewalk. You deserved to be cherished. Held tightly. Given the love that you offered others.

He wishes he’d listened when you’d pleaded with him to stay. That he’d thought it through and functioned on more than just logic and reasoning. If only he’d known what it really meant to choose you.

Because if you were here now, he’d be the one begging,

“Please don’t go.”

---

tags: @cherryonigiri, @yams046, @kaidasen, @miss-rin

(comment or send an ask to be added to my general tag list) 

[perpetual-stories]

Character Archetypes: Part One

hello, hello! hopefully everyone had a wonderful week! I know a lot of people were / are excited for Shadow and Bone on Netflix.

I personally don’t care. I’m just happy I’m playing the Last of Us Part 2 after being so upset about the developers making play as ABBY. Ugh.

PLEASE DO NOT COMMENT OR MENTION TLOUP2 SPOILERS. I HAVE NOT FINISHED THE GAME.

I avoided spoilers for a whole year, I deserve to play the game at my own pace!

whew... sorry ya’ll idk what came over me.

anyways, without further ado let’s dive right in!

As mentioned in a post before:

archetype characters are archetypes or character types or emotions that are very familiar and recurrent across novels. these archetypes are known to create a sense of familiarity among the readers.

it allows the readers to relate to the characters or events without wondering why exactly they can relate.

Every character written in a story has a unique set of traits and characteristics that make them them. They have their own strengths, flaws, and desires which propels your story forward.

Yet despite the differences writers have for their characters, there are foundational and recurring strengths and flaws certain character types have.

That’s where archetypes come in:

1. The Hero / The Warrior:

the character who rises to the occasion and has a plan and of course saves the day.

they have a particular skill set and string will power.

they will conquer the enemy.

these characters often suffer a crisis of confidence at their lowest point.

strengths: Courage, strength (physical or mental), and ability, and honor.

weakness: overconfidence, hubris

examples: Achilles (The Iliad), Luke Skywalker (Star Wars), Wonder Woman (Wonder Woman), Harry Potter (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone), Hercules, Odysseus, Aragorn from Lord of the Rings

2. The Child / Innocent:

morally pure character, often seen as a child. only has good intentions.

often times, not always, the writer can make the child see the world through rose coloured tints until they don’t — facing reality.

of course they child / innocent doesn’t have to grow up. it’s up to the writer and the story they chose to tell.

strengths: Optimism, enthusiasm, imagination, morality, kindness, sincerity

weakness: Naivete, physical powerlessness, rarely skilled

desires: To be happy (or happier)

examples: Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird, Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, Tiny Tim (A Christmas Carol), Lennie Small (Of Mice and Men), Cio-Cio-san (Madame Butterfly), Buddy the Elf (Elf)

3. The Orphan:

these characters are plucked from obscurity and elevated to prominence.

these characters not always are orphans, but are in search of a “found family.”

strengths: Survival instinct, empathy, perseverance.

weakness: Lack of confidence, willingness to please others.

desires: To thrive and connect with others.

examples: Harry Potter, Oliver Twist, Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

4. The Creator:

is a character that is a motivated visionary who creates art or structures during the narrative.

nothing is more important than the need to make something.

in many — not all — the creator is willing to sacrifice their own well beings and relationships in pursuit of a greater goal.

their single minded vision often leads them to pay the price.

strengths: Creativity, drive, the ability to execute their vision,

weakness: self-involvement, single-mindedness, lack of practical skills, personal sacrifice, perfectionism,

desires: To create something of value to cement their legacy.

examples: Remy from Ratatouille, Alexander Hamilton from Hamilton, Dr Jekyll from Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Willy Wonka, Zeus (The Iliad), Dr. Emmett Brown (Back to the Future), Dr. Moreau (The Island of Dr. Moreau), Dr. Victor Frankenstein (Frankenstein)

5. The Caregiver:

A character who continually supports others and makes sacrifices on their behalf.

They might be a mother, father, wife, husband, or best friend — whoever they are, they’ll do anything to protect their child, ward, lover, or best bud.

It’s quite rare for the caregiver to take center stage but such is the nature of one so selfless.

strengths: Generosity, selflessness, honorable, loyal.

weakness: lacking personal ambition or leadership, also selflessness: they are open to exploitation.

desires: To protect and help others.

examples: Eva in We Need to Talk About Kevin, Samwise from The Lord of the Rings, Mary Poppins.

voila! here you go everyone! sorry for not posting for the last few days, I needed a break! and yes how rude of me to split this post in two, as I usually do.

like, comment and reblog if you find this useful! also feel free to follow me for part two! if you like to reblog on Instagram feel free! tag me at perpetualstories

Follow me on tumblr and Instagram for more writing and grammar tips and more!

[initiatejacopo]

º  .  ✣  ⸻   the  italian  renaissance  welcomes  JACOPO  AN  of  FLORENCE,  the  INITIATE  of  THE  ASSASSIN  BROTHERHOOD.  news  borne  by  ships  sends  word  that  he  bears  a  resemblance  to  PARK  YURI.  the  TWENTY  FOUR  year  old  CIS  MAN  is  reputed  to  be  PRUDENT  IN  ALL  THINGS  and  INSIGHTFUL  TO  THE  POINT  OF  UNCANNY,  but  with  papacy  spies  watching  their  every  move,  they  might  turn  out  to  be  CURIOUS  ENOUGH  TO  KILL  and  BELIEVES  THEMSELF  TO  BE  INFALLIABLE.

when  history  is  recorded,  the  documents  speak  of  SIDE EYE  AND  EYE  ROLLS  WITH  SILVER  SHARP  SMILES,  CRISP  BED   CORNERS  AND  FOLDED  CLOTHES,  THE  FUTILITY  AND  AGONY  OF  MAKING   YOURSELF  A  PALIMPSEST.  whispers  throughout  italy  claim  that  their  allegiance  lies  with  THE  BROTHERHOOD,  where  they  conspire  to  GRANT  THE  PEOPLE  OF  ITALY  FREEDOM  AND  SECURITY.

tldr below | about | timeline | statistics | connections

what up city slickers and country stompers! I’m Noah, just gone 24, I use all pronouns and I’m tragically based in the UK. i’m thrilled to start plotting and I invite u all into my DMs over on discord!

i’m here with best boy jacopo, a kid who’s realised his dad might not be always right after he started receiving visions. it’s been a wacky time, helping execute an assassin, running away from home, joining the assassins, offering to kill your dad for the assassins because you know they’re all gonna kill you if you don’t promise something big. rip to him i guess.

now he’s in the brotherhood, has been for just under a couple of months, probably still hasn’t even chopped off his own finger. he folds all his clothes and he perfectly does his bed and he shouldn’t be surprised at the lack of pure order but the amount of individuality around him is kinda overwhelming.

sure, he’s eager to survive, so he’s a little eager to please, a little too confident in his ability to always land on his feet. don’t be taken in by his wide eyes because his smile is sharp and his internal monologue is arrogant. he’s been called prodigy, he’s been called traitor, his pride has been shredded to smoke, and sometimes he talks like a man twice his age, but he’s cocky, desperate for acknowlegdment, and for affection.

 he’s also used to being a pretty big fish, known and respected, for both his name and his skill, but now he’s known and it’s definitely not with respect. he is also big on the creed, swore it and everything, but a lifetime of conditioning is hard to break. acting from the shadows in service of the light - he’s heard that tale spun before.

[gayestnerdsinfiction]

Pet Shenanigans

Jonathan had never been a good host. His grandmother would roll over in her grave if she knew just how awful he was at having other people in his home. The gene for Southern hospitality must have skipped a generation, because he was sorely lacking in that department. His cooking and cleaning skills were passable at best, and he saw little point in honing either. After all, he did not live with or for others. His home was his own, and he only bothered with the chores that he deemed necessary—and he deemed very few of them truly necessary.

But those days were over, and Jonathan had to learn how to play well with others again. He had to figure out how to exist around the space that his partner took up, which was no easy feat. Having Edward at his home had certainly been an exercise in hospitality, as the man demanded such a high level of care and attention from nearly everyone he encountered. Edward forced him into a role that he didn’t know how to execute, forced him to perfect a skill he had never valued. Because that was how he operated. If something was unsatisfactory, he would tinker and test until the thing in question was performing suitably. And, at this moment, Jonathan was the thing that needed molding, fixing.

“Jonathan,” Edward said sharply, placing himself directly in the other man’s field of vision so he could not be ignored. He was holding one of his many green blazers in his hands, knuckles white as he gripped the fabric.

Jonathan looked up from the book he’d been reading quite contentedly, frowning. “Edward,” he replied, matching his tone. “Do you need something?”

“What I need,” he snapped, “is for you to keep those rats of yours away from my belongings.”

“I don’t have rats,” he said pointedly. “Are you referring to the birds I acquaint myself with?

“I refuse to refer to those things as birds.”

“And why not?”

“Birds are pretty. They sing. They eat little insects that threaten our gardens.”

“I’m still not seeing the issue,” Jonathan said, gaze returning to the open page in front of him. “I believe crows fit that criteria.”

“They don’t sing, they squawk,” Edward countered. “And they leave those coarse, disgusting feathers all over the place. And I know they would pluck my eyes right out of the socket if I let them near enough. You can’t convince me those beasts would ever be satisfied with a diet of fruit flies and seeds.”

“You know,” Jonathan began, closing his book with a soft thud, “it sounds to me like you’re being racist.”

“Crows are not a race, Jonathan,” he said. “Ergo, I cannot be racist against them.”

“Speciesist, then.”

“Jonathan, can you please be serious about this?”

“About what, Edward?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. “You haven’t yet articulated what exactly the birds have done to inspire this diatribe.”

“Look!” he exclaimed, thrusting the green garment he was holding into Jonathan’s face. “Look what they did to my jacket!”

Indeed, several buttons had been plucked clean off the jacket, which was also sporting a few new threadbare spots. This explained the bright green threads that had been left lovingly on the windowsill for him. “Hm. Unfortunate,” he remarked flatly.

“That’s it?” Edward sputtered, his face turning its signature shade of red. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Well, I’m sorry, Edward, but they’re not exactly trained pets.” He shrugged. “Wild animals do wild things.”

“Don’t you see any issue with allowing wild animals into your home?”

“Well, I let you stay here, so—”

“God, you’re such a prick,” he huffed, cutting Jonathan off. “You snap your fingers and those vermin do whatever the fuck you want, and you can’t keep them from tearing up my clothes? You’ve got them bringing you stolen jewelry, for chrissakes!”

“I didn’t ask them to do that,” Jonathan retorted. “Anything they do for me is simply because I feed them and keep them clean. If that means I have inadvertently rewarded their behavior, then I suppose it’s just a simple feat of operant conditioning. But I’ve never taken any intentional measures to train them to do my bidding. Humans work better for that, I’ve found.”

“Well, could you please condition them so that they don’t attack the remainder of my wardrobe?” Edward asked tersely. “Is that possible, dear?”

Jonathan held his gaze, unfazed by Edward’s tone. “I’ll see what I can do,” was all he said in response.

Edward replied with an annoyed scoff, throwing the jacket down on an unoccupied armchair and storming out of the room. Jonathan returned to his book, having absolutely no intention of doing anything about this situation.

[zukoszukhoes]

Walking on Air- Prologue

Zuko x airbender!reader

female pronouns in this chapter

// summary: Sensing danger on the horizon, Avatar Roku seeks out an airbender to guide his reincarnated self on his journey to restore balance to the world. However, restoring balance requires skill, drive, and stability- and, in a world where nothing is certain, balance may be harder to achieve than the avatar may think. He has a mentor to guide him, but with the world thrown off-kilter by war and a mysterious prince set on capturing him, he- and his mentor- will have to look within to find what they need to secure peace.

// warnings: none

~~~

Roku always found the Western Air Temple beautiful.

The other air temples were certainly beautiful, but they were lonely, separated from the real world by a layer of clouds. The Western Air Temple, however, was open to the world, welcoming the sprawling canyon vegetation with open arms. Airbenders flew across the canyon, swooping through the air, utterly free. For many, that’s what the Air Temple was- freedom.

For a moment, Roku wished he could take a glider and join them. 

But he couldn’t. If there’s anything he had learned from years of being the avatar, it was that one’s duty was inescapable.

As Roku exited the council’s chamber alongside the Western Air Temple’s elder monks, he reminded himself that what he was about to do was a part of that duty. He was making a sacrifice for the greater good; yet, he couldn’t help but think of the girl the same way he thought of his own daughter- and as a parent, he’d view what he was about to do as nothing short of murder.

“She’s over there,” the Elder Monk Ilo said solemnly, nodding towards a girl sparring against two other air benders towards the edge of the temple’s main courtyard. “I’ll leave you to speak with her.”

“I’ll let her play a while longer, before she cannot be a child anymore,” the old avatar thought, watching the girl engage with her opponents.

The girl had large, grey eyes and rosy lips pulled back in a sly grin. Blue Airbender tattoos poked out from beneath her training uniform. She laughed as she fought, playfully dodging attacks from two other young airbenders. Although she was poised to defend herself, she held her body loosely and with ease, as though she was merely playing a game. 

One of her opponents, a young bald boy, shot an arc of air towards the girl’s feet. He didn’t have his tattoos, but he attacked with a deftness that suggested he had skill. The girl leapt high in the air and flipped to land behind the boy, who she quickly pushed down with a gust of wind. She grinned, triumphant, but her smile quickly disappeared when her other opponent used the force of her body to shove the girl off of the boy. The girl stumbled and fell to one knee. Scrambling to her feet, she put her hands in front of her to defend herself, only to find herself cornered on the edge of the temple by her two attackers. She watched her opponents for a moment, studying their body language. Sensing a slight movement in the female attacker’s stance, the girl moved her arms around her torso and sent wind slicing towards the other girl. Instantly, the attacker jumped to dodge the blow, and retaliated with a blast of wind that shot straight into the girl’s chest, making her lose her balance and stumble off the edge of the temple.

Roku’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move to save the girl. Her two opponents grinned and high-fived, turning away from the edge. Roku kept his eyes trained on the edge of the temple, sensing the fight wasn’t over yet.

And, as if conjured by his thoughts, the girl shot back up into view, surrounded by a swirling tornado that kept her suspended in the air. The other young air benders cried out in shock and stumbled away from the edge. The girl surged forward and pushed the tornado outwards, sending her opponents flying into the central fountain. Smiling at her victory, she lowered herself to the ground gingerly, and went to lend a hand to the two air benders.

“We were so close,” the female opponent moaned, wiping her soaking hair from her face.

“We technically won! We knocked her off the temple!” The boy grouched. “If it was a water bender they wouldn’t have come back up.”

“I played by the rules,” the winning girl said as she approached the fountain. She reached down and wrapped her hand around the boy’s forearm, hauling him out of the water. 

“You cheated,” the boy grumbled. He pressed his fists together and a ball of air flew outwards from him, splattering the girl with water from his clothes. She made a face of disgust.

“I guess I deserved that,” she muttered.

Roku approached the girl, knowing he had to end the pleasant scene before him but dreading it nonetheless. “(y/n),” he spoke.

The girl turned, surprised. She looked Roku up and down and raised an eyebrow ever-so-slightly, obviously confused by his Fire Nation clothing. “That’s me,” she replied. “And who are you?”

“My name is Avatar Roku. May I speak with you for a moment?”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened. “Avatar Roku- I didn’t know it was you-”

“There’s no need for apologies, dear girl.” Roku said calmly. 

The girl- (y/n)- bowed deeply. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”

“You as well. Do you have a moment?”

(Y/N) nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Good. Come with me.” Roku turned and began to walk back towards the inner chambers of the temple. (Y/N) hesitated for a moment, but quickly caught up to Roku and fell into step beside him.

“What brings you to the Western Air Temple, Avatar?” (Y/N) asked, her carefully measured voice failing to hide to slight tremor of fear in her tone.

Roku glanced down at the girl, again feeling shame in his chest for what he was about to ask. “You,” he replied simply.

(Y/N) blanched, taken aback. “Me?”

Roku stopped walking. Looking out at the canyon and its vast chasm, he was reminded of his days as a young avatar, when he trained at the Southern Air Temple. Life was so peaceful, as it should be in childhood. Roku took a slow, deep breath, savoring the mountain air.

“Avatar Roku?” (Y/N) asked tentatively.

Keeping his eyes on the rocky canyon, Roku started, “You are an excellent fighter, (Y/N), but you are too tethered to the material world. You lack the lightness needed to become an expert.”

(Y/N) frowned. “Excuse me?”

Roku glanced at the girl from the corner of his eye. “I’m correct, am I not?”

(Y/N) looked away, shame coloring her features. “The monks keep telling me I need to let go of the world to be a true Airbender. But I can’t let go.” She looked up at Roku. “I don’t think the way they do. I don’t think attachment is a weakness.”

Roku nodded. Yes, the monks had picked well. “Sometimes, our shortcomings can be our greatest strengths.”

The girl paused, eyes narrowing. “Why did the monks send you to speak with me?”

Yes, she was certainly observant. He took a deep breath, knowing he couldn’t put off the truth any longer.

“I have lived a long, full life, of which I am grateful for. However, as my time comes to an end, I worry about the challenges I am leaving behind for my future self,” he looked at the girl, reading the confusion in her eyes. “I sense bad things coming in the future. Something is going to throw the world out of balance- and I won’t be here to stop it.”

“What kind of things?” (Y/N) asked, her body tensing.

Roku’s eyes hardened. “A war is coming, (Y/N). One that is going to wipe out the Air Nomads. I will try my best to stop it, but I may be gone when I am needed most.”

(Y/N)’s face was white as a sheet. “How do you know? What does this have to do with me?”

“I received a vision warning me of this war and the implications it would have for the next avatar. I’m afraid the next avatar will be the last of his kind when he returns to restore balance. He will need guidance to realize his full potential. It brings me great pain to ask you to do this, (Y/N), but it needs to be done. For the avatar’s sake- for the world’s sake,” he met the girl’s gaze. “In one hundred and twelve years, the avatar will arrive at the North Pole to master water bending. When he does, you will be there to help him achieve his destiny.”

(Y/N) looked up at Roku with wide eyes, fear echoed inside of them. The carefree girl he’d seen just moments before was gone, replaced with someone having to become an adult in a matter of seconds. “What do you mean?” she whispered, voice quavering. 

“Being an avatar, one is constantly faced with choices they may not be equipped to handle. The next avatar will need someone who understands the importance of duty to help him make those choices and restore balance to the world. I believe you are best equipped to be that guide. If you agree, I will escort you to the Northern Water Tribe, where you will be put into a deep sleep until the avatar arrives. When the avatar reaches the North Pole, you will be woken from your sleep and sent with him to complete his training.” Roku said.

(y/n) gaped up at Roku. “Why me? Why not someone else?” She whispered.

“The monks recommended you to me for your great skill in air bending and your ties to the material world. The next avatar will need to be reminded that he can never be truly immaterial- his sole duty is to the world, not his own spirituality. You, with your understanding of the concept, will help him comprehend and execute his ow duty.”

“But what about my life here?” (Y/N) blurted out. “My friends? My family? My training?”

“You will have to leave them behind,” Roku said, hanging his head in shame.

The girl looked past Roku out at the canyon, eyes skimming over the stone temple. Her face hardened. “Do I have a choice?” She asked, her voice stony.

“We always have a choice,” Roku said. “It’s just a matter of making the right one.”

(Y/n) looked away. “The monks chose me for this,” she murmured. “They chose me.”

Roku stayed silent, letting the girl take her time. She was making a life-altering decision- one that would change her path forever- and she deserved a moment to think about it.

(Y/n)‘a shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. Then, the girl turned, eyes full of determination. “I’ll do it.”

Roku nodded solemnly. “It’s a long journey to the North Pole. We’ll be leaving tonight. Pack your things and meet me in the Hall of Status’s tonight.”

(Y/n) nodded and bowed. “Thank you, Avatar Roku.”

Roku bowed back, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty at her thanks. He was taking her whole life away from her. Nevertheless, he let her go to collect her things and say her goodbyes. It would be a long time before she saw a familiar face again, and she would need a few moments of hope to propel her through what lay ahead.

[pkg4mumtown]

Signs of Attachment - Ch. 2

Summary: Having an auditory processing disorder never slowed you down, but it mean you were confined to the Temple when the Clone Wars started. Will the frustration of not understanding people at times make for a rather lonely existence?

Chapter 1

Pairing: Obi-Wan/Reader (Gender Neutral)

Rating: G (for now)

Warnings: Hard of Hearing Reader, Fluff, Gender Neutral Reader

Taglist: @trash-dino-5000

A/N: Thank you to everyone who’s read and been super kind so far!!

Just a reminder:

“Text.” Means someone is speaking.

“Text.” Means someone is speaking and signing.

Text, Means someone is signing.

Chapter 2 - Challenge Each Other

Over the next few days, I mysteriously started seeing Obi-Wan more and more. Thankfully, not because he was continually being injured, but on my route to the Halls of Healing in the morning. I’d never come across him on my journey before, surely I would have remembered his face among the other Jedi I normally see on my route.

I had first noticed him a couple days after his healing, his bright auburn hair standing out in a crowd. I paid him no mind, though, thinking he just happened to be passing through to a different part of the temple. It wasn’t until I saw a hand flapping up and down and a distant call of my name that I realized Obi-Wan was much closer to me now. It was easy to lose his signature, which I was not entirely familiar with despite having my own force so intertwined with him during the healing, amongst the crowd of Jedi. His face brightened as I finally laid eyes on him, his stride slowing considerably so as not to pass too quickly. Before I could wonder why he was so intent on staying in front of me, he surprised me.

Good morning, Obi-Wan signed slightly clumsily but the sign was right nonetheless.

An echo of his voice saying, “Good Morning, Y/N,” floated through the sea of chatting Jedi, noisy boots, and giggling Padawans. His smile at my shocked face barely registered before he was picking up his stride again and disappearing into the crowd.

This continued every morning that he was at the temple, allowing me time to discern his signature and become familiar with it. I could feel when the crowd was missing just that bit of extra brightness and serenity. After the first time, my shock wore away and I had the brain capacity to respond.

Good morning, he signed rather smugly.

Good morning, how are you? I signed back, delighting when he had no idea how to respond. It was only a few more signs but to a beginner, it was a lot. You need to keep studying, I smirked and left him there in the walkway.

Obi-Wan did just that, signing something different every day and impressing me to no end. Was the Council slacking on his missions? This man had far too much time on his hands to be learning a whole new language on top of the ones he already knew. Clearly, his Padawan was picking up a few signs as well, because when I would see both of them together, Anakin always signed a quick greeting accompanied by a knowing smile.

Months passed and I almost envied how well Obi-Wan was taking to BSL because he was just so good at everything. He would stop by when he was at the temple to brush up on his conversational skills with me or ask for pointers or help. I tried not to speak when I was helping him so he wouldn’t rely on speech to translate what I had signed. His nose would scrunch when I laughed at him for a messed-up sign, but I always helped him after or demonstrated. He was a perfectionist to say the least.

I packed away my data pad, making sure the rest of the examination room was in order before leaving the Halls of Healing for the day. I felt Ob-Wan’s force signature moving quickly in my direction, only for him to be right outside the door as I was ready to walk out.

“Obi-Wan,” I nodded at him, stepping out and round him, What can I do for you?

“Sparring? I wanted to show my Padawan that the rumors of you were true,” Obi-Wan smirked, falling into speaking and signing, which he had picked up from me when he saw me having a conversation with Master Plo.

“Like a glorified party trick, Master Kenobi? I’m offended,” I knocked my shoulder against his as we had started walking and I could no longer see his signs.

“Don’t pretend like you won’t enjoy it,” Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. He had caught me training with my ears covered and a training mask on one morning with droids, with me seemingly unaware of the crowd I had amassed but he knew I could feel all the signatures around me gathering to watch.

“I wasn’t going to deny that part, Obi-Wan, but who will I be fighting?”

“Me,” he revealed arrogantly and strode ahead of me.

When we reached the salle that Anakin was in, I deposited my belongings and strode over to the stored equipment.

“Training sabers?” I asked Obi-Wan over my shoulder.

“It would ease my mind considerably,” he spoke and signed in case I couldn’t quite hear him.

“Scaredy loth-cat,” I called back.

Rude, he replied.

“My old Master uses the same form as you, Anakin, so naturally I learned it, too. I’ll use it here so you can see how you, too, can blindly defeat Master Kenobi,” I smirked, placing ear plugs in before Anakin could respond.

Arrogance already? Obi-Wan shook his head.

Pulled the training helmet over my head, not closing the visor yet, so I could still see.

It’s called confidence. See you soon, I smirked and slapped the visor down over my eyes.

With my vision cut off, I took a deep, calming breath and felt out with the force. I suppose it could be compared to Obi-Wan's battle meditation that I’d heard spoken about recently, but with a lack of certain senses. I had started training this way as a Padawan, when Master Plo discovered how much my disorder confused me as I fought. It started with ear plugs and graduated to both ear plugs and a training helmet by the time I was an adult. I could see Obi-Wan through the force, not quite exactly how he looks with my eyes, but his overall shape and signature flaring out from him, with his training saber as an extension of that. That, along with the force guiding me, allowed me to fight as if nothing was wrong and, in some cases, better than if I wasn’t blinded because of all of the visual distractions.

I ignited my own training saber and dropped into the starting stance for Form V, while he automatically dropped into Form III. With a nod from me, we started circling one another. I attacked first, wanting to get a feel for his form. While I had studied about it, I had never fought anyone who used it. He blocked every hit with ease, as was expected, and I knew I had to be careful because he could block all day with this form.

Obi-Wan would have to attack at some point, so I tried to bait him into it, not an easy task but it was easier than tiring myself out against his defense. Finally, when he did attack, he took a few quick steps forward so I let my saber go long enough to tug him forward with the force. He stumbled, allowing me to strike but he was able to block, recover and step back.

“Don’t go easy on me, now, Kenobi,” I taunted, or at least I hoped it sounded that way since I couldn’t hear myself.

His signature flared competitively, so I knew my words had worked. From then, he was less defensive, which worked in my favor even noticing that he slipped into his old Master's form a few times. He kept himself mobile, which wasn’t harder for me to track but I had to be aware of my footing and balance more. Obi-Wan ended up behind me, potentially thinking he had the upper hand because I was still facing the opposite way, but I felt his strike through the force before it had even been executed. I blocked my back easily and spun around, surprising him with a few more attacks. I had been so focused on overwhelming him that I didn’t notice his hand draw back before I was being force pushed away so hard that I fell backwards as I landed.

I kicked myself up back to my feet quickly when I felt his force signature charging at me. I blocked too late while steadying myself, his rush turning into a disarm so quickly that I barely dodged his next attack. I slid and jumped away to put some distance between us, my saber having flown too far away to pull it to me without him intercepting.

I dropped into a hand-to-hand stance, keeping my hands close to my body. Smugness rolled off Obi-Wan in waves as he stalked toward me. Until…

His training saber disappeared from his signature and his defense dropped. His posture straightened back to normal, his head turned to the side like he was speaking to someone, Anakin probably. I turned in the direction he faced, yes, definitely Anakin.

“Hey, I haven’t yielded yet!” I called out.

Obi-Wan’s head turned toward me in surprise, seeing me still in a fighting stance. He turned his head back toward Anakin briefly.

“Less chit chat, more fighting,” I said impatiently.

Obi-Wan dropped back into a starting stance, hesitantly this time because I was still disarmed. His saber ignited, flaring back up with his signature.

Good boy, I signed, noticing a slight waver in his stance as I did.

With me still disarmed, he was less guarded and more aggressive in attacking. I kept light on my feet, dodging where I could but there was no way I’d land anything without a proper deflection. So, I baited my time and waited until he swung at me head on. I deflected his hand to one side and forward with the force and stepped to the opposite side, bending his wrist enough to drop the saber and using my other hand to force push it away. I grappled him to the floor, easy when he was so surprised, not feeling much resistance until he was nearly on his back. I kept hold of his hand and slung a leg over his neck and another around his torso, using the force to help me yank his arm back toward me into an arm bar.

The force swirled around the both of us, using it to fight the strength of the other. I pushed my leg further against his neck, but gently so, not wanting to actually hurt him. That extra push did the trick, cutting off his air for a few seconds until I felt an incessant tapping against my leg.

I immediately released him, and moved my legs off his body, flopping on my own back to catch my breath. I ripped the training helmet off and caught my breath, not realizing how tired and sweaty I was from all the jumping and dodging until now.

My eyes fluttered open, a concerned Obi-Wan staring back at me as soon as I opened them. His chest was still heaving slightly, his cheeks red and damp. His hair was darker, soaked with sweat and plastered to his forehead. He was a sight. I stared up at him, looking dazed out of my mind but it was really all because of him.

Are you okay? He signed.

I couldn’t even pick my arms up to sign back, “Just give me a minute. I’m tired.”

A grin spread over his face, a soft shake of his head barely moving the damp hair from his forehead. Obi-Wan put a comforting hand on my forearm, before standing up on shaky legs.

He held a hand out to me to help pull me up, immediately seeing Anakin picking up the training sabers and helmet and putting them away.

Obi-Wan helped me over to some benches on the side, both of us collapsing next to each other.

That was so—awesome! Anakin signed as he came back, stumbling over how to sign “awesome”, which he failed at but I understood it anyway.

I didn’t want to take my ear plugs out yet, knowing the sound of my blood rushing through my ears would drown out everything anyway. When my adrenaline died down, I’d take them out.

Thank you, I bowed my head to Anakin. I turned my body toward Obi-Wan, How's your shoulder?

Fine, he replied, his face indicating that he wasn’t too worried about it. I watched him rotate and stretch it a bit to test. A little discomfort but not bad.

Can I? I asked, reaching my hand out until it was hovering over his shoulder.

He shook his head violently, You’re tired and drained, you’re going to hurt yourself.

I moved to sign back but he put his hand over mine.

If it hurts tomorrow, yes, he raised his eyebrows and smiled so I would stop worrying.

I nodded and turned back toward Anakin, who was staring at the both of us suspiciously with a smirk. He opened his mouth, clearly talking to Obi-Wan because of the direction of his head. I glanced at Obi-Wan, who was unusually slouched in his seat out of weariness, but was responding to Anakin. He nodded to something his Padawan said, promptly followed by an eye roll. He waved his Padawan away, the younger of which laughed brightly and took off with a group of Padawans standing off to the side. You had been so focused on beating Obi-Wan that the crowd barely registered in your head.

How was that? I smiled tiredly, barely angling my head toward him.

His head was lolled to the side to face me, his hands lazily hovering to sign, Better than I could have imagined.

You imagined me pinning you on the floor? I laughed, covering my mouth because it was a fairly wild laugh as the implication of what I signed dawned on me.

Obi-Wan was still deciphering, but I knew he had understood when he went red from the neck up to his cheeks.

Oh, stop. You know what I meant! He signed frustratedly at being embarrassed.

I nodded with mock sympathy, nodding my head gently and patting his hand.

You’re terrible, he shook his head, a smirk coming back to his lips. I’ll walk you back to your quarters.

What a gentleman, I signed as he stood and offered me his hand.

I gathered the belongings I had come with and looped my arm though his, both of us leaning on each other for support as we hobbled out of the salle.

Chapter 3

[consul-valerius]

A breakdown on the magic Damien got from his Mama (and also how it differs)

Overall disclaimer for general Arcana spoilers and also casual discussions of sex ahead. For reference, most of this will be discussing Donna’s abilities post-game events! Also for a refresher on Donna’s magic, see this post here ✨

In general, due to Donna being The Fool, Damien’s magic abilities were always extremely strong from a very young age. A lot of his training with Asra involved repressing and controlling that raw power; without it, Damien can easily hurt himself and others without meaning to. However, Asra only taught Damien for a short amount of time; once Valdemar took over, he was taught the exact opposite: his powers needed to be increased and honed, and they proved to Damien he can do some…. Earth shattering things if he wanted to.This lends itself to Damien constantly being conflicted with his own powers, and it results in his powers being extremely unstable.

As an adult, it’s back to Donna primarily to begin retraining Damien certain skills, which adds a blend of both Asra and Valdemar’s ideals. They don’t want him to be fearful of his power, but they do want him to be realistic about it and to be self reflective of it.

Below cut is more in-depth about how their magic is pretty similar but the “execution” (for lack of a better word) is pretty different between Donna and Damien!

Divination and Scrying

Both Donna and Damien communicate with the dead very frequently. Donna was always able to from a young age, but they were always able to tell what was real and what wasn’t quite so real. Damien, however, always struggled as a child telling the difference as the line between the physical world and the not-so-physical world is VERY thin for him, and so they interact with him differently.

That means that while most spirits are harmless to Donna, they can physically affect Damien in numerous ways. Because of this, he never does seances (or he says he doesn’t do them), as it leaves him very vulnerable. As a child, Damien was also prone to pretty much getting possessed often and actually expelled ectoplasm frequently (can you tell I used to be into Danny Phantom?) Donna has been overshadowed before, but never to the extent that Damien has and never did it leave a physical imprint on them. It still really frightens them as a family, and it’s an unspoken fear they all share.

They both scry via mirrors. Damien has a very distinct and enhanced means of scrying in which he can make his visions physical and place them into reality. He has also been able to see the “other routes” via scrying too, which um….. has definitely affected his perception of the M6 (he’s seen all their reversed endings 😬). Donna could in theory do this too, they just never felt inclined to do so or were even aware of it. Damien only knows this because of Valdemar.

Tarot and The Arcana

Donna has a much better relationship with the Arcana post the game events; they’re much more at peace with them and can hear their voices clearer than ever before.

Damien is the exact reverse of this; he is only able to communicate with The Devil, his patron, and even that is very dull due to Donna encasing him. Damien understands the cards and their meanings, so he can give readings if it is asked of him, but his readings definitely are lack luster compared to Donna’s.

Damien is extremely conflicted over Donna’s childhood trauma related to The Devil, and it’s something he hasn’t quite worked out fully himself. What the other courtiers (and The Devil lol) remind Damien of constantly was that it was Donna’s parents who made the choice to sacrifice them to him; he never explicitly asked them to do that, they were working on the assumption it would be the “ultimate deal.”

Illusions and Conjuring

I brushed on this briefly in Donna’s OG magic post, but they and Damien both use illusions pretty frequently and mostly for entertainment and cosmetic purposes.

Damien often disguises himself to catch people talking poorly about him or his family often; it also makes it easier for him to enjoy his night life if he isn’t “Damien the Court Magician” but just “Some Guy.” He also employs these tricks the most @ the palace because it requires the least amount of energy and gets the biggest reaction from unknowing diplomats and nobles.

Both Donna and Damien shape-shift their genitals based on their own moods and also based on what their partners are into. Damien more often just goes with a good ol’ fashion dick and messes around with size a lot, while Donna does many fantasy shlongs (their favorite is their tentacle dick, but the sky’s the limit with them lmao)

Other physical magic/skills

The biggest distinction between Donna and Damien’s magic is the use of chains: Donna can break The Devil’s chains; Damien can create them. (More on this in a bit)

Both use fire when they are angry; Donna’s magic can appear as sparks when they are in a confrontation, but Damien’s appears as actual flames.

Both are able to levitate, but Donna doesn’t do this often as they see it as flexing far too much essentially lmao Damien, however, loves it, and he also rides a broomstick!

They are both very skilled palm readers, and they both use it to pick up chicks (gnc) lmao

Donna and Damien’s moodring hair both function more of less the same. Blue = sadness/discomfort (says a lot that Donna’s hair default is blue lol); Blonde = happiness/comfort; Green = sickness/revulsion; Purple = major use magic; Red = passion (be it anger or lust); Pink = love/embarrassment. The main difference is when they are both EXTREMELY upset/under distress; Donna’s hair goes completely black (it went black, for example, when Valerius’s coup happened); Damien’s hair goes completely white, devoid of color (it happens when [redacted].)

Damien has the ability to hypnotize people; this is darker magic, so Donna doesn’t fuck with it. (Sam is able to do this too, but now he only does it on willing people for kink purposes.) Damien is also very good at necromancy and learned it all from Valdemar— Donna is not able to do that at all. In general, Damien knows more and uses more dark and blood magic; Donna is still too traumatized from it due to their parents.

Love Magic

Donna uses love magic inadvertently more often than purposely. They feel using love magic feels a bit like taking advantage of someone/manipulating the person. However, there’s just a certain inexplicable charm to the simplest of their movements; casually flipping their hair or holding eye contact or the brush of finger tips or a quick kiss can leave a bigger impact on someone they’re interested in than is “natural.”

Donna also embeds a lot of candles with love magic too, and they exclusively use these on their partners/bed mates. They feel it can add a new level of intimacy and help break walls down with the people they feel truly want it from them. Also, if they roll you a blunt, you may just fall in love with them for a variety of reasons LOL

Damien is pretty similar in that there’s a magical charm to a lot of his actions. However, he is FULLY aware of this and 100% consciously uses it to get what he wants. Damien has no issue using love magic to manipulate others and get them caught up in him to nearly toxic degrees. He wants people dependent on him, and he’ll do what he needs to to get people at that level with him (Think: The Love Witch lol)

Damien’s chains are also directly tied to his sensuality/love magic; he isn’t making deals, but he is making bonds. Many of his partners are literally bond to him due to their attraction to him, and he can use that against them if he feels inclined to (as in he can control them). Makes ya think why he has so many sexual partners, especially noblemen, hmm? :^3

Damien also uses physical items too to enchant people, not just with candles, but with food, sachets, charms, lotions, etc.

Physical effects on their bodies due to magic:

Both Damien and Donna get easily fatigued by over extending their magic. It’s very easy for either of them to over do it, which is why Donna meditates so much and also smokes so much weed 😎 but seriously, they need to be grounded or else they run the risk of seriously fucking themself up. This is the main lesson they try to teach Damien.

They both suffer from very bad migraines, especially due to divination, and they also have some acute chronic pain (mainly in their back and legs.)

Damien also has pretty bad nausea and vomiting. He also disassociates quite often and often can go non-verbal depending on how severe his visions are.

Donna also suffers pretty bad lapses in memory and can get some pretty severe brain fog if they’re over doing it. They also can get sick very easily, but this is due more to their death than to their magic. They also can get extremely tired very quickly due to their weak heart 😬

[cagestark]

The Rest it Kills

About this: ballerina!peter and mobster!tony. Starker. Physical and emotional between established quentin beck/peter parker. 

THIS IS UNFINISHED. Anyone is welcome to continue it. 

-

“FRIDAY, baby? Do you have the shot?”

-

It’s a celebration, which does nothing to explain why the room gets quiet as soon as Tony enters it. Around the table are four of his best and brightest, the handful of underlings that were instrumental in helping Tony execute his vision of how to repay Adrian Toomes for encroaching upon his weapons market. For a job well done, he’d invited them up to the penthouse to have at his expensive collection of spirits. 

He’d left them alone for only a half hour to make a few calls, but now upon his return they were shifty eyed and babbling about something inconsequential, a sure sign that they had hastily changed the subject. 

“Alright,” Tony says, pouring himself a glass of scotch. “Out with it. I’m a paranoid bastard at best. At worst?—well. Ask Toomes.” 

“It’s nothing bad, Tony,” Rogers says. If the fact that Rogers hadn’t told a lie his entire life didn’t put Tony at ease, then his clear eyes and voice did. Rogers was his number two, and they got on thick as thieves. He’s about as likely to lie to Tony as the sun is not to rise.

“Then I’m not angry,” Tony says, taking the empty seat. “But now I’m curious. Which is worse?” 

“Angry,” Wilson says in that deadpan way that Tony just adores. 

“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Tony says, finishing his scotch with a single gulp. He pours himself another. 

It’s Romanov who—doesn’t break, per say. Tony isn’t convinced that there’s anything that could break Natasha, though if they were on opposite sides, he might have a few places he’d be willing to start. She must weigh the pros and cons and decide that letting Tony in on their little secret is the best move. Whether it’s best for her, for them, or for someone else, Tony can’t say. 

She shifts and pulls out a piece of paper folded in half and tosses it across the table. Barnes and Rogers groan. 

“Nat, you rat,” Barnes says. 

“Wow,” she says, eyes glittering. “That rhymed, Bucky. It was beautiful.” 

“What the fuck is this?” Tony wonders out loud as he unfolds the paper. It turns out to be nothing extraordinary. It’s a program for the New York City Ballet. The ballet is something new by Ratmansky, with principal dancers MAXIMOFF/PARKER. “Ballet? Taking up a new hobby, Barnes?” 

“I thought I’d look great in the tights,” is all Barnes says. A deflection if Tony’s ever heard one. 

“Their boy toy is the lead,” Romanov admits (to fresh groaning from around the table). 

Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Boy toy? All three of you?” 

“We are in the process of wooing him, so to speak,” Wilson admits, taking a swig from the bottle in front of him. “Barnes and Rogers might be willing to tag team him, but I want him all for myself.” 

Rogers’s eyes flash, cold steel in the overhead lights. “Watch the way you’re talking about Peter. He’s not a piece of meat to be shared.” 

“This is a goddamn episode of the Bachelor,” Tony laughs. “Which one is Peter: Maximoff or Parker?” 

“Parker,” all four chime together. 

“I feel like a father whose kids are going out on their first date. Are you buying him flowers? Are you opening the car door for him? Are you being safe?” Tony jests. He leans back in his chair feeling the warm thrum of the scotch in his stomach, glancing from one besotted man to the next.

“All that and more,” Barnes says. Then, with more than a little bitterness: “It’s the way he deserves to be treated.” 

Tony lifts his brows. Natasha slides him the deck of cards so that he can shuffle. He’ll lose, especially once he’s as drunk as he hopes to be, but there’s no amount of money he could lose to them that wouldn’t amount to pocket change in his book. Consider it their bonus. As he deals, he asks, “Trouble in paradise?”

“You could say that,” Wilson mutters. “He’s not exactly on the market.”

“Never took you for a homewrecker, Rogers. Barnes maybe—“

“Hardly a home to wreck,” Barnes admits. “Not a happy one, at least. Pete’s boyfriend is a perverted, abusive low life.”

Tony goes stiff. The buzzing in his gut transfers to his brain, raw as the sizzle of electricity. In his mind, he sees himself as a young boy sitting cross-legged by the vanity in his mother’s room watching her apply creams and powders to disguise Howard’s abuse. All the heinous crimes Tony commits, that one is not among them. He doesn’t prey on the weak. It’s the only promise to his mother that he’s never broken. 

“So, take care of him,” Tony says lowly. “Do you or do you not have certain skills and the balls to use them? You could kill this boyfriend and have it look like a hundred different accidents. What’s the problem here? Do you need daddy’s permission or something? Well, here, I’m giving it.”

Rogers scowls darkly at his hand. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I? Regale me, then! Because it sounds to me like I’m sitting around the table with a bunch of pussies.”

“Peter asked us not to,” Barnes says. 

Tony blinks. “Is—is that it? Good God. Definitely a bunch of pussies. Kill the bastard anyway. If you can’t stomach it; if you don’t want your boy toy mad at you, give me a name and I’ll do it. It can be done before we’re four rounds into poker, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s not like we don’t have the stomach for it,” Wilson says. He’s the newest of their crew, but Tony appreciates his fearlessness, the open, unabashed expression he gives Tony when calling him out on perceived bullshit. “It’s about respect, man. We respect Peter’s wishes, and he trusts us because of it.”

The form of respect Tony is most acquainted with is fear. This softness he sees in his men right now translates to nothing short of weakness. Tony has never lived in a fairytale: the world is hard, and it makes hard people. 

The rest, it kills. 

“It’s complicated,” Rogers says to soothe Tony’s hackles. “If you knew the kid, you’d understand I think.”

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Barnes mutters. There’s movement underneath the table: one person kicking another, everyone jolting to get their legs out of the way. Barnes looks like he’s sucked on a lemon, or taken a shot of Nat’s imported whiskey. “Now he’s gonna go see Pete for himself and none of us will have a chance.” 

-

As it is, Tony doesn’t have to lift a finger to meet Peter because Peter comes to him. 

-

Tony knows the benefit of giving his men a nice long leash. 

He doesn’t have to. With them living in the Tower, it’s within his rights to keep surveillance on all of them; except he knows that distrust breeds distrust. Wilson, Romanov, Rogers, and Barnes have earned his trust. For that reason alone, he removed the wiretaps and cameras in their rooms upon their arrivals. 

But it’s still his home, and he watches it. Closely. Tony has just poured his third glass of scotch when FRIDAY alerts him that there’s an unauthorized presence in the Tower.

“Unescorted?” Tony asks. His blood thrums—this is the most exciting thing to happen all day. 

“Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes are the ones who granted him entrance using Mr. Roger’s passcode, and they appear to be returning to Mr. Rogers apartment, judging by the floor number selected in the private elevator.” 

Tony rolls his eyes, relaxing back in his chair. “A fuck, baby?” 

Tony has asked them not to entertain guests at the Tower without his authorization, but Tony was young once. He knew the thrill of breaking rules, how good forbidden, casual sex could feel. He wouldn’t put it past Rogers and Barnes to have grown bored, considering they’ve been dicking each other down since they were teens. Just thinking about twenty years of monogamy has his cock shriveling. If they’re just bringing home someone to bend between them and spitroast, Tony’s not going to bother abandoning his scotch. 

“Judging by the young man’s level of inebriation, I would hope not.” 

Groaning, Tony sets his scotch aside. He gives it a mournful glance while he steps into a pair of jeans and straps up. “I’m coming back for you, baby,” he whispers. “Wait for me. Take no other lover. Fuck, I hate wasting my humor on an empty room.” 

“I’m here, boss,” FRI offers. 

Tony rolls his eyes.

-

When he knocks on Steve’s (Steve and Bucky’s apartment, considering how much time Bucky spends there) at fifteen minutes ‘til midnight on a Thursday, he would usually expect a bleary-eyed blonde to crack the door open, a dark apartment the backdrop behind him. Instead, the door opens and light floods out into the hallway. Steve is dressed in his pajamas, that is to say that he’s wearing only a pair of pajama pants that cling to his hipbones for dear fucking life. 

“FRI said there’s someone in my building and they’re drunker than I am. Don’t you know that’s a crime?” Tony asks, leaning against the doorframe. The cock of his hip emphasizes where his gun rests, but Steve’s eyes don’t even flicker to it. 

Nonplussed, Steve just steps aside to give Tony room to enter. 

Slumped on the sofa, bundled underneath a large blanket is a young man. Handsome, his face is a testament to masculinity: cut jaw, straight nose, flat brows and thin lips. The only hint of estrogen is the clear, smooth skin that looks like he’s never grown facial hair in his life. Right away, Tony places his bets that he knows who this kid is.

Peter Parker is resplendent, large brown eyes that blink sluggishly, dragging all over Tony’s figure like his eyes can’t decide where to rest. Sitting up, the blanket falls away and reveals his naked chest which Tony eyes with appreciation. He has the optimal figure for a ballerino, obvious strength that is lean and not bulky. 

One of the thin lips is split, bruise blooming like the most tender flower beside his mouth. The wound opens when the kid’s mouth falls open. 

“Ohmygod,” he slurs, elbows shaking from lack of strength. He collapses back onto the comfortable couch. “Tony Stark is here.”

Were he not so sobered by the kid’s appearance, the bruises and blood and the red-rimmed eyes and raw mouth, he might be charmed. Bucky appears dressed no more than Steve and Tony, a glass of water in his hand. He helps Peter sit up and coaxes him to drink from the glass. Every other sip, Peter gets distracted, gaping from naked chest to naked chest. At one point, he falls asleep propped up on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“He’s not drunk,” Tony says, standing back with Steve while they watch Bucky try to coax the kid into consciousness. “Drugged?” 

Steve hums. A muscle in his jaw jumps from how he’s grinding it. “It’s not the first time. Beck and Peter have different tastes in the bedroom. Peter has mentioned before that sometimes after their date nights, he wakes up sore.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. And you haven’t killed this guy, yet?” 

Steve looks downright tortured. He does it well; Tony’s always thought of him as a bit of a melodramatic. “Peter would never see us again if we did. We have to decide between being around to support and protect him or not being around at all.” 

“If Beck was dead,” Tony says coldly. “There’d be nothing to protect him from.” 

“James,” Peter groans, losing and finding purpose again during the middle of the word. “Tony Stark is here!” 

“In the flesh, kid,” Tony says, stepping forward. Peter’s eyes trace down Tony’s chest, tracing the matting of scars over his sternum before dipping over his abs (nowhere near as pronounced as Barnes or Rogers’s, but Tony does alright). The kid licks his lips. He can’t help but preen a little, winking at Bucky who is rolling his eyes. “

The curiosity has been planted like a seed deep inside Tony’s mind. It sprouts, soaking up thoughts until it’s the only thing he can think about, Peter Parker, principal dancer, owner of three of his best-men’s hearts. 

It leads Tony here, to the best seats money can’t even buy at the Lincoln Center in Manhattan, dressed in his best tuxedo, dark eyes focused on the curtain that glows gold. His heart pounds when it withdraws on a dark, empty stage, though he hardly knows why. 

By the end, he has a better idea. 

There’s no hiding a single sharp line or sensual curve in the outfits they wear onstage, the pale tights and leotards. There is nothing soft about him save for his curls, but still he leaps and lands silent on his canvas-clad feet. The dance is obviously based around Maximoff’s character with Peter there as her supporting love interest, but even when the red-head bewitches the audience with her fouettés, Tony can’t take his eyes off of Peter’s figure, bowed at the edge of the stage and watching her with the sweetest supplication. When it is time for his own variation, he leaps and bows with a boneless grace that does more than take Tony’s breath away. It makes him hard. It makes him think about those long, strong legs wrapped around his waist while he gives the boy his cock. It makes him think about peeling those tights off and wrapping them around the dainty, pale wrists. It’s a good thing no one can see his erection behind the wall of his box seat when they all stand to give their ovation. 

Peter bows and flushes, hand in hand with Maximoff before standing behind her sweetly while the entire place howls for her. 

Tony thinks that maybe he’s starting to understand. 

-

No one bothers him where he leans against the wall beside Peter’s dressing room door. Whether it is his reputation or his thunderous expression, he knows not, but he’s grateful for the lack of distractions while he eavesdrops on the conversation taking place inside the dressing room between Peter and a man Peter calls Quent. 

—work harder in the gym. Have you been tracking your calories on the app we downloaded together? 

Yes, Quent, Peter mumbles, barely audible through the walls. 

All of them? 

I said yes.

Don’t get defensive, babe. I had three different audience members come to talk to me about your figure tonight. It pisses me off too! If you’re ready to leave the industry—

You know I’m not.

Quentin sighs, the long-suffering sigh of an argument that has been often visited. I know. This is your dream. Poor baby. It must be so tough, loving a job that hurts you so much. But I’m so proud of you for pushing through, Peter, you know that, right? I just wish you were a little more grateful to me for trying to keep you on the right track. You treat me like the bad guy.

Peter doesn’t respond. 

Is there anything you need before I go? How’s your back feeling? Your lifts looked a little strained towards the end.

Feels okay. I’ve got everything I need back at my apartment. I’ll go home and put my feet up. 

You deserve it. Just don’t forget to use that app okay? There’s a rustle, a struggle, maybe Peter trying to pull away. But Tony’s always had an overactive imagination. Hey. Don’t be like that. I love you. 

You too.

Peter. Say it right. 

Tony slips away from the door before Quentin can come out. From his place around the corner, Tony still has decent vantage to put eyes on this man for himself. Average height, average weight. Fit enough—for a civilian. Tony’s hands positively ache for a gun. Though he’s carrying, he’s no fool. Now isn’t the time, nor the place.

Once he’s sure the man is gone and not returning, Tony makes his way back to the door. It’s time to meet this young talent from Queens (yeah, Tony read the brochure) for himself. But when Tony goes to lift his hand to knock, the door swings open.

Peter blinks in surprise. He’s dressed in gray leggings that look soft as cashmere, a NYDC hoodie on, sneakers on his feet. Spilling from the sneakers’ tops are black fuzzy socks, meant to keep his toes warm from the cold New York weather. 

He’s limping. 

And gaping. It never gets old, seeing the way his reputation precedes him. He loves the way the crowds part for him on the street, loves the way waiters and waitresses stammer and struggle to serve him, the way eyes grow wide like Tony is a god in the flesh. 

Tony extends a hand. “I’m Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you; you’re a very talented dancer.” 

“Hi,” Peter breathes, taking Tony’s hand. Tony grips gently, feeling like he’s liable to break bones, the kid’s so fucking delicate. And cold. But Tony knows the saying: cold hands, warm heart. He wonders what that makes him. Peter works to regain himself, saying, “Trust me, I know who you are. It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you—they didn’t tell me that anyone important was going to be in the audience.” 

“They who?” Tony asks. “Your managers, or my men?” 

Peter swallows, face draining of blood. As much as Tony likes these games, they aren’t as enjoyable when the worm on his hook is as pretty and polite as Peter is. He puts on his most charming (softest) smile and makes sure to ask, gesturing to the messy dressing room behind him, may I come in?

Nodding, Peter opens the door wider. They both ignore how he was clearly on his way out, a backpack in his hands. He sits it down carefully by the vanity where he applied his stage makeup and seats himself on the chair, nudging his shoes off. When he stretches the arches of his feet, he winces. Tony gives him a moment to settle, stepping around the tiny room and taking in the smells and sights. On one wall is a picture of Peter and Quentin, arms around each other, beaming. 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, voice quiet. Tony glances over at him. “Are your—men in trouble?” 

“No,” Tony admits. “If they were, I certainly wouldn’t be here watching ballet; I’d be...busy.” 

Peter sags in relief. The way his shoulders hunch throw his collar bones into sharp prominence where they peek out from the neck of his sweatshirt. “Oh thank God. They’re so nice, Mr. Stark, and I promise they don’t tell me anything about their—your work. James still insists that he works for some guy named Potts in New Jersey. Who’s Tony Stank, he asked me when I brought you up.” 

Tony lets his lips twitch. “James’s middle name is Buchanan. Some call him Bucky. Tell him I said: now we’re even.” 

Peter grins and it’s radiant. Tony feels an unsteadiness in his gut, like missing a step on the stairs or hearing a gunshot go off when he’s not been the one to pull the trigger. There’s just the gentlest stirring of jealousy when Peter mouths the name, Bucky, testing the way it tastes and wrinkling his nose in laughter. 

“I can’t wait to see the look on his face,” Peter says. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.” 

Now might be the time to offer to let the kid use his given name but—Tony’s kind of into it. A few more instances of Mr. Stark rolling off that polished tongue might have Tony hardening in his tux. “Take a picture for me,” Tony suggests, sitting down on the cozy loveseat that is opposite of Peter’s vanity. 

“You said—you enjoyed the show?” Peter asks, demure. The sleeves of his sweatshirt pass his wrists and most of his palms, turning his hands into adorable little sweater-paws. When he reaches up to bite at a nail, the sleeve slips down past his tiny wrist. Tony could surely wrap an entire hand around that wrist and have more to spare. 

“It was incredible,” Tony admits. “I don’t usually have the attention span to sit through longer shows, but I was hooked from curtain rise to curtain fall, kid.” 

Peter flushes, not so much in embarrassment as he does from the pleasure of being complimented. The flush of the drunk, though it seems Peter’s poison of choice is praise. Tony can’t help but want to spread him out on the sheets in his bedroom and say the sweetest, filthiest things to see if he can get the kid hard with just his voice. “I’m so glad. There hasn’t been as much press; new shows are always a little slow to take off. Wanda really is something special, though. She spent a season overseas and came back with so much more grace and growth—” 

“Did she do well tonight?” Tony asks, unbuttoning the top button on his jacket to reveal the trim waist and vest beneath. He realizes what he’s doing just as the words are coming out of his mouth. Tony is flirting with Peter, and his flirtation is a force of nature. “I barely noticed her. Couldn’t take my eyes off of you, kid. How the hell you manage to dance that way, I can’t fathom.” 

Now the flush hints at being flustered. He soaks in the way Peter’s face darkens, the way he hides behind one of his hands as the praise makes his posture go soft and waxy. His voice is remarkably even when he says, “Lots and lots of practice.” 

“Your hard work pays off. I was captivated. I could tell that my men were the same.” 

That topic sobers Peter, who sits up straighter. His pretty face twists, the question mark clear, the confusion too genuine for Tony to take it disrespectfully. On the contrary, Tony finds his forthrightness attractive when he asks, “Why did you come tonight, Mr. Stark?” 

“I came to see what it was about you that has my men so enthralled,” Tony admits. With the kind of power he has comes the freedom to be honest, even painfully, brutally  honest, because repercussions are either minimal or nonexistent. 

“Did you figure it out?” Peter asks. Tony can’t help but feel like the kid is asking him for the both of them: what is it so special about me? Yes, this boy is fragile. That can’t be overlooked. But inside of him there’s still a spark of spirit ready to alight at any moment, grateful for any tinder that it’s given. He’s not Maria Stark. Not yet. 

“Yes,” Tony says, standing. He rebuttons his jacket. “And I’d like very much to get to know you better, if you’re agreeable.” 

“Me?” Peter’s head cocks, squinting up at Tony like he’s trying to see through him, to see what is really being said. “Why?”

Tony is used to letting his baser instincts guide him. He fucks who he wants, goes where he wants, says what he wants, and he owes no one alive an explanation for it. Many people have stopped asking Tony questions like why? Certainly none of Toomes’s men asked Tony why when he was torturing them forty-eight hours ago. 

“Because I want to,” Tony says. He reaches down and picks up Peter’s backpack, putting it over his shoulder, the canvas bag downright gauche against his Givenchy tuxedo. “So what do you say, kid? You look dead on your feet, but would you like to be dead on your feet somewhere more private?” 

Peter takes a long moment to think about it before tucking his toes into his shoes. 

-

He belongs there amongst the backdrop of Tony’s penthouse. Peter glances around with all the coltish wonder of a newborn, running his fingers across the genuine leather of the sofa, leaning forward to look at the smart-glass table that Tony likes to prop his feet up on at night. Upon entering, Tony removes his tuxedo jacket and takes Peter’s hastily-removed sweatshirt. He appreciates the four inches of skin that appear when his shirt rides up, sticking to his outerwear. 

He doesn’t appreciate the yellowing bruises dotting the kid’s biceps. Fingertips, he knows. His mother wore them round her neck like pearls. 

“Is it okay if I take my shoes off?” Peter asks. He limped from the theater to the car, from the car to the elevator, and from the elevator to the couch where he collapsed with a sigh of relief. When Tony encourages him to, Peter nudges off his comfortable shoes and brings one foot up into his lap where he firmly presses his knuckles into the sole. 

Peter asks for a drink. Tony gives him access to his wine, and the kid chooses for himself: a red, Chateau Margaux that smells of rose petals and hints at citrus and turns Peter’s cheeks pink. He doesn’t ask for a second glass, and Tony doesn’t offer it; the last thing he wants is the kid to think that Tony invited him here to take advantage of him.

“Tell me,” Tony asks, watching with rapt attention the faces Peter makes, like he’s dancing on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. “Tell me how you met my men. They aren’t exactly patrons of the arts.” 

Peter’s face smoothes and he smiles. “It was Natalie, actually. She comes to shows every so often; I think her and one of the instructors know each other. Sometimes, she sponsors promising dancers.” 

Romanov. Her and this instructor must truly know each other for her to be using a cover name around them. He files all this away in the darkest parts of his mind, should she ever become a problem someday. Tony has places reserved in his brain for all of his closest allies; already, he is making one for Peter too. Trust is earned but ever ephemeral. 

“So Nat introduced you?” 

“Yes. She sponsored me for a while, so we got to know each other pretty well. Once I mixed up my days and showed up at her condo when I wasn’t supposed to, and I met the others. Sometimes they would come to shows or send me gifts backstage.” Peter frowns. “I asked them to stop though because—Quent would just throw them all away.” 

“Quentin Beck.” 

“How’d you know?” 

Tony just smiles and changes the subject. “You must know that the three of my men are half in love with you.” 

Peter groans, pressing both his palms flat to his heated cheeks. “I had a feeling they were...interested. I hope they don’t feel that I’ve led them on, Mr. Stark. Nothing untoward happens at all when we’re together; sometimes I, I meet Steve and James for dinner, or other times Sam comes over to my apartment and we just talk, I promise. They’re so kind and it’s—it’s nice to have people to talk to.” 

Peter stops talking abruptly, mouth open. He lets it fall closed with a click. When Tony prods him gently, he admits, “The attention is nice, too. It feels good, feeling wanted. Does that make me bad?” 

Tony wonders what kind of miserable asshole would have Peter in his bed at night and not show the kid attention. It takes a special fuck-up to come home to a lover like Peter and not make him feel wanted. “Wanting attention? Not at all, kid. It’s the least of what you deserve.” 

“You sound like them,” Peter says, smiling. “James and Steve and Sam. They’re always doing and saying nice things and telling me that I deserve them.” 

“Good,” says Tony, one side of his mouth curling upwards. “I feel like a proud father; I’ve taught them well. Should you have those elevated?” 

“Sorry?” 

“Your feet. Elevation will keep down the swelling.” Tony places one of the expensive throw pillows on his lap and pats it invitingly. Peter stretches out without anymore prompting, toes flexing as his joints pop before curling in. The kid makes for an indecent picture, all long lines, absolutely nothing hidden by the leggings he wears. 

“I asked them if I could meet you, you know,” Peter admits. He’s red from far more than the wine, now, judging by the way he has one hand pressed over his eyes to shield him from Tony’s gaze. As if it’s possible to. Peter peaks through his fingers. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Stark, but I’ve had a crush on you for ages.”

A crush. God. Tony doesn’t know what���s more hilarious, the sweet naivete of this boy or how it makes his cold heart flutter. Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Is that so? I’m not exactly crush material for the mentally stable.” 

Peter hums. “When I was a kid, I had a lot of bullies. I started dancing when I was four years old, and not a lot of other boys understood. Sometimes, I used to daydream about you coming to protect me from them. To put them all in their place and then whisk me off to that house you gave a tour of on TV once, the one in Malibu.” 

“Good taste,” Tony says. “You know, I used to do the same thing when I was young. I dreamed about someone coming to protect me and my mother, to take us both away somewhere where no one could ever hurt us.” 

Sitting up on his elbows, Peter fixes Tony with a serious, solemn stare. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Is that what happened?” 

“No. I became that someone. What happened to you?” 

“I guess I gave up on the idea,” says Peter.

“Look. Maybe you don’t have your crush on me anymore, but I’m not the kind of man who can look away from innocent human suffering. My men told me about your boyfriend.” Peter sags back onto the couch and puts his face in his hands. He shakes his head from side to side, though no words come out. “This is my offer, kid. Let me take care of the problem. Let me be that knight in shining armor you wanted when you were younger. 

[hellyeahheroes]

Harvey Richards and Lateef Ade "L.A." Williams have a lot in common. They both grew up reading comics with aspirations to work in the industry one day. They both ultimately nabbed roles on the editorial staff of DC Comics in the 1990s.

And they are both Black men who say they never achieved their full potential at DC Comics because of their race.

There are differences in their stories — notably, the time periods. Williams exited his role as an assistant editor in 2000 after six years without a promotion, while Richards spent 22 years at the comics giant with just one promotion before he was fired in December 2019.

But the similarities that cut across those two decades are striking and speak to how little has changed for Black editorial staffers at DC Comics and in the comics industry at large.

Richards was the only Black staffer in the main DC editorial department at the time of his exit in 2019, which included about 15 people, he said. He added that DC had since hired a Black assistant editor. DC declined to comment on personnel matters.

DC, which is home to Batman, Superman, and other iconic characters, is much larger than its comics editorial department, with around 200 employees on the publishing side. But the small team of editors shape the comics and characters that inspire lucrative movies, video games, TV shows, and merchandise.

"You need [Black] editors to help nurture talent to foster diverse characters," Richards said.

Besides being the only Black editorial staffer at the time of his exit, Richards felt stymied in his own career, he said. In his 22 years at the company, he was only promoted once. He began as an assistant editor and 12 years later, in 2009, he was promoted to associate editor.

L.A. Williams can relate.

"My personality and work style is different than Harvey's, who is different from every other name I could rattle off," Williams said. "But no matter how different our work styles or personalities are, the reality is that every one of our stories ended up the same. When it keeps happening year after year, person after person, you have to ask yourself what all of these people have in common."

A Latinx former assistant editor, who exited in 1999 after five years without a promotion, shared similar concerns with Business Insider about a lack of a career path forward at DC and a sense that her work was undervalued.

The stories of these three former DC editors are also similar to that of Charles Beacham, a former Marvel editor who spoke with Business Insider in July. Beacham was one of two Black editorial staffers Marvel had employed in the last five years and quit in 2017 because he felt his voice wasn't heard.

For Richards, there were many instances during his time at DC when he felt he was treated unfairly. He recalled specific instances with Paul Levitz, the DC publisher at the time, like when Levitz told Richards he had "grammar problems," and when Levitz told him "some people think you deserve this" when Richards won an award. Richards was never promoted while Levitz was publisher and president.

Williams also described a confrontation with Levitz, in which Levitz told Williams that he would never be promoted as long as he was publisher.

In response to a request for comment, Levitz said: "I'm not going to comment on decades old incidents. I'm proud of the increasing diversity at DC in my time as an executive there, and while we didn't achieve an ideal balance, I think much changed for the better."

Since Richards' departure, DC has taken some steps to promote diversity and inclusion.

Two women — Marie Javins and Michele Wells — were named interim editors-in-chief after recent layoffs. DC recently hired former Activision Blizzard exec Daniel Cherry, who is Black, as its new senior vice president and general manager, overseeing marketing, sales, and more for the company.

DC is also reviving Milestone, a division of DC that focused on Black characters like Static Shock and was founded in 1993 by four Black men. It ceased operations in 1997 but will return in February.

But for Richards and Williams, it's essential to have Black voices on the editorial front to help inspire change and champion a diverse set of voices and characters.

For Williams, comics were his life. He had written his senior thesis in Afro-American studies at the University of Massachusetts on the history of Black characters in superhero comics.

So when he got a job at DC Comics in 1994, it was a dream come true. But he faced roadblocks that previewed Richards' own experiences in the coming years.

Williams, 51, recalled an instance in 2000 when some assistant editors were given a monthly comic to edit on their own by then-executive-editor Mike Carlin, who is now a DC Entertainment creative director. Williams said the assistant editors of color were set up to fail and given comics that were doomed from the start.

But Williams turned his assigned book, "Impulse," starring a Flash sidekick that had been hurting in sales, into a success.

Carlin wasn't happy. Williams said Carlin cursed him out for getting veteran comics creator Walt Simonson to draw two issues of the comic, and "wasting his time on Impulse when he should be drawing other characters like Superman."

Carlin did not return a request for comment. DC declined to provide a comment on his behalf.

That sense of not being valued even when he succeeded was a hallmark of Williams' time at DC, he said.

After a white associate editor was fired, Carlin offered Williams to take over that editor's books, which included one of DC's best-selling comics at the time, "Wonder Woman."

Williams remembered vividly what Carlin told him: "I've had my doubts about you, but you've delivered. Everything is always on time, it sells, and critics like it."

"I thanked him for my promotion," Williams said. "And he interrupted me and said it didn't come with a promotion. I feel so stupid now, but at the time I was so confused and asked why it wouldn't come with a promotion."

More than two decades later, Williams said the answer was obvious to him.

Williams' DC career ended just as Richards' was just getting started.

Richards, 48, moved from Akron, Ohio, to New York City in 1995 and began his comics career with an internship at the original Milestone, which then shut down in 1997. His Milestone connections eventually led him to DC, where he started in the mailroom and then became an assistant editor.

"I was living my dream at this point," Richards said.

In 2001, after four years as an assistant editor, Richards was offered the chance to work on the Superman titles. It wouldn't have been a promotion, but a chance to prove himself (the chain generally went like this: assistant editor, associate editor, editor, group editor, and executive editor).

But Richards was given what he said was the "unusual" task to write about what he "could bring to the Superman books." Paul Levitz, then the EVP and publisher of DC, told Richards he had "grammar problems" after he completed the assignment, Richards said.

"After that, Levitz made up his mind about me," Richards said. "I felt he already had because most people are promoted after four years. But after that, it was over, even if I got a good review or worked on good projects or got company awards for going above and beyond."

Richards won two such awards, called "Carrots," which were given by DC's parent company, Warner Bros. After he won the second time, Levitz handed it to him and said "some people think you deserve this," Richards said.

Richards was finally promoted to associate editor in 2009, 12 years after he was hired, when Diane Nelson took over as president of DC Entertainment.

Richards' time at DC came to an end in December.

He had been put on zero-tolerance probation in August of last year. The document Richards provided Business Insider outlined "poor time management skills and an inability to meet deadlines." Richards said he was being overworked.

The day after he returned to the office from Thanksgiving break last year, he was let go with a six-month severance and told he "no longer fit company standards."

He's still looking for work while honing his digital art skills. He said a potential employer asked him why he was only promoted once in all that time at DC.

"It wasn't because of my work performance," Richards said. "I feel like they blacklisted me."

19 years earlier, Williams had left DC with similar sentiments.

After a confrontation over Williams using the likeness of the Alabama governor in an issue of "Impulse," Williams said Levitz told him: "As long as I am publisher of DC Comics, you will never be promoted. You're welcome to stay here in the role of assistant editor for as long as you like."

Williams thought the timing of the dispute — shortly after he had filed a racial-discrimination complaint with human resources against Carlin — was suspect. He quit shortly after.

"I naively thought that as long as I do good work, the comics sell, and the critics like them, I'm going to do well," he said. "As a Black man in America, I knew I wouldn't be able to make as many mistakes as others. But I thought the solution was, work harder and do better."

Their experiences highlight why editors of color are so important, Richards said. They can help "realize a creator's vision" and promote more diversity in comics. He lamented that he never got that opportunity. And Black editors in senior positions could provide a source of support for ones in assistant or associate roles, he said.

"Ideas came down, they didn't go up," he said. "And I didn't have anyone above me advocating for me."

He hopes the recent shakeup at DC affords marginalized groups more opportunities and he sees more women in comics than ever before. Jessica Chen, who is Asian American, was promoted from associate editor to editor last year, for example. But Richards also noted there is still a lack of Black women in the industry.

"Change is going to come," he said. "It has to."

A harrowing look into DC’s history of racism which, among other things, made Lateef Williams, an editor who helped Impulse book avoid cancellation, to quit.

-Admin

[seateajessi]

Chapter 1

Wc: 1.8k   

@chokemeanakin​ request, my very first fanfic hope you like it <3

There it was this familiar feeling of fear, anger, and frustration creeping into my mind consuming my very soul ​and leave my body frozen.

I failed.

I needed a moment to realize what just happened, a moment I missed to dodge the shot that split my lightsaber in half.

Not that It was of great use to me, now that I was lying on a destroyed federation tank, probably deadly injured and without any support that could turn things for the better.

The stars dancing over me confirmed my worries and slowly a jabbing pain kept me from breathing in more of the burnt air that wavered over the battlefield.

That was it.

That was the end.

The end of a traitor, of someone who left her troops in the middle of a crucial fight only to hunt down a phantom, a specter. There were clear orders to be followed, there was a code that showed a Jedi how to lead, how to live, and most importantly how to survive.

Especially the last part seemed more reasonable to me, as I was dying on that piece of metal junk.

My vision began to blur and the sounds of the battle surrounding me became numbed.

I desperately tried to reach my communicator and I believe more color left my face when I felt the warm blood on my finger.

Tears formed in my eyes as I started to realize what I had done, in what position I had brought not only my troops but the whole galaxy, the republic ... and General Skywalker.

I winced at the thought of Ani, we were friends since we first met as younglings at the temple.

The mission we were sent to was most likely one of the most significant, it held the potential to capture General Grievous and end that monster once and for all. After a defeat of General Grievous and his droids, the Jedi council and chancellor Palpatine were informed by republic supporters that Grievous fled to the Outer Rim.

Palpatine made it clear that two of the most powerful Jedi should execute this mission to ensure certain success. The council was as confused as I was when the chancellor recommended me for this mission, of course, I was a Jedi knight but I was neither a master nor the chosen one, on the contrary, I had never felt strongly connected to the force or was especially skilled with the lightsaber. If it wasn't for the severity of the situation and the lack of available Jedi, the council would have never even considered sending me on this mission.

I closed my eyes and gasped at the pain that slowly numbed my body and my consciousness.

In the Carlac system, we finally tracked a sign, in hindsight obviously way too easy and after we landed on Carlac it didn´t take long and an army had surrounded us. Any communication was blocked and Anakin and I were separated right at the beginning of the battle.

The snow-covered planet made it difficult to keep an overview, heavy blizzards made it nearly impossible to see more than two feet in front of you.

Tiny sobs escaped me when I thought of him being out there alone facing this gigantic army of battle droids. In the Jedi order was no personal attachment allowed and that was the hardest price to pay in order of being a Jedi. He had to be dead by now, yet I didn´t feel any change in the force.

The tears burned in my eyes, realizing that everyone could be dead by now and my weak connection to the force could easily hide it from me.

My thoughts became disorientated and the aching pain had now reached every limb and bone in my body.

My eyelids became heavier and it started to snow again, flakes nearly as big as my hand, they really looked beautiful combined with the fading sunlight.

Something felt so familiar with that picture and for a moment it soothed my pain sending me into something between sleep and unconsciousness.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The nightmare that haunted me was the same as I dreamt it almost every night for as long as I could remember.

Usually, I was wandering through a cave until I would spot daylight and hope to escape this hell only to stop before a dead end every single time. A horrifying scream fills the cave, echoes, and becomes louder and louder until I´d crouch on the ground. Desperation and fear would paralyze me until the cave would begin to crumble and collapse burying me.

This time was no different and with a loud gasp I opened my eyes, adjusting to the harsh mechanical lights that were directed on me.

I couldn´t make anything out in the glaring light, apart from the metallic room that surrounded me, and the fact that I was levitating in the middle of this room, held in some sort of slowly spinning electrical captivation.

It was a wonder that I survived the shooting before but there was no way I would live long enough to...my train of thought was interrupted by the opening of the door.

Battle droids of course and behind them a horrendous creature, half a robot and half Kaleesh.

"General Grievous", I stated, trying to sound as unaffected as possible.

His pestering laugh filled the room as he eyed me carefully.

"I´m a Jedi", my voice sounded horrible, an embarrassing mixture between voice cracks and whispering. Why was I even talking to him, I silently cursed myself.

"Jedi scum for sure, but what´s your name little Jedi?"

"Emerald", I answered slowly starting to feel the pain coming back.

"Is this even a name?", the droid next to Grievous chattered, "Never is that a name.", he continued clearly sure of himself, "We found her on the top of a tank, and her lightsaber was broken. I have it right here. Look at it yourself." he proudly held my lightsaber in front of Grievous face.  

"What am I supposed to do with it you stupid droid?", the Kaleesh snarled. "You´re soon will look like that saber, Jedi scum. Droids, guard her." with that he stamped out, leaving me with that awful sound of "Rodger, Rodger" echoing through the room.

The thought of Anakin and the clones haunted me, there was no way I would give them up so easily.

This was my chance, a new sparkle of hope gave me life, the moment a somewhat brilliant idea came to my mind.

With my most suffering expression, which I didn't even need to fake that much I wailed "Oh, no. I´m gonna die, I can feel it. If I die now, Grievous can´t kill me. How are you gonna explain to him that you let me die when you were instructed to guard me." I sighed dramatically and slowly closed my eyes.

"Is she dead?", "Hey you, Emerald Jedi.", "I think she is dead", "We need to check, I was just promoted." the discussion continued until I roughly landed on the ground, hearing the two battle droids​ approaching to check on my health.

I quietly groaned at the aching pain that definitely originated from the left side of my body.

I felt the cold metal hand on my throat, clumsily checking if I was still alive. "I think she is...dead?!"

I calmed myself collecting everything that's left of my strength and grabbed the droid and ripped his head off. "Whaaat the", the other droid screamed in shock, still compensating why I was still breathing, which made it easier to grab his blaster and shoot it.

I gasped again, this time out of physical exertion, this little fight had brought me near unconsciousness again.

Struggling to set one foot before another I reached the door and opened it, trying to be as quiet as possible while sneaking out of the metallic hellhole.

There were only a few other droids, the base definitely didn´t seem heavily guarded, which was somehow strange.

"Grievous, you know that it is of utmost importance that the Jedi girl...", I froze and slowly approached the corner the voices were coming from. "Skywalker has to walk into our trap..." My heart made a little jump when I realized that Anakin probably wasn´t dead. "...Sidious ordered that she is only to be killed when Skywalker watches." I frowned and carefully retreated. The pain became more unbearable by the second and I still needed to find a way out of here.

Still, I couldn´t keep my mind from start rattling about what I just witnessed.

What in the force's name did they mean by setting a trap for Anakin. I wasn´t sure who the other one was, but I was definitely planning on figuring that out.

I needed to get to our ship and contact the fleet, call for help and inform the Jedi council about this.

I looked for something that would keep me alive and my luck had turned at least that's what I thought the moment I spotted a little something above me.

It seemed like there was some sort of container that had a medical sign-on. My shoulder made a terrible sound as I tried to reach for the switch to open it.

The pain that shot through my whole body caused me to abruptly slump down to the hard metal ground.

Before I could hit the ground hard, I was caught by a pair of strong arms that seemed familiar to me.

Could this be... "Ani?", I croaked and turned around, tears once again forming in my eyes as I saw his eyes full of concern and his hurt expression.

"You promised me you weren´t going to do anything reckless", he whispered and tried to sound taunting but his voice broke when he turned me a bit and saw my side.

I  tried to form a laugh that sounded more like Grievous coughing, due to the amount of blood that came with it.

"Don´t worry it´s gonna be fine. Help is on its way, we-we contacted the fleet.",

My hand clutched for his that tried desperately to soothe my pain somehow.

"Ani, please hold me", I whimpered holding on to him even stronger. I couldn't read the expression that crept on his face but it scared me.

"They are gonna pay for this, every single one of them." he hissed and my stomach turned.

"Just look at me, Ani, please. It´s not that bad.", I whispered caressing his cheek and tried to smile. His expression softens and he carefully picked me up. "You´re so cold, Ems." I huffed and grabbed his hand pressing it against me, placing a soft kiss on his palm. A sad smile graced his face while he covered me with his robe. "See, I´m here, don´t worry.", he placed in return a kiss on my head.

"Ani, I´m scared." I whispered and I don´t know what hurt more the stabbing pain in my side or how his eyes became watery.

I ran my hand softly over his chest and buried myself into his strong arms. I barely felt the pain nor the burning sensation that had caused his touch.

And once again I drifted into sleep, only this time I felt as safe and warm as I never had before.