#this is exactly what i remember from that scene | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aquaticmercy · 3 days ago

Text

Match

Summary : You finally found your intellectual match in Bucky Barnes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x rare book dealer!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : You and Bucky are nerds (affectionate), mentions of his past. Sexual tension-filled philosophical debate. DC comics exist in the MCU as literature as per the guardians Christmas special lol. Cursing? Steamy not smut. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 5.7k

Note : This fic was inspired by that one scene in FATWS where Bucky said he read the hobbit. I just really like the idea that Bucky really really likes to read. Enjoy!

Rare books were not just a job to you, but a vocation. You spent your days seeking out treasures, preserving them, and connecting them with people who could truly appreciate their worth. Your little shop was a haven of creaking wooden floors and shelves brimming with the worn spines of countless literary works, sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

It was your home.

On a quiet Tuesday, the bell over the door jingled.

At first, you assumed the man who walked in was lost or killing time— maybe a tourist who thought your shop was an antique or souvenir shop (you’ve gotten a lot of those over the years).

He didn’t fit your usual profile of a customer—no tweed jackets or scholarly glasses. No suit and tie, no clean white blouse. This one was confident, albeit rough on the edges. His leather jacket and heavy boots belonged in a biker gang, his long hair brushing beautifully against his shoulders. But it was his left arm that drew your gaze—a sleek, black metal hand peeking out of his sleeve, rippling slightly when he moved.

You recognized him instantly: James Buchanan Barnes.

The former Winter Soldier.

A man who belonged to history books and legends. Seeing him in person was... surreal. No article had prepared you for the magnetism he carried, no photo did him justice.

Still, you weren’t one to swoon. And you definitely weren’t about to let him see you staring a little too long into his steely blue eyes.

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice calm and professional.

For a second, he seemed to weigh whether or not to answer. “I’m looking for a first edition of The Hobbit.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t what you’d expected.

“It’s in the case over here,” you replied, recovering quickly. You led him to the glass display where one of your most cherished possessions lay nestled, secure and pristine.

He muttered something like ‘just like I remember’ as he gazed at the book, his voice close to reverence.

“Big fan?” you ventured, curious.

His lips curved up, into a faint smile. He nodded. “Always admired how he built entire worlds. The languages, the histories.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “He lived through hell in the trenches, too. And from that, he wrote something… hopeful.”

You hadn’t expected that depth of understanding, and your surprise must have been obvious. “What?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think I’d be the type?”

This was going to be fun, you thought.

You shrugged, trying to suppress a grin, “you’re not exactly my usual Tolkien collector.”

That earned you a sweet, gentle chuckle. “I didn’t think I’d be either, but I’ve always loved books,” he admitted, “They were one of the only constants after...” His voice faltered, remnants of his past briefly flashing behind his eyes.

You didn’t press. Instead, you followed his lead, steering the conversation back to Tolkien. “You're right about the worldbuilding. He wrote a full mythology— linguistic and cultural foundations and all. It’s like he created an alternate history.”

“Exactly.” Bucky’s smile returned, brighter this time. It had been ages since Bucky had an engaging, meaningful conversation that wasn’t about mission planning, let alone about a book. The heated, faceless debates with internet strangers—each convinced they were ultimately correct—definitely didn’t count. “It’s that attention to detail— You don’t see that much anymore.”

After that, the two of you fell into a rhythm, talking easily for nearly an hour. About Tolkien’s works, his love for language, and the way war had shaped his narratives. You even mentioned how Tolkien’s own experiences in World War I echoed the camaraderie and loss found in his stories. Bucky nodded along, sharing personal observations that surprised you—not just because of their insight, but because of how much he genuinely cared.

Back in the day, everyone saw Bucky as the classic jock, and to be fair, he was. But beneath the effortless charm, he was a nerd at heart—fascinated by books, obsessed with science, and captivated by innovation. It was Bucky who had dragged Steve along to the World Exposition of Tomorrow, it was Bucky who was eager to see Howard Stark’s presentation on flying cars. Back then, the future had been his fixation. It had been out of reach— a world of endless possibilities.

Now, he was drawn to the past.

He’d fallen in love with reading again. After all, he had a century of literature to catch up on. And with the internet at his fingertips, he had access to more knowledge and stories than he could have dreamed of.

40s Bucky would’ve had a heart attack from the sheer volume of information he could consume. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just chasing a vision of what might be—he was immersing himself in what already was.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to The Lord of the Rings.

“Did you read the trilogy?” you asked.

He nodded. “Only a couple of years ago. I didn’t even realize it was published after… everything.” He paused, frowning slightly, as if reaching into the murky depths of his memory.

Right. You did a quick mental tally based on the books you’ve read about him. The Hobbit was published in 1937, and The Fellowship of the Ring in 1954. Bucky was presumed killed in action in 1945 and captured by a terrorist organization. So, yeah—he’d missed it.

“Hydra,” you said the thought allowed before you could stop yourself.

You winced, bracing for impact. Oh no, you thought, have I crossed a line?

“You read about me?” he asked to your surprise, likely catching you deep in thought.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though your heart still beat out your chest. “Superheroes are a popular topic for peer-reviewed journals and doctoral theses. There’s a whole academic subfield about the Winter Soldier— a lot about your role in the war, too.”

His expression was unreadable, but you thought you saw a flicker of something— amusement? Whatever it was, it eased the tension you had accidentally created, and the conversation resumed.

You’ve read plenty about Bucky Barnes—the sharpshooter of the Howling Commandos, Captain America’s trusted sniper. You’ve probably read more about him in the modern age: scholars debating the pardon of the Winter Soldier, professors discussing the Sokovia Accords— a conflict in which he’d been a major player in. You’d disagreed with the Accords, of course, but that’s a story for another time.

Right now, your focus was on the man in front of you, talking about Tolkien and his wonderful languages. See, the peer-reviewed articles about him had painted a stark picture: a kind soul turned into a cold, unfeeling weapon. But they neglected to mention that even after everything, he was still a kind soul. In person, it was hard to reconcile the man before you with the image of a killer.

The paper also failed to mention a pleasant surprise: his mind. You realised now that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a soldier; he was sharp, curious, a man who loved literature and sought out conversations that challenged him. It was something the world overlooked.

Yet it was there, just beneath the surface.

“Have you read the Silmarillion?” you ventured.

“I tried,” He grimaced. “Felt like reading a textbook. Not sure I even made it halfway.”

“That’s fair,” you admitted with a laugh. “It’s not the easiest read. But it’s worth it, I promise.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t shut the idea down, either.

You made a snap decision. Reaching behind the counter, you pulled out your personal copy of The Silmarillion. It wasn’t a rare edition, but it was filled with your notes in the margins, a map you’d sketched for reference, and little Post-its marking key passages. “Take this,” you offered, holding it out to him.

He hesitated, not used to kindness from beautiful strangers. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. Hopefully the notes will make it easier. And don’t even worry about returning it,” you nodded, “It’s probably for the best. I obsess over it too much.”

He took the book, his metal fingers brushing against yours as he did, making your stomach flutter. “Thanks.”

“And if you’re curious about all those papers written about you...” You looked through bookmarks on your laptop, typing ‘James Barnes’ into the search bar. You jotted down a list of academic articles you’d read— some about his time in WWII, others about his unique role as a postwar icon. “Here. If you want to see what people are saying.”

He smiled that kind smile again, folding the paper carefully and tucked it into his jacket. “I appreciate it.”

When he left with the first edition of The Hobbit, your annotated Silmarillion, and your list of articles about him, you found yourself staring at the door long after it had closed, hoping it wasn’t the last time he’d visit your shop.

—

Bucky started coming in more frequently, always buying another rare book— Hemingway, Orwell, Lovecraft. The pretense was paper-thin, though, and you both knew it.

Sure, he enjoyed books, but by that point he knew he could’ve gotten cheaper copies on a bid online (rent in a big city was expensive)— and the books he bought weren't even that rare.

Each visit turned into a lengthy discussion that carried you through the night, far past the shop’s usual closing time.

One afternoon, he returned something unexpected: your well-worn copy of The Silmarillion. Admittedly, you’d missed it— its once-pristine pages now brimming with additional notations—his handwriting mixing with yours.

“I had to,” he said, an almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Your notes made me see it differently. It felt like a conversation.”

You opened it, thumbing through the pages, your eyes catching his commentary. He had sharp, incisive thoughts: challenging some of your interpretations, expanding on others, and sometimes adding playful jabs in the margins when he disagreed with your analysis.

“This is dangerous,” you said, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Do you really want a debate about Tolkienian theology?”

“I’ve got time, doll,” he said with a grin, settling onto the stool by the counter. Your cheeks flushed at the nickname, hearts doing backflips in your ribcage.

And so, that evening, you indulged in the mind of James Buchanan Barnes, exploring his thoughts and musings about Middle-earth. For the next two hours, the two of you argued about the nature of Ilúvatar’s creation, the Fëanor tragic story, and whether or not Morgoth represented a failure of divine providence.

“I’ll admit,” he said at one point, leaning back and crossing his arms, “I wasn’t expecting it to feel so... biblical.”

“It’s a way to think about creation through the lens of fantasy,” you replied, your voice softening as you traced your fingers over the book’s cover. “There’s a reason people get lost in it.”

He watched you for a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile fading into something softer.

It wasn’t the only time your conversations would take a turn like this. A week later, gothic monsters were your battlefield.

Bucky leaned against the counter, an old edition of Dracula he had just purchased in his hands, the worn leather squeaking as he shifted. His brow furrowed in that way that always made you wonder what he was thinking— though you had a feeling he was about to pick a fight, again.

“You’re out of your mind if you think Frankenstein beats Dracula,” he said, glancing up, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m not saying they’re even comparable,” you countered, crossing your arms as you leaned against the opposite side of the counter. “They’re completely different genres. It’s not a fair fight. But if it were... Frankenstein wins. Hands down.”

Bucky chuckled, a low, warm sound that made it impossible not to smile. “You think that because you’re obsessed with sci-fi. If it’s got a fake scientist and a lot of regret, you’re sold.”

“And you think Dracula is better because it’s all dark and broody,” you shot back, arching an eyebrow, “sound familiar?” You smirked, mirroring his stance against the opposite side of the counter. “Besides, Frankenstein is a masterpiece—philosophy, morality, hubris—it’s got layers. What’s Dracula got? Melodrama?”

“Hey! Dracula has layers!” Bucky chuckled low in his throat, setting the book down. “It’s about primal fear, wrapped in ancient powers, wrapped again in the clash between tradition and modernity.”

“It is enjoyable, I must admit, but it’s just a glorified soap opera.” You groaned, though your lips twitched in spite of yourself. “Shelley’s work makes you think, you know? It’s art.”

“Art?!” he repeated, stepping closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “It’s a guy making bad decisions and spending the rest of the book dodging the consequences.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing. “It’s about responsibility! The monster is a reflection of Victor’s failure. He’s abandoned and searching for connection—”

“And whining about it,” Bucky interrupted with a smirk, folding his arms. “Dracula doesn’t whine.”

The playful sparring faded when it hit you.

Frankenstein’s monster was created without consent, shaped into something he never chose to be. He was cast out, left to navigate a world that saw him as a mistake. The monster was isolated— burdened by guilt—the question of whether he was defined by the harm he’d done.

“Does he…” you started, gulping, unsure of how he’d react to an outright observation. “Does Frankenstein’s monster make you uncomfortable?”

As you stepped closer, his expression faltered, his eyes dropping to the book in his hands. Slowly, he set it aside, the movement deliberate. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold surface of his metal arm before resting there gently. “Does it hit too close to home?” you asked.

He didn’t deny it. A quiet laugh escaped him instead. He shook his head. “You’re too damn perceptive for your own good,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a longing for something you couldn’t quite place.

Your fingers moved in slow circles against his metal hand, and when it twitched beneath your touch, you knew he felt it—knew he felt you.

“The monster was never the villain,” you said, a fragile offering meant to soothe him. “He just needed someone to see him. He can be kind, too.”

His gaze lifted, locking onto yours, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. For a heartbeat, the world stilled.

Then Bucky’s smirk returned, smaller this time, as he leaned into your touch as if he craved it. “Nice try,” he said, voice lighter but still soft. “You’re not winning this one. Dracula’s better.”

You laughed, the tension breaking just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re impossible, Barnes.”

—

You were afraid you had scared him off after that, but to your surprise, he returned a week later, albeit a bit bruised from a mission.

You’d been reshelving old graphic novels that day (First Edition Hergé that you were quite excited by), the quiet hum of the shop wrapping you in comfortable silence, when you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye. His dark leather jacket hung slightly open, revealing a plain gray shirt that stretched just enough across his chest to draw your eyes. There was a faint cut near his jaw, still healing.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary. “You look beautiful today. Is that a new dress?”

Your breath caught, and a warmth crept up your neck as you glanced down at the simple, flowy dress you’d chosen that morning. “It is,” you admitted, looking back up at him with a shy smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Hard not to,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, almost teasing smile before he turned toward the shelves.

You busied yourself with reshelving more books behind the counter, but you couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of your eye. His human hand traced idly along the spines, careful not to inflict damage. When he stopped, he plucked a rare-ish pocket 6th edition of Thus Spake Zarathustra from the shelf, his metal fingers glinting faintly in the light of the shop.

“You actually like this guy?” he asked quietly, lifting the book like he was sharing a secret.

“Like is a strong word,” you said, stepping out from behind the ladder. His gaze caught yours, and there was a flicker of something playful in those blue eyes. Your pulse quickened, beckoning him to the counter. “He was no saint, but hardly anyone is. I… appreciate his contribution. It’s not his fault people misuse his work.”

Bucky had witnessed it firsthand: fascists distorting Nietzsche's philosophy, disregarding its complexities, and twisting his ideas into a justification for genocide.

His lips turned upward, a lopsided grin that softened the sharpness of his jaw. His stance shifted, leaning against the counter with a practiced ease. His eyes flickered, taking you in, and when you crossed your arms, his gaze lingered briefly, enough to spark a bubbling heat beneath your skin.

“You don’t think Nietzsche was a proto-fascist, do you?” you asked, tilting your head.

“God, no,” he said quickly, amusement softening his voice. His grin spread, revealing the faintest cute dimple in his cheek. “I’ve read enough to know better. But I don’t exactly buy the Übermensch thing either. It’s too... self-centered for my taste. The whole idea of being ‘beyond good and evil’ feels dangerous.”

“That’s fair,” you said, closing the distance between you as you reached for the book in his hand. Your fingers brushed his as you slipped it from his grasp, his touch warm, steady, almost deliberate. His eyes flickered down to where your hands had met. “There are many flaws in his thinking, but I don’t think the concept is inherently bad,” you continued, the air between you charged with tension. You tilted the book toward him, as though showing him something, though you both knew you weren’t really focused on the pages. “It’s about striving for a better version of yourself. I think he wanted people to create their own meaning, not follow blindly.”

“Maybe,” Bucky murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He shifted closer, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet room. His metal hand rested at his side, the vibranium gleaming faintly as his other hand inched forward, almost brushing yours.

His breath fanned your cheek as he leaned in, close enough now that you could see the stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes framed those blue eyes. “But there’s something so… wrong about thinking you’re the one who gets to decide what’s right,” he whispered, his voice like a secret meant only for you.

He was close, dangerously so— that you could feel his breath on your nose.

The bell above the door chimed suddenly, breaking the moment like shattered glass. Dr. Hart, a lecturer from the local university, stepped inside, a bundle of papers tucked under her arm, and smiled in greeting.

She was a returning customer, here to pick up a special edition of Conversation on Botany that you had tracked down for her.

“That’s $40, Mr. Barnes,” You took a small, steadying breath and waved at Hart with a thumbs up that said I’ve got your book.

His lips twitched into a knowing smile. Hr reached for his wallet, pulling out a few bills. As he handed them to you, his fingers brushed yours again.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, his voice soft, almost teasing.

—

The tipping point came late one evening.

You’d spent the last few hours catalouging a shipment of rare books, the shop’s air thick with the comforting scent of old leather, yellowing paper, and the faint hint of dust that always seemed to cling to ancient texts. The shop was silent save for the scratch of your pen against paper as you logged the latest arrival.

The peace shattered with the familiar jingle of the bell above the door.

“Shop’s closed,” you said without looking up, your voice automatic, your focus still on the fragile spine of a sixteenth-century text.

“Good thing I’m not here to shop,” came the deep, unmistakable voice of Bucky Barnes.

Your hand froze, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe with that trademark blend of casual confidence and smoldering intensity. His black Henley stretched across his chest, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms—a sight you tried not to dwell on for too long.

“What are you here for, then?” you asked, arching an eyebrow as you tried to sound indifferent.

“Conversation,” he said simply, stepping further inside.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you returned to your work. “You came all the way here just to talk?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, his lips turning into a sly smile as he perched on the edge of your desk. “I was in the neighborhood.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother responding. Bucky always had a way of pulling your attention, and tonight was no different. You tried to focus on the delicate bindings in front of you, but his overwhelming presence was impossible to ignore.

When he reached for a book from the nearby stack—a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius—you finally gave in.

“Stoicism?” you asked, your tone light with playful mockery.

He flipped the book open, his fingers grazing the thin pages. “You’re really surprised? I thought you’d figure that about me,” he said, glancing up at you with a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “Marcus Aurelius had a lot to say about self-control.”

“And yet here you are…” you replied, gesturing to where he was leaning across your workspace, a soft furrow of amusement on your eyebrows. You decided you could be flirty— eyeing the undone button of his Henley, showing a hint of his skin underneath. “...testing mine.”

The corners of his mouth curved. “Guess I’m doing my part to help you practice.”

You shook your head, half-smiling. “It’s not just about self-control, now is it? It’s about accepting what you can’t change.”

He tilted his head, agreeing with you. “Or a way to stop drowning in things you can’t fix.”

From there, the conversation unfurled like a thread you couldn’t stop pulling. Philosophy, morality, the nature of good and evil—it didn’t take long before you were fully engrossed, debating with a ferocity that surprised even you. Bucky was sharp, quick-witted, and maddeningly good at challenging your points. Every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d counter with something so precise, so well-argued, that you couldn’t help but admire his mind.

As the debate shifted, you sat on your desk, its surface cluttered with books that were hard to find, but not rare enough to be put in a glass case. Your focus was solely on Bucky, who was pacing the room with measured steps, his hands brushing against the edges of shelves every so often as though grounding himself.

“Alright,” you said, leaning forward, crossing your legs. “Here’s a question for you: Should Batman kill the Joker?”

Slowly, he turned and walked closer to you, his shoes thudding softly against the floor. He stopped just short of your legs, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours, making your pulse quicken.

Oh, that piqued his interest.

“I should’ve known you’d bring up Batman.” Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk, eyeing up the first print of 90s DC comics in the corner of the room that hadn’t been there two days ago— a fresh delivery, perhaps? You were always very topical, and the recent restocks somehow always made their way into conversation.

“It’s a valid moral dilemma,” you said, straightening, your chin lifting slightly.

He tilted his head, his expression a blend of amusement and challenge. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Of course he should,” You didn’t hesitate, the answer rolling off your tongue with absolute conviction. “The Joker is a mass murderer. Every time Batman spares him, more people die. His refusal to act is just as bad as pulling the trigger himself.”

Bucky’s smile lingered, but his gaze grew darker, ever so slightly. “So you’re saying Batman’s refusal to kill makes him complicit?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, leaning in slightly, the heat of the argument pulling you closer. “Batman’s morality is Kantian—rigid rules and all. But if he were more… utilitarian, he’d save more lives. The greatest good for the greatest number. One life to save countless others.”

“That kind of math doesn’t scare you?” Bucky asked, leaning back as though to put some distance between you, though his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Once you start deciding whose lives matter more, where do you stop?”

“It’s not about worth,” you argued, the intensity rippling from him unnerving but impossible to look away from. “It’s about outcomes. If you can prevent suffering, don’t you have a responsibility to do it?”

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve. His jaw clicked a bit, tightening as he considered your words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, shyer.

“If that’s your stance, then maybe someone should’ve killed the Winter Soldier years ago.”

His words hit you like a punch in the gut, your breath catching. The implication of his statement filled the room, coiling tight around your chest.

“Bucky,” you said quickly, panic creeping into your voice, your fingers twitching toward him but freezing halfway. “That’s not—”

The corner of his mouth curved into a small, fragile smile. “Relax,” he said, holding up a hand, his voice dipping into something gentler. “I’m not offended. This is just a debate, right?”

“It’s not the same,” you insisted, your voice gentler, almost pleading. You stood from your desk, hesitation in your chest as you reached out— you were scared he might pull away, “you were brainwashed.” Slowly, you pressed your hand to his cheek, his stubble rough beneath your palm. It was a wordless apology—a pathetic attempt to comfort, to reach him where words had failed.

To your surprise, he didn’t stop you. Instead, he leaned into your touch.

Bucky, slid his arm around your waist, testing the waters. His eyes flicked to yours, searching for any sign of rejection, any hint that he’d crossed a line. But there were none. Instead, the subtle hitch in your breath and the way you leaned into him told him everything he needed to know.

He shook his head, rubbing soft circles on your hip as if to say you’re okay. This conversation is more than okay. “But in the grand scheme of utilitarianism, it shouldn’t matter, right? My life was a liability. More people would’ve been saved if I hadn’t been around to hurt them.”

His words settled over you like a storm cloud. The silence stretched, your carefully crafted argument unraveling in the face of his lived experience.

He leaned forward then, bridging the space between you, his arm pinning you in place. “Maybe I understand Batman better than most,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “Killing someone doesn’t always fix what’s broken. It just leaves you with blood on your hands.”

Your throat tightened, the words sticking. He was too close now, the tension between you buzzing like a static current.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he heard it.

“Don’t be.” His words were soft as he pulled you closer. There was always a hint of warmth in his eyes, an unspoken kindness you admired.

The room felt smaller now, more heated. You opened your mouth to respond, but his words had stolen all the air from your lungs.

He leaned in, his voice dropping. “It’s easy to talk about morality in the abstract. But when you’re staring someone in the face—when it’s a real person, and not just an idea—it gets a lot harder to play God.”

Shit.

He was right.

Maybe utilitarianism wasn’t a steadfast rule. Maybe it couldn’t be, not when you factored in the messy, unpredictable depths of human existence. Lives weren’t just numbers to balance on a scale—they were stories, choices, pain, hope. And Bucky… Bucky was proof of that.

Your thoughts churned as you looked at him.

You felt your conviction unravel. It wasn’t just that his argument was sound—though it was (infuriatingly so)—it was the way he’d delivered it, the personal truth lending it undeniable power. And that’s when it hit you. That’s why you found him so damn attractive.

Sure, he was gorgeous. The sharp lines of his jawline, the piercing blue of his eyes, the way his Henley stretched over his shoulders like it had been designed with him in mind. But that wasn’t it. Not entirely.

It was him. His humanity. His thoughtfulness. The kindness that softened the edges, the depth that came from wrestling with his own darkness and coming out better on the other side.

And he was brilliant. For the first time, you felt like you’d met your match. Someone who met you on your turf and stood his ground, someone who didn’t just nod along or agree to avoid conflict. Someone who could challenge you, who could look you in the eye and make you see the world differently.

You thought you’d built your worldview on unshakable foundations, but he’d cracked it wide open, and now all you could do was stare at him with the dawning realisation that this wasn’t just attraction. It was something deeper, something that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.

He wasn’t just a match for you physically; he was your intellectual equal—a rare kind of connection that made your pulse race and left your thoughts spinning.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think it through, you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was impulsive—a collision of lips born from the fiery tension that had simmered between you for weeks. It was everything unsaid, every glance, every near touch that had lingered just a fraction too long, all boiling over in one moment. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, but then something in him snapped. His hands found you, pulling you closer, his grip possessive, almost desperate. Your hands made their way through the soft strands of his hair, landing comfortably around his neck.

The kiss, slow at first, quickly became frantic. Neither of you could get enough. The only thing that mattered was him—his lips on yours, his touch, the way his body pressed against you like a promise.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against yours, his lips curled into a breathless smile. For a second, he could forget about everything that has happened to him. For a second, he was truly, utterly safe in your arms.

“I didn’t think you were the type to kiss someone in the middle of a moral argument about Batman,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his lips grazing yours with every word, sending shivers down your spine.

“And I didn’t think you’d let me,” you replied, your voice laced with a mischievous edge.

His eyes darkened, his smile widening just enough to make your heart race before he closed the distance again, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. This time, it wasn’t careful or calculated—it was raw, fervent, consuming. Your back hit the desk behind you, his hands sliding around your waist and around the curve of your bum, firm and deliberate, setting every nerve in your body on fire.

“The books,” he mumbled against your lips, glancing at the teetering stack beside you, the volumes threatening to topple.

“I don’t care,” you said breathlessly, and to prove your point, you swiped the entire stack to the floor with a crash. The sound echoed, but you barely heard it over the roaring thump of your heartbeat in your ears.

They weren’t too rare. You’ll just put them on the discount aisle tomorrow.

His response was a low, guttural groan, his lips finding yours again, His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your head tilt back, exposing the sensitive curve of your neck. He didn’t waste the opportunity, his lips and teeth trailing along your skin, finding the spot just below your ear that made you gasp.

“Did I manage to change your mind this time?” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and unsteady as his lips brushed against your jaw, then lower, tracing a heated path along your collarbone.

You managed a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the veins under his skin, his muscles tensing under your touch. “Okay, so maybe ‘the greatest good for the greatest number’ isn’t always the best approach when you’re the one holding the short end of the categorical imperative,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire.

His laugh was husky, his hands lower to grip your thighs, pushing himself flush against you. “God, you’re something else,” he said, his lips finding yours again, this time slower, deeper, as though savoring you. When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “Do you want to go on a date?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “You’re seriously asking me that now?” you asked, breathless. With your hands trailing over the planes of his chest, his breath mingling with yours, it seemed a bit out of order, but you weren’t about to complain.

“Yes,” he said, his words dead serious despite the way his hands clutched at your shirt, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He kissed the spot slowly, firmly, making your legs feel numb. “I mean it,” he added, his voice softer, yet no less insistent.

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him into another kiss, the kind that left no room for doubt about your answer. “Then yes,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “We’re going to have a lot to talk about.”

And boy, were you excited to talk to this man— a man who could turn the simplest circumstances into a philosophical debate, someone who wasn’t afraid to dispute your ideals.

Someone who was your match.

“Later,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with need, his hands trailing up to tug his henley over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs, but you didn’t have time to appreciate it before he was kissing you again, his bare skin pressed against you as he lifted your shirt off. “We can talk later.”

-end.

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akuma-tenshi · 1 day ago

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finished closing night!! boy do i have some thoughts. and now that i've gathered them, i'm about to make my autism your problem. spoilers below.

the first part of the event wasn't awful imo, it felt like character building and just helping establish the dynamic. i know some people weren't fond of it but given that i was never really that invested in hullabaloo before this and didn't know every little detail of these characters, it was nice to get some character establishment and figure out how they all are as people. i am also a fan of slowburn character-focused horror, so that may just be a personal taste thing lmao

bryce papenbrook does a good job as mike, even though there are definitely points where he sounds exactly like nagito (namely the scene where he's shouting at margaretha in the foyer). he has a very particular way of speaking / voicing characters that make it immediately clear it's him. however, i do think he fits mike well and he definitely lays off the nagito-ness in the second part.

the rest of the cast was excellent as well. while there was a Choice made with murro's voice (he sounds WAY younger than he's supposed to be, which is off-putting and takes me out every time he speaks), it's very clear everyone knows their characters well and they all do a good job keeping their mannerisms and vocalisations unique and fitting to each role. aside from some awkward lines (which i attribute more to stilted writing than to the va's themselves), the voice acting is absolutely a highlight.

margaretha's trauma with sergi is portrayed very well imo. bear in mind i have not suffered the same abuse as her, so i can't say how accurate or good it is, but it feels like it displays that it was a terrible thing while also being respectful and avoiding being exploitative. the added layer that everyone else (except joker) liked sergi and was unaware of the abuse adds a lot.

in general, i think mike and margaretha are incredibly well-written here. i think ne could've absolutely gone the route of popular fan interpretations and completely demonised margaretha while making mike a perfect angel, and they would've gotten a lot of praise for it. but they stuck to their guns and made them both very flawed yet understandable people, and that just makes everything feel that much more real, at least to me. they're such different people with opposing goals, and their friction really comes through. everyone else is very well done (shoutout to me a couple of hours ago calling joker cute for some godforsaken reason i can't remember) and i love all of their characterisations, but mike and margie really are the standouts here.

i do wish there was a bigger payoff for margaretha using euphoria so frequently. i know it's implied to have been involved in violetta's death, and i appreciate the connection to game 5, but i wish there was a little bit more there. it's not a huge gripe though, so i won't harp on it for long.

the pacing at the start of the second part had me extremely worried; things felt like they were dragging along and being padded out for the sake of being padded out, and i was not having fun with it. fortunately, this issue was remedied about halfway through, and once things got going, i started really enjoying myself. the pacing of the first half of part two is my biggest gripe with this story.

i was noticing a lot of similarities between hullabaloo and fool's gold: hunter forms of popular survivors being announced and used as a major part of marketing for an update to the idv story. with the aforementioned pacing issues, i was really worried that hullabaloo's reveal would shape up to be similar to fg's: a kinda cool cutscene and a lame chase sequence at the very end of a long, boring storyline. however, despite hullabaloo having a much smaller part in this story than fg did in aom, appearing only briefly in the fire at the very end, i still think it's a better incorporation of the character than what they did with norton. better to have it be quick and intimidating than just kinda tedious.

every death in this (aside from joker's) felt very purposeful and well-done. violetta's death was heartbreaking. the change in animation towards the end, followed by the single sound of her machinery giving out after the screen went black, was beautiful, and hey, at least she died happy. margaretha's death pulled at a very specific and very major love i have in storytelling, that being a character choosing to die free rather than live in captivity, and the payoff of all the underwater scenes where she swims towards sergi finally coming through when she chooses to sink away from him had me losing my mind. i genuinely did not expect mike's death to be a straight-up suicide; like i said, i'm not completely caught up on hullabaloo lore, so maybe other people saw this coming, but the fact that he truly could not live with the truth about hullabaloo is such a heartwrenching yet satisfying end to his character. like i said, joker's is the only death that doesn't totally stand out, but i like that they let you put the pieces together yourself.

the chase sequence with joker was unintimidating and a little lame, and honestly it felt somewhat forced, just a way to get his hunter form in there bc they realised "oh shit right this guy's like. a hunter isn't he." i do like that they gave him back his chainsaw though; very nice little callback to the betas.

the animation of the hullabaloo fire was absolutely gorgeous and the ending had me in shambles. for a while afterwards i felt similar to how i felt after finishing end roll: drained and flat but in a good way, like a ton of adrenaline had just released from my body after some intense event.

all in all, i really enjoyed it. i can't say if i like it more than aom, but that may be the frederick bias coming through, so i'm going to choose not to rank them and just say hey. banger event. well worth the hype even with its hiccups and flaws. i always say this, but idv has some genuinely talented people in its writers' room, and i can't wait to see what they come out with next.

#rambling #idv #identity v #closing night spoilers #mike morton #idv acrobat #idv hullabaloo #margaretha zelle #idv dancer #idv female dancer #idv joker #idv weeping clown #idv smiley face #idv murro #murro morton #idv wildling #idv violetta #idv soul weaver

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monsters00km · 2 days ago

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Does anyone else wonder if what Isha did wasn't meant to be a sacrifice? Like, did she know that was what was going to happen?

I just keep thinking about this. About how she's so young. And doesn't really understand. Yes, she understand violence. But she doesn't understands how volatile hextech is.

From what I remember, she isn't really shown that. She knows that the gems power Jinx's gun and Vi's gloves. But doesn't know what adding them together to shoot the gun would actually do.

WE know. And Jinx knows since she did it at the same age as Isha. And what happened was way beyond what Powder thought would happen. To the point it killed Miko and Clagor. And Powder knew it was explosive, she figured out that it was the gems that had the apartment explode.

And so I keep thinking about this scene. About how Isha grabs the gun and adds the extra gems. And how to her, that might just make the gun super powerful to stop Vander. And she turns to powder and does the finger guns. Bc powder did that after killing someone who was hurting Isha.

What if this was her intent. She needed to get close to get a good shot. And she's small enough to do that. And she turns to signal to Jinx that she can protect her just as much as Jinx protects Isha. Especially since in the prison, Sevika made sure Isha couldn't help her. But now she can.

So she does exactly what Powder did. But this time, instead of Powder accidentally killing her family. It's Isha accidentally killing herself.

#arcane #arcane vi #jinx and isha #isha arcane #arcane jinx #arcane spoilers

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blueishspace · 3 days ago

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Hero, Villain God 11

(Prev) (Next) (First)

Chapter 3

*Grian's pov*

Boogeyman doesn't trust you yet, you didn't exactly expect him to, but he's letting you into his plans a bit more each day... You might not like it but you can be patient and right now you need to not rush anything.

You keep following him to meetings, apparently having you here has made going out in person quite a bit safer. Being a body guard isn't what you expected but it is entertaining to be scary...

It takes a few days before he asks something different out of upu...Boogeyman needs a distraction... he needs HotGuy to be occupied for a while ...What a perfect opportunity to introduce Mother Spore to him. And for you to see him again you suppose but you don't aknowledge that thought, after all in the end it is a meaningless one.

You don't even need to search for him, the hero is already searching for you it seems...like he's trying to prove something to himself more then anything...how sad.

He's dreading seeing you, you can feel it. You wouldn't kill him of course, Boogeyman told you not to kill the heroes yet and you agreed immediately with that...after all why would you kill someone so entertaining? Hotguy though... Well, he doesn't know that does he?

You would commend his bravery but it's hardly the time for that.

"Stop there!"

And there he is, fell right into the trap, it wasn't that hard to create a trail of "clues" for him to follow and he played his part perfectly.

"Hotguy."

You do not mock his name this time, you prefer to keep that reserved for the more fun and lighthearted Poultryman...

"Well, I'm sure you thought I would never find you!"

Quite the opposite really...but you won't let him know that...let him keep at least a bit id his dignity as the top hero.

"..."

"No response? Fine, I'll make you talk once I capture you!"

"You plan to capture me, do you even know what I am?"

"... Not really "

Of course, you didn't expect him to, you didn't introduce yourself to him after all. You just needed the opening, he doesn't even notice the purple mist that begins to surround him.

"Mother Spore, at your service"

"Mother Spore? That's a-"

Oh... he does notice the mist, perhaps you did not distract him enough. He jumps away from you. Hm, interesting.

"Aha! Your trick failed!"

You clap your hands very slowly as you approach him slowly... he's definitely unsettled.

"Congratulations, how.. impressive"

He takes out his bow... hmpf, he wants a fight? He'll get one.

Hotguy sends an arrow your way, his precision is impressive... Unfortunately for him he's fighting you amd he's at a steep disatvantage... You summon a wall of fungi, the arrow sticks into it.

You surround yourself in spores, you just need him to get too close for a reason or another. As the two of you move to a bigger area you begin to see people looking, recording the scene from their windows.

Hotguy jumps onto a wall, he flies in an arc above you sending a barrage of arrows your way. The first you barely avoid, it creates an ice crystal in the place where it makes contact. You block the second and third with a wall, the first explodes and the second creates a weird green sludge.

You grab the fourth and crush it in your hand. The fifth explodes before nearing you, it opens into a net that encases you... How fun, you don't remember him trying this much to catch Poultryman. Has he been going easy on you... or was he getting more desperate?

Hotguy unsteadly smirks at you, he really thinks you are losing... You play along, he gets closer. Then once he's close enough the mist begins to rot the net around you, Scar doesn't have time to react... He's surrounded by the mist immediately and he begins to wobble on his feet.

You do not bring him to unconciousness however, you weakened the density of spores just enough to leave him only dazed...You receive a message, Boogeyman has done what he needed to do... Time to say goodbye then.

"You aren't going to be able to get up for a while HotGuy"

You grab onto him while he tries and fails to stand on two feet.

"Do not worry"

You caress his face slowly, he's terrified... It doesn't make you feel as giddy as you thought it would...weird.

"We'll see eachother again... I promise".

And with that you're gone, you do make an effort for it to appear like you're retreating... It's far too early for Hotguy to appear this incompetent.

Pout @/Pouty888

Ok, I could understand when it was only Poultryman but what does HotGuy have that makes illegal vigilantes and villains alike so horny?

💬4 ❤️676 🔄21

| Hotguyfan @/HGforevah33 I mean, he IS HotGuy. It's in the name. ||Pout @/Pouty888 Fair enough.

Hotguydaily @/HGupdates

Resident Hero HotGuy has been seen fighting a mysterious mushroom themed supervillain. The villain was forced to flee but HotGuy was soon brought to the hero tower.

💬43 ❤️12K 🔄188

| Tin @/Tinnnnn20 So this new villain is... something. || Wanted @/want95ed3 Mommy. Sorry. Mommy. Sorry. Mommy. |||Tin @/Tinnnnn23 I don't know what I expected.

HotSpore @/shipper6969

Hotguy x Mother Spore enemies to lovers anyone?

💬3 ❤️12 🔄1

|Poultryguy @/shipper4321 Poultryguy is better. ||HotSpore@/shipper6969 Nuh huh. |||Poultryguy @/shipper4321 Yuh huh.

Ufr? @/Forrealthistime2

Here is why I think Hotspore is inherently a problematic ship and everyone who ships it should be ashamed. (1/23)

💬388 ❤️3 🔄145

|Skyblue @/Skyblueness33. You made 23 posts about this buddy?... ||Ufr? @/Forrealthistime2 Yes. Of course, It's very important. |||Transfemswag @/Surroundedbyidiots. Cringe.

Sausage☑️ @/blessedbythesaint. L take. ||What. @/askingteliling23. Why are you STILL here!?!?;?!

Hotguy☑️ @/HGofficial.

I'm not dating any vigilantes or villains! Why does this keep happening!?!?

💬3M ❤️7M 🔄981K

|Poultryguy @/shipper4321 That's what someone who is dating a vigilante would say. ||HotSpore @/shipper6969 Or someone who is dating a villain.

|Lore™☑️ @/Stratosofficial. I didn't want to say anything but this is getting stupid now. Do you even have a PR team? ||Hotguy☑️ @/HGofficial. Yes...?| |||Lore™☑️ @/Stratosofficial. That was supposed to be a joke but now I'm worried you ACTUALLY don't have one. I for one would never have something like this happen to me. |||| Sheriff ☑️ @/Canarywthagun. Then why does @/blessedbythesaint call you daddy in public? |||||Lore™☑️ @/Stratosofficial. How about we stop talking.

#trafficblr #traffic smp #hermitblr #hermitcraft #empires smp season 2 #empiresblr #hotguy #empires smp #mumbo jumbo #grian #goodtimeswithscar #mother spore #hero villain god au #jimmy solidarity #joel smallishbeans

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birrdies · 11 hours ago

Note

you know i gotta hit you with the ❛ you look good like this. ❜ quote for desertduo (but if another pair comes to mind for this one then follow your heart i'm not your dad)

In all fairness, this wasn't exactly Grian's idea.

Far from it, really. If it were up to Grian, the plan would be that of the doomsday variety. You know, burning buildings, time-bomb countdowns, cool one-liners, maybe a slow-motion shot or two— the works. It's easier that way, when he can break down each step into a cliche scene, a trope he can boil it down to to make it all that much easier to swallow. They are lines he's meant to read and nothing else. He's acting. It's all pretend.

Scar, however, is a difficult person to pretend around.

Grian wonders at times if it's an affliction— a terminal aversion to falsehood in the presence of a man Grian's never witnessed exude more veracity and dodginess at one time. In all honesty it's dizzying, the constant back and forth. Grian's constantly caught biting his laughter like his tongue between his teeth, unsure if what Scar's just said was a joke or something earnest not meant to be poked fun at.

It makes the spotlights all the more difficult to bear. They're budget, at best, but the heat lingers. The brightness persists, like someone's holding his entire body up to a flashlight and he can't help but glow red, hot and embarrassed and sweating to death in his three layers of costume. He feels like a middle school science fair frog splayed out, pinned to a tray and reeking of formaldehyde, waiting for the final plunge of a scalpel to tear him in two.

Graphic? Maybe. But there's no better way to describe the feeling of Grian's chest tearing in two when Scar comes from backstage, crossing stage left to meet Grian at center stage. The lights are hot and Grian can't exactly breathe. He's repeating the same next three lines in his head, over and over, because somehow he's worried he hasn't remembered them yet. Because somehow, somewhere, they're long gone by the time Scar makes it to center stage. By the time Scar grabs his hand the same way he did it last night and the night before.

This wasn't Grian's plan. He's no actor. He doesn't belong on a stage. But Scar's looking at him and even when the seats are empty, tonight's performance hours away, Grian can't help but feel the weight of a thousand stares. A packed house. That's the effect those two green eyes have on him, and it makes him sick to my stomach.

They're staring at him. Expectatntly.

Shit. The line. What the hell is the line?

"Um." Grian licks his lips, wondering if he can pass off punching Scar as a bold character choice. "It's... I—"

"Forgot?"

Grian's scowl twitches. "Don't sound so biggity."

"You look good like this," Scar says, ever the disarmer. And it makes Grian want to punch him all the more.

"You mean sweating under a pound of stage makeup?" Grian raises his eyebrows at him.

"Flustered," Scar says.

#don't ask what this is.#I don't know #I started writing bc I cannot write anything else ever ig and this happened so I'm letting it roll #scarian #desert duo #hermit shipping #sorry I couldn't help myself it just kinda happened #birdie writes

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giddythekitty · 16 hours ago

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A little speculation of mine regarding shifting

Disclaimer: Everything I say in this post is only what I think might be blocking some of us in shifting to not-parallels. Take it as you wish but don’t come for me because I warned you.

So, shifting.

We already know social media is an issue, lots of people talked about it before. But I kinda want to dive a little deeper.

Because yeah, social media(including Tumblr) does affect you, but why?(and also a few secondary causes)

Burnout

Usually(me personally) I spend a lot of time doomscrolling on Tiktok or here on Tumblr and looking at things about my s/o or my cc or a friend there or the likes. While it’s not exactly a bad thing to look for ‘motivation’ per se, it kills some intention to shift to that reality because you have a small substitute for it here.

2. AI chatbots

Remember, your subconscious can’t tell the difference between what you see and what you tell it you see. Same goes for conversations or movies or books. Maybe even dreams. It doesn’t differentiate between a real conversation and one with a chatbot, so again, some of that intention is killed.

3. Daydreaming/‘roleplaying’

Am I saying either of those are bad things? No. Am I saying they are absolutely terrible for you if you want to shift? No again. What I’m saying is if you do it too much it might also affect your intention and/or motivation to shift. If you need an example, I’ll give one. I like to listen to music a lot, because it’s a coping mechanism and an escape from ‘the real world’. Usually many of these songs are accompanied by scenes I make up in my head and most of the ones I personally have are related to who I am in one DR but talking to some characters from a different place. Like a crossover of the sorts. There is not a single day where I haven’t listened to at least one song.

4. Looking at other shifters for help

So many shifters have said it before and by god am I tired of saying it too, but shifting is a path of self discovery. Like a puzzle. You’re given the pieces and the final image, but you’re the one who has to put them together, not someone else for you. You already have all you need, wasting time looking for answers to questions like ‘why am I not shifting’ or ‘what else do I have to do to shift’ can become hurtful. Sure, advice from time to time is helpful, but constantly doing it won’t get you anywhere.

Your mom didn’t spoon feed you your entire life, did she? She showed you how to do it yourself when you were old enough to learn, and you had to practice on your own and build up strength in your little toddler hands how to hold a spoon properly so you can eat.

So what do all these have in common and to do with shifting?

Simple: Intention and Motivation. Your will to get there.

Now I’m not saying to stop them all together, but I am saying that they should be cut off— rationed if you will— significantly if it means those of us with said issue want to get rid of it.

Again, it kills the intention to shift. Your conscious can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what’s fake, so it always thinks seeing an edit of your favorite person is really similar to seeing them IRL. From my point of view(mine personally), intention isn’t always there.

Let’s give another example and pretend intention is sugar. Sweetness in general. If you have it sometimes, you’re fine. Maybe you want more, but it’s okay. If you take it in big quantities though, it can become an addiction and lead to diabetes or an insulinic shock.

Now pretend all those things I counted out above as the sugar. You take too much and you might end up hurting yourself at some point or just staying at the same level. Spending all day doomscrolling, looking at other peoole for help, chatting with ais and so on, all while having the ‘it’ll help me shift tonight’ mindset won’t get you too far because you’re just exhausting yourself.

And no one’s saying the change has to be instant. You can’t stop an addiction immediately because it’ll just hurt you more, but you can slowly lessen the dose until it’s minimal or nonexistent. At the end of the day you’re only helping yourself, and what’s a thousand years to an eternity of bliss?

I know this is long, but I feel it needs to be put out there. This feels like important information/advice/take it as you will, and let me know if you have questions and I’ll make sure to answer/clarify them.

Happy shifting and take a break if you need to.

#reality shifting #shifting #shifting community #shiftblr #anti shifters dni #shifting realities #shifting mindset #law of assumption #loa #shifting motivation #shifting advice #you are the god of your own reality #but even gods need rest

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luckyjak · 17 hours ago

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how I would fix veilguard

general note: I enjoyed Dragon Age: The Veilguard and it is very easy, post game release, for me (a person who doesn't work for Bioware and isn't the game's developers) to sit back in my armchair and go "This is what they should have done instead." That said, this is the internet, and I have opinions, so let's roll.

also, spoilers, obviously.

First, I would have made two games out of the material in Veilguard, not one.

Game one (which we will still call The Veilguard) takes place in Northern Thedas. The beginning of the game is the same: you interrupt Solas's ritual, and Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain escape. However, rather than taking over Thedas together, the two decide to divide and conquer: Ghilan'nain takes over the North, and Elgar'nan takes over the South.

Most of the game stays the same. You still play as Rook; however, the game starts with Varric recruiting you, so you get a chance to spend time with Varric before, you know, Solas. You still recruit your seven friends. For pacing purposes, romance and friendship scenes occur faster. This is because we're going to end the game sooner.

We're going to shave off all of Act 3.

Why would we do this? Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan are both stand-out villains who deserve their own time in the spotlight. As it is now, we hardly spend any time with Elgar'nan other than the constant looming threat of him, and Ghilan'nain mostly comes off as his lackey as opposed to a full-fledged "mother of monsters" she deserves to be. By splitting them into two games, each gets to shine as a villain, and Rook doesn't seem like such a overpowered protagonist who is able to kill (potentially) three elven gods.

So, where does Veilguard end? Last mission of The Veilguard should be "Isle of the Gods" and it should end exactly as that mission ends: Ghilan'nain's death, the realization of where Varric has been all along, and Solas trapping Rook in the Fade. Rook is trapped in the prison of regrets, realizes they are trapped, and then bam, end credits.

but wait, doesn't Veilguard suck now then? Most people agree acts 2 and 3 are the best part! And they are! But I think with tighter pacing, the whole game is improved. Remember, we are moving companion's Act 3 moments up to the end of Act 2 as well. We won't spend quite as long wondering when Lucanis will ever talk to us if we have his romance happen sooner, and that becomes true of all the companions.

So does the "Hero of the Veilguard" thing matter? It does, but not until the next game! Hold your horses!

So, now we make Game 5: Dragon Age: Dreadwolf. At the end of the last game, Solas established himself as a villain (by putting Rook in prison) so now it's time to really mess with that.

For starters: Game 5 cannot happen unless world state is included, and I'm talking about most of the Keep. Game 5 takes place in Southern Thedas, with the focus being on Fereldan, Orlais, and the Free Marches.

You play as the Inquisitor once more. You get to decide what happened between you and your LI in character creation: are you married now? Did you break up post-game? The game starts with you saying goodbye to your LI (if you still have one) then getting on a ship. No need for dialogue from LI, so no excuses about hunting down voice actors. The game starts with you getting a spirit hand, so that you can once again be the hero of the land. The ship is your Lighthouse, your base of operations that is always moving.

Your companions are:

dwarven grey warden woman (warrior)

human or elven orleasian bard man (rogue)

qunari runaway saarebas woman (mage)

spirit of wisdom (mage) *this is Solas in disguise, spying on you.

human avaar man (warrior)

human woman who definitely killed her husband (warrior)

dwarven artificer who is making bombs and got exiled to the surface (woman, rogue)

elf man who used to work for Solas but deflected (mage)

DLC character: my son Kieran, who is customizable, and also a blood mage

All of them are romancable if your Inky is single except for maybe Kieran.

Don't worry, though: you get frequent letters from your previous LI's giving you life updates (except for Solas but like. you know)

The core gameplay loop is sailing the Waking Sea to defend people from darkspawn and try to find more info on Elgar'nan, who is definitely causing trouble.

Places you visit:

Highever (Fereldan): I have legit always wanted to go there. Saving my origin character's hometown that is currently being ravaged by darkspawn? Fuck yeah

obviously, the slaughter of Denerim (Fereldan). Bonus points if we save the life of King Alistair/Queen Anora

Ostwick (Free Marches)

Val Royeaux (Orlais)

Cumberland (Orlais)

Maybe also Orzamar?

Jader

Final battle at Halamshiral because we love a callback.

Essentially, all the stuff we hear about in Inky's letters about the south, we now get to experience in the game.

Elgar'nan has done something fucky with time magic and now Halamshiral is half modern Orlais, half ancient elven empire. He's trying to bring the veil down, and Solas is unsure if he wants to stop him, or wait until he brings the Veil down to stop him.

Inky requests Rook from the Fade. Rook tells Inky about Solas's betrayal. Double-team Act 3 time, where people may still die depending on faction strengths in Veilguard, and who/what Inky has managed to save in Dreadwolf.

Assume you manage to stop Elgar'nan, and then the question becomes:

Do you, the Inquisitor, stop Solas? Save him from himself? Or die trying?

#dragon age #datv spoilers #datv #dragon age the veilguard #how i would do the games

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arcanarix · 19 hours ago

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Make That Double, Ch11 - Yan!SatoSugu X Fem!Reader [AO3]

❥ Word Count: ~6.8K

❥ Warnings: none in this chapter

❥ Summary: Double the trouble, or double the fun? Difficult to say when you're unfortunately roped into the affairs of two powerful shamans who can't leave each other alone, either.

Slower moments have become a bit rarer, and you cherish the moments where Geto keeps his hands entirely off of you. Especially around the twins, he’s come to respect the idea that you want to keep those matters entirely separate. Even if in his mind, he might think that a happily married couple who can’t keep their hands off each other is a healthy thing for the twins to see, you just don’t want to entertain it yourself.

Because no matter what he thinks, none of this is fucking real.

Geto and the twins have taken the liberty to take you out, first to a bakery as per tradition (the girls can’t go without their sweet treats), then a stroll around the park (again, as per tradition), and Geto insists remaining behind for a bit for a picnic and some sight seeing. While you engage with the twins, he sets aside time for solo meditation in the fields.

“Mom! I’m so excited for you and Mr. Geto to get married!” Nanako exclaims in the middle of attempting to snatch one of their hand-held game consoles from Mimiko. Mimiko huffs at her sister, keeping the console just out of Nanako’s reach while she’s got her brows furrowed in concentration, trying to beat another level at a classic Sonic the Hedgehog game. “It’s going to be so great for you to really be our Mom for real!”

“Nanako! For fuck’s sake,” Mimiko scoffs as she shoves her away. “Wait your turn! I’m almost done with this level and then you can play!”

“Girls,” Geto cautions from afar. “Be kind to each other! Remember I don’t like to see you two fight.”

“We’re not fighting!” they shout back in unison and you can’t help but hold back a little snort at that. Typical sister behavior.

“She’s just being rude as usual,” Mimiko sneers while shooting a glare at her. Nanako fumes, her nostrils flaring.

“Well you’re just hogging the game!” Nanako shoots back while scrunching her nose in disgust.

You find your lips twitching into a little smile at the exchange. Such a normal one in spite of the world they’re in, where you’re still not sure if you can make any sense of it. But little moments like this—where they behave like people and not like they’re plotting to change the world to fit an agenda that doesn’t seem plausible in the long run—it doesn’t feel that way here.

“So which one of you is the older twin?” you ask playfully, knowing full well that’s not the sort of question you want to ask twins.

“I am,” Mimiko points out in a matter-of-fact tone, side-eying her sister, and Nanako huffs in response. Such animated reactions from Nanako which is hallmark for the younger sibling in your experience.

“It doesn’t matterrrrrr because I’m the prettier one,” Nanako retorts while sticking out her tongue. Mimiko rolls her eyes at that and the game plays the level complete jingle when she hands the console over to Nanako.

“Finally! Sheesh, you take forever to beat these levels,” Nanako taunts as she navigates her character—she prefers Tails while Mimiko goes with Knuckles or Shadow—through the next underground level.

You giggle again at the scene and freeze the moment you feel Geto’s presence creep up from behind you, settling beside you and pulling you into his chest. You don’t say a word, shutting your eyes as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head and then to your temple. His arms snake around your waist, securing a protective hold.

“You seem like you’re enjoying yourself,” he murmurs, his tone tender, and his eyes flicker with a bit of amusement, but not from tormenting you this time. No, no—he’s happy you’re trying to make an active effort to be a part of this family.

For a moment, things go still between the two of you, and it’s not uncomfortable, exactly. You take notice of the way the sun’s warmth bathes your skin and you ground yourself with the sound of the soft rustling of leaves as soft gusts of wind rushes by. The more you concentrate on grounding, the more you can feel the pounding of Geto’s heart. A gentle ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump rhythm may have been a therapeutic one if it’s from someone else.

But you remember your place. You’re not free yet.

He calls your name and your eyes snap open again. He glances down at you with his eyes shining in the sun, twinkling like the little gemstones those violet eyes of his resemble. Yes, he does appear something akin to royalty, but he’s a slippery serpent beneath that fair facade.

“Yes, darling?” you whisper, wishing dearly to escape to another reality where you’re not in this cage.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your skin as he presses another kiss to your temple. “We all love you.”

He can believe that all he likes, but you know it can’t be true. Your fingers play with a few stray strands of his hair which gleams so brilliantly in the daylight. He does have such beautiful hair and such beauty is wasted on a man of his nature.

“I know,” you reply, but you don’t know. Not really. You’re not sure if you can ever believe a word that comes out of his mouth because there’s always going to be something else to decipher. “I know you do, darling. I’m happy that you’re happy with me.”

His finger trails along the gold chain on your neck, admiring how it reflects the light. That same finger dares to dip lower to trace little patterns along your collarbone and you suppress a shiver throughout your body.

“You make me the most alive I’ve felt in years,” he remarks—he’s been saying that a ton more lately, you notice—his tone reverent, like he’s praying to you like you’re his God instead. His hand finds yours, intertwining them as his thumb massages along your knuckles. Soft. Slow. Gentle. But each touch leaves behind a tingling sensation like in a way he’s marking you in a much more discreet way, in a more insidious way. You feel as if you’re restricted from movement or from any true protest, his hold on you tight, suffocating, much like his overall presence in your life is.

Somehow this feels more intimate than any time you have with him in bed which somehow feels impersonal and detached. “All I wish is that you feel like you belong with us because you do, my love.”

The smile that forms on his lips is soft; it’s such an unusual sight—like he’s trying to find some inkling of the man he might have been once upon a time before you came into the picture. Your lips purse; what kind of man had he been in the past? Any different to the version of himself now? At one point, has he tried to be kind?

You don’t know why you’re so curious all of a sudden, but if there’s anything the world has taught you, it’s that villains in the story are made, not born right off the bat.

“Sheesh, get a room, Mr. Geto,” Nanako grimaces while watching the two of you interact. Mimiko has a blank but you can definitely read displeased expression on her face. Your complexion pales at the remark and Geto can’t help but laugh in that empty and condescending way of his until his shoulders shake and he adjusts you so that you’re in a more comfortable position in his lap.

“I’m sorry, Nanako,” he replies through a string of hearty chuckles. “Don’t mind us. You focus on your sister.”

“Kind of hard to do that when you’re making it all gross and hot and heavy and we’re stuck watching it like non-consenting voyeurs,” Nanako quips with a flat look on her otherwise animated face. Mimiko hums in agreement.

“Well, at least we know Geto hasn’t forgotten how to charm a woman,” Mimiko points out with a note of sarcasm as she quirks an eyebrow. “For a while there I was concerned that with you being all work and no play you had forgotten how to find pleasure in the simpler things in life, Mr. Geto.”

You cover your own flushed face, and you can feel Geto’s gaze avert to you and the embarrassment sinks deeper into your very core of your being. You don’t even know why you feel this way but you have made it a point in the past not to behave in such a way around the twins.

You don’t even like entertaining this.

“You two,” Geto objects, and you can’t believe you see him fighting back a flushed face himself. This is the first time you have seen him lose his composure like this. “Don’t make me ground you both again.”

Nanako gawks, appalled, sticking her nose into the air before twisting herself fully away so she doesn’t have to witness the two of you faux doting on each other while she tries to focus on the Sonic level she’s still in the middle of completing.

You laugh openly again at her reaction and are then cut off as Geto jerks you to his direction, his lips hovering just above yours as your bewildered eyes bore into his before they squeeze shut the minute his lips meet yours. This time the kiss isn’t forceful or invasive, but coaxing. Gentle. A hand rakes through your hair as he deepens the kiss, the flat of his tongue resting over yours. As he pulls away a barely visible line of spit connects your lips and he breaks off the connection with a little flick of his tongue. His face is still flushed but more so from arousal than embarrassment.

“My love,” he rasps in a seductive manner, cradling your face.

“We all adore you so,” he reminds you again.

You don’t protest when he captures your lips in another passionate, consuming kiss—mostly because it might cause a bit of an unwanted scene—your arms snaking around his neck, your lips moving against his to appease his efforts. That’s what he wants, isn’t it? To seem normal, healthy?

You can do that. Just for a while longer.

The day you loathe is rapidly approaching. Miss Suda has taken the liberty of assisting you with your wedding preparations along with a few of Geto’s other servants. Geto has all the money in the world to throw away for the sake of the spectacle, and he’s all about showing off.

You stand there motionless before the large mirror spanning one wall almost like an accent, hands to your sides as Manami Suda fusses around with the silk of your wedding kimono. Her fingers are nimble, deft; her voice remains soft with that underlying edge of disdain (whether toward you or toward Geto is hard to discern for sure); her words with you are jagged and sharp like the jewels on her neck.

“I know you don’t want to do this,” begins Suda, her tone lacking any true comfort in them. “But I guess, playing the long game comes with its compromises.”

You do not respond to that. More like you don’t have any real response to that that won’t come off as bitter and vindictive which you do have every right to feel. Because if there’s one aspect of your agency Geto can’t change, it’s your right to feel the way you fucking feel.

In a way, you think of your silence as another way to protest. It’s one she dismisses easily with a sigh, though. She continues to shuffle around you as she adjusts your kimono, examining, assessing every curve and crevice of your body, determining your measurements, practically eyeballing it and not really utilizing the tape measure in her hands. Almost like this stuff comes as easy as breathing for someone like her, and given how effortlessly fabulous you think of her, it can’t be too far off.

The kimono she’s chosen for you is a beautiful one, but wearing it feels like a ball and chain, just a bitter reminder of your sorrows since your arrival here and now Geto hopes to pin you down permanently.

“For a week before the binding ceremony, you’re expected to fast along with Geto,” Suda explains, her voice still as detached as ever like she’s discussing something completely arbitrary like today’s weather. She gestures for you to lift your arms, her eyes scrutinizing the intricately patterned silk as it falls gracefully around your figure. “Then during the first ritual, he’s going to mix his blood with yours, but not the other way around this time for obvious reasons.”

Your eyes flash with irritation, undirected at Miss Suda of course.

Gee, you might have never guessed! Your lips curl into a bitter little smile at that notion. How can it be otherwise with someone like Suguru Geto, their ‘enlightened one’? Someone who can never dare taint his pristine sorcerer blood with that of a lowly monkey like you, even if he claims to love you. This marriage feels more like a purification process.

What an audacious way to put it, but that seems right up Geto’s alley.

“So what else should I know about the ceremony?” you dare to query like you’re interested in what to brace yourself for but your voice drenched in sarcasm. You fail to mask the bitterness in you but you figure it doesn’t matter around Miss Suda. As a woman, she understands your plight, your disdain, your reluctance to accept the status quo, and certainly empathizes with you but she has to maintain some semblance of her mask should Geto waltz into the room uninvited.

“Well, a long-winded speech from Geto, I suppose,” Suda answers with a sigh that borders on sympathetic. As sympathetic someone as stoic as her can appear toward non-sorcerers, even if you are a sister regardless of your status. “And you have to give one as well. I can help you prepare one. I can’t expect any sentiments you have for Geto are anything positive.”

Oh, if only. Maybe then this all won’t feel like such a fucking joke but here you are, about to be tied to a man you despise more than words in your extensive vocabulary can express. That says something.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath, practically seething at the mere prospect. “Guess he’ll find any way to stroke that already over-inflated ego of his…”

Manami chuckles at that as she steps back to admire you in your wedding kimono.

Her dark green eyes meet yours through the mirror as she adjusts some of the wrinkles on your hips.

“I think I got all of your measurements. I’ll tailor the kimono to complement your body. You’ve got quite the figure,” Suda compliments with a small smile. “And of course, we can figure out what we’re going to do about hair and makeup. It’s still your wedding day, and while it might not be your dream wedding, we still want you to look your best.”

The words fall flat. Practically meaningless to you but you know she’s actually trying to forge some kind of bond with you and she doesn’t even need to do that.

You mumble a half-hearted, “Thank you, Miss Suda,” as your gaze lands on the mirror again. The reflection staring back is someone you no longer recognize. While the kimono is stunning as you’ve stated before, it’s an iridescent cascade of blues, silvers, and a hint of some pink shifting beneath the lights, it still feels like a mockery. Just some cheap version of a bride’s gown (even if Geto has spent a fortune on this damn fabric).

“Please, call me Manami,” Suda waves off, her dark green eyes twinkling with something that you can’t name. “Of course. I’m going to grab some more supplies, so hang tight for a few, alright?”

Manami then saunters out of the room with a little flounce to her shapely hips (that you’re a bit envious of yourself, you can’t help your eyes trailing after her a bit) and into the restroom to fetch more supplies, her absence leaving you alone with your raging thoughts. The silence is suffocating, deafening—broken only by the soft rustle of the silk kimono as you shift in your spot.

You give yourself another once over, glancing once again at your reflection, but all that stares back is still a stranger to you. You long for the woman you once were, someone full of fight and might and spirited as ever, but she seems beaten and bruised when you look hard enough past the superficial. All the little marks Geto or Gojo have left behind has tainted your perception of yourself. You feel dirty, used recklessly by two horrid men. You appear more fitting as a servant girl than a greedy sorcerer’s wife, yet he deems you the worthiest among a sea of unworthy.

You find your mind beginning to wander off to another reality, envisioning a scenario where you marry your real dream man and not some nightmarish ghoulish version of him that you find in Geto. You think of someone who’s attentive, someone who’s kind, someone who doesn’t coerce you or force you into some twisted fantasies his best friend has about sharing his girl. You’re not even his girl and you refuse to address yourself as such. Not without the title he’s thrust upon you being laden with resentment and bitterness. Foul like those curse spirits Geto is forced to consume.

You only ever hear him speak ill of his cursed technique, and you’re surprised he even vents to you about such thing when before he doesn’t bother to discuss his rituals in exorcisms of unsuspecting clients. In some ways, it seems that he’s begun to use you as a way to ground himself between the burdens he’s forced to carry on his labored shoulders. It’s almost as if…when he speaks anything of his role as a sorcerer, he doesn’t view his role as his sworn duty. More like an obligation he’s been forced into himself.

It’s almost as if…being a sorcerer is something he’s never wanted, either. While he enjoys being worshiped like a deity without a shadow of a doubt, he doesn’t appear to want to do this all alone. Yes, you understand you’re here to fill a certain void Gojo won’t be able to fill at one point in the future. But there’s something else there that you just can’t wrap your head around.

There are still too many missing pieces to this large puzzle. But the sooner you fit everything together, the sooner it might be easier to get the fuck out of there.

After the first few bits of preparations for the ceremony, you retire back to the bedroom and prepare a bath for yourself. Geto has not yet returned from his typical duties, and you don’t really care to wait much longer. You shut off the main lights and lit some tea lights to rim the bath tub and help yourself to some of the Epsom salt and bath oils Geto likes to spoil you with from time to time. This might have been even better with a bath tray full of bountiful gourmet snacks, but you can do without them.

As you wait for the bath to fill up you reach for some other supplies. In the middle of twisting around you realize the mirror beginning to crack and a shard flies toward your hand and you shriek from the contact, frightened out of your wits as you scramble out of the restroom and slam the door shut. You can’t even see what attacked you; it just seems like it came out of nowhere and now you’re fully naked with a sliced up hand and as blood drips out from the large gashes you try desperately to dab it clean with a towel you still had in possession.

Geto rushes through the door upon hearing you scream, calling out your name —what timing—and his eyebrows flash upon seeing you so shaken up, like you’ve seen a ghost which in his world isn’t far off because you couldn’t perceive who or what had been in there with you.

Geto dashes to you what feels like seconds, careful in handling you as you try to babble some excuses over what happened, trying to tell him you’re fine and it’s just a few scratches but he hushes your rambling and tells you to calm down.

Funny words coming from a man who looks far from calm about this.

Geto gingerly grabs the injured hand. He inspects the cuts and gashes, his eyebrows furrowing into what almost seems something akin to concern. It almost looks like how he looks when he tries to express guilt for when Satoru takes things too far between the three of you.

“Who dared to do this to you?” he demands, his voice low, grainy, feral eyes meeting your frightened ones. “Who the hell did this to you?”

“I-it was an accident,” you stammer, struggling to form a coherent response and a little dazed as you take in what’s happening—he’s not just concerned, he’s absolutely furious. Not with you, but with what’s happened to you? Are you sure you’re not hallucinating this entire thing? “I-I was just trying t-to reach for something and s-something cut me. I couldn��t tell what it was and I—!”

His piercing violet gaze renders you nearly breathless, as you endlessly babble on and on and on trying to find the right words but he lets out a sigh out of irritation. It’s not directed at you.

“—Someone attached a curse to you,” he interrupts while a deep scowl stresses his features, his forehead wrinkling. “It’s one I don’t recognize. I’ll take care of the problem, but I’m taking you to the infirmary to get this taken care of or actually…”

He trails his finger along the edges of the largest gash on your hand, his touch gentle, tender, but also clinical like he’s trying to examine your wound like a medic. You grimace from the light sting from the contact, tears welling in the corners of your eyes. He mutters a half-hearted apology under his breath as he gathers some supplies to help clean and disinfect the wounds.

“I’ll take care of this myself,” he snarls in a sharper tone. “I won’t let you out of my sight.”

He’s gentle with his handling of you, such a stark contrast to what you usually see from him. If you don’t know any better you might have glimpsed at something a bit more humane beneath the numerous layers of the role he’s forced into himself as some kind of deity. You know better than to trust what he chooses to show you. It’s all part of some grand scheme. That’s all he knows how to do; he’s a puppeteer. He knows how to string those around him along and it’s not just limited to you. You see that in how he slaps Satoru around like an obedient dog even if he claims to love him too. You can’t tell if a man like him understands what love really is.

If someone like him can truly love at all.

You examine his gestures with a quizzical look on your face. Nothing about this guy adds up at all; everything about him is a conundrum, a mystery. You don’t even understand the half of what kind of burdens that weighs so heavy on his shoulders.

“There,” he comments after a period of silence, inspecting your hand for any cuts or gashes he may have missed while tending to the wounds and ensuring everything is bandaged up. He cradles your hand in both of his, and your jaw slackens as you scrutinize him. It’s hard to make out what thoughts might be raging in his mind, but you’re shocked to find he truly is concerned for your safety.

"Suguru?” you inquire, tilting your head as you continue to search his eyes for something beyond what he chooses to display. You can’t understand it. Does he actually think you’d fall for this? That you’re going to believe he cares for you?

“You don’t have to speak,” he mutters as he leads you to the bed and gestures for you to rest on it. You follow his order without another word. One of his hands brushes through your hair as a way to ground himself, perhaps he’s grappling with what his next steps should be in figuring out who’s planted that curse he’s probably exorcised between this time and you haven’t realized it because you’re not yet gifted with the vision even with the aid of the talisman. He joins you on the bed and pulls you into him, his expression blank, unreadable. You take your uninjured hand and cup one of his cheeks, brushing your thumb against his skin.

“I’m alright now because of you,” you try to soothe him with false praise, but as long as he believes your words does it matter if they’re true or not? All you can ever say is what you know he wants to hear. No one ever likes the truth, especially when it hurts. “Thank you, Suguru.”

You bite down on your lip, snuggling yourself into him, just trying to bring him some semblance of reassurance, of comfort, something you wish you could have yourself but this brings you nothing but more and more resentment building a fortress around your heart. You feel him kiss you on your head again, hugging you close, breathing slow, controlled.

“No one should think of bringing harm to you,” he growls under his breath. “I’ll figure out who planted that curse and see to it that they’re executed on sight. No one should insult either of us like this.”

Your head snaps up at that. Both of you? Are your ears deceiving you? Why is he acting like this—? Why are you finding yourself falling for the act? Because that’s all this is to him, right? Just a little show?

“Suguru,” you begin tentatively, your hand dropping to his chest, drawing idle patterns as you usher for him to look at you. “Look at me; I’m fine now.”

Though I wish that curse offed me the chance it got, you think to yourself. Because if I can’t get out of here alive…

Geto grits his teeth at that, trying to find comfort in what you’re saying but failing; his grip around you constricts like squid arms and you feel your heart racing.

“I know,” he admits finally, loosening his grip as he steps out of bed. “You rest here. I need to take care of a few things. From tomorrow, we begin our fast.”

You nod and watch him as he ambles out of the bedroom, leaving you to dwell on everything.

Everything keeps making my head spin, you think, I don’t know what more to do…

Your eyes widen upon realization and you amble into the restroom to switch off the bath, thankful it hadn’t spilled over during all of this. As you perch on the edge of the tub, you hear the bedroom door creak open again and Geto returns, joining you in the restroom.

He’s brought you a bouquet of flowers, some more pain reliever, chocolates…

And you notice something else, a more bashful expression. Bashful. That’s something you’ve yet to witness from someone who prides himself on being composed and far too above such emotions.

He rests the bouquet of fresh red roses on the bathroom counter and rest the box of chocolates on your lap.

“Those are your favorite, aren’t they? You…mentioned that those were your favorite one time,” he mutters, his gaze averting elsewhere as though he’s trying not to make a big deal of this like he had just moments ago. “Are you alright?”

You blink, gripping the box of chocolates tightly.

“I am,” you whisper, “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll be fine. You exorcised whatever that was already, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he replies, his gaze landing on the broken area of the mirror. “We’ll get that repaired as well. It might have been a stray curse, but you never know. I’m not very well received in the world of jujutsu and their conservative ways, so they might’ve planted a few things for me here and there.”

Ah, paranoia. Always a fun look on a man who already has so many other issues.

“So you think that thing was really after you?” you ask him, fiddling with the box.

“Perhaps,” he concedes, sliding a finger down your cheek. “Or someone close to me.”

You don’t know how to respond to something like that. You go completely silent but he’s the one kneeling before you now, his hands resting on your knees.

“I see you were drawing a bath,” he comments in a low voice. “You’re free to do that now, of course. There’s nothing here to harm you anymore, Mamma.”

You nod, brushing your hand through his bangs, admiring how silky his hair feels. He takes such good care of it, and your fingers idly twirl a strand while you hum in response.

“Join me?” you invite him, and you catch him flushing slightly in response—yet another moment of bashfulness that’s so rare to see from him. You can’t believe what you’re asking, but this doesn’t have to be more than what it really is for you and that’s trying to fucking survive this torment.

His breath hitches but he stands up, disrobing before you and getting into the tub, the water sloshing a bit as he settles inside. He beckons you to follow and you do, allowing him to pull you onto his lap.

“You’re supposed to be safe here,” he says after a period of silence. You’re not really paying attention, focused on the way the flames on the tea lights still flicker every now and then. “You still are, as long as you’re with me.”

He can keep telling himself that, but you know your own truth, you rown reality. It’s a reality you sorely wish to escape from, but your spirit is beginning to fade.

The dreaded day arrives. As you are instructed to do, three days prior you have fasted alongside Geto as a way to honor the cult. It’s in a way seen as a spiritual awakening.

Following the first ceremony, there shall be a bountiful banquet that only shall be shared between the two of you; no other spectators so you can enjoy your first night as an officially wedded pair.

You stand close behind Geto before all of his devotees who are on a platform just below you. Nanako and Mimiko are hidden in the crowd somewhere, but you know they must be eager to finally see their efforts in making their father not be lonely actually work out for them. You so dearly wish to crush their spirits like they have yours…

The chanting from Geto’s followers begins softly, their voices murmuring in unison:

��Death to the fool, punishment to the weak, love to the strong…”

The words merge into a crescendo, echoing through the grand hall of the temple.

Ah, the classic prayer Geto scripts himself for his goons to chant to him and he soaks up the attention like he really is some kind of God. It can’t be further from the truth, but you figure here, that doesn’t matter. Here, Geto calls the shots. Geto is the man of the hour at all times. Now he expects you to share his throne even if this is not what you want for yourself.

“Death to the fool, punishment to the weak, love to the strong…”

Man, I knew the guy was full of himself, but this is just on another level, you think as you’re seated next to him on a raised platform as his followers kneel and pray to both you and him. They chant like soldiers at war. Their words echoing through the room. As one of his followers in a Time Vessel Association cloak ignites the large fire in the center of the room, that’s when the ceremony finally begins.

“Followers of Time Association, lend me your undivided attention on behalf of our Enlightened One, our Lord, and our King, Geto Suguru,” the follower wielding the dancing torch announces in a deafening tone to the rest of the room. Your gaze flits around each corner and you find Manami and Miguel standing at the very end of the room, observing the events. “Tonight, we gather to celebrate the union between our Lord, our King of the New World and his chosen bride. A worthy woman who has sworn herself to him.”

Such fucking lies, you think to yourself as your gaze flits downward to your hand, which is still healing from the gashes from your accident. Geto notices something amiss with you and rests his large hand over your injury free one, catching your attention. Your brows furrow as he gazes down at you with a blank expression. If you don’t know any better, you would have thought he was expressing concern for your wellbeing.

But you know if he truly cares he would not have put you through this.

As Geto is presented a knife with the Time Association engraving just like the one on your necklace, you wince as you watch him sink the blade ever so slightly to pierce the skin and draw a bit of blood before doing the same to you. You clench your eyes shut as you feel the slight sting but you can tell Geto is trying to be kind, to be gentle with you. He presses two fingers into the open wound and gathers a bit of blood to circle into your wound.

“Now your blood has been purified by mine,” he murmurs with a hint of affection—none of that condescending nonsense or something he often laces with some kind of ulterior motive. Nothing. Just pure affection and you can’t believe that you’re witnessing something like that from a scumbag like him. You see his eyes dilate ever so slightly. The follower returns with small bandages to conceal the small cuts.

Geto yanks you forward, closer to him, and he removes a bit of his yakata to showcase what he’s tattooed onto his collarbone. Your eyes widen into the size of saucers.

Your name. It’s etched into his skin in a royal blue ink. Something he has done to himself. The brilliant color seems to pulsate with some kind of energy one can barely perceive if they’re not actively looking for something else.

“We won’t force this of you, allow this to serve as a reminder of my loyalty and my love to you, my dear,” he tells you, his tone still abundant of affection and you almost want to scoff at him but you hold your tongue. This is not the time nor the place. No need to cause a scene before his loyal devotees.

He gestures you to stare ahead to the endless arrays of followers who still kneel before the two of you, filling the grand hall to the very brim. Nameless faces who continue to chant that fucking mantra like they actually believe in his cause but you know the truth. Many either join him out of obligation or something rather, something that aligns more with their agendas. Suda and Miguel are the only ones standing and Suda has her gaze averted elsewhere, like she can’t live with this.

“May everyone bear witness the bond between the worthy,” Geto bellows to the crowd as they all raise their heads in unison and cheer for all present for the ritual to hear. “Kneel before her. Pray to her now. For as long as she is by my side, she is a Goddess.”

His hand reaches out to brush your cheek with his knuckles. His expression melds into a soft one, and those sharp violet eyes flicker with something else—something almost human, the most human you’ve ever seen from someone who declares himself a deity, a pseudo-religious figure to a world outside of yours you still cannot wholly fathom. He must pity your lack of understanding but he hopes to bring you into his world, into this new world order where only pure sorcerers reign across Japan. Is Japan the only country he hopes to conquer?

The existence of sorcerers outside of Japan are rare; the existence of sorcerers altogether is rare—you’re from outside the country as is Miguel—but you’re dumbfounded by his spiel even still. None of it adds up. There has to be something you’re missing that’s just beyond what he preaches to his followers.

You just aren’t sure what that is.

“It wasn’t fate but chance that I met such a perfect specimen of woman,” he breathes, pecking your forehead in a shocking tender way. Such a goddamn mockery of what love should be, yet he believes fully in his feelings for you. You know better than to think he has any reason or logic behind anything he does or says. “You are now betrothed to me, as my Queen.”

What might have been a dream come true for any other woman in the world is nothing more than a cruel insult or joke to you. A wave of disgust overwhelms you, rearranging your insides like stew, and you find yourself clutching at your stomach as you fight back the tears threatening to spill from your exhausted eyes. The concealer Suda has used for your bridal makeup does wonders on concealing the deep dark eyebags.

You have never hated your very existence more than in this moment. There’s still another ritual to fulfill the following morning. A reception of sorts. A large feast. Geto showing you off to his lowly monkey followers like you’re some shiny beautiful object to him.

Suddenly you hear the sound of a classic band from the back of the room. The banging against Taiko drums drones through the room, soon accompanied by other traditional instruments. Geto leads you to a an empty area of the room, leading you into a slow dance.

It’s difficult to maneuver in a kimono but you follow his lead, your eyes never leaving his as there’s a layer of tenderness in them that takes your breath away for real this time. Your breath catches in your throat as he twirls you around before pulling you back into him. You’re engulfed in the heat from his body; you shiver under the weight of his affectionate gaze that feels so much more like a mockery to what a union between two souls should be. If he really believes this is real then you remember there’s nothing you can do to change his mind.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t find a way to work with this.

The music keeps at a slowed, even tempo as he guides you across the floor. You ignore the endless stares from his devotees, some still chanting that fucking mantra as he focuses on you. His hands slide lower to rest on your waist, twisting you away from the observers’ direct view like he’s trying to protect you from their scrutiny.

“I love you,” Geto calls to you again and your head snaps up to meet his gaze, still shockingly tender. Those violet eyes still glimmer with that intensity but it’s softer, affectionate. Gentle. All the things he’s so, so far from in your book. He tilts your head upward with two slender fingers tucked beneath your chin and you hold your composure the best that you can—fearful of causing a scene in front of all of his ‘subjects.’ “I adore you. Let’s retire for the day. We should eat at that banquet they’ve prepared for us and rest up for tomorrow.”

You glance away, a tear escaping your left eye. “O-okay…”

He wipes away the stray tear, tutting at your reluctance.

“A life with me is better than a life in that circus out there,” he hisses under his breath, words only you’re meant to hear. “Trust me. You’ll come to find this is a blessing in disguise, one day.”

That day may never come. However, you do pick up on something floating above him. A much clearer image of a curse, a small one resembling a rodent hovering just above Geto’s head.

This is the first time you’re ever able to see one even if your vision is still a bit faint, and suddenly you have to fight back the twitching of your lips as realization dawns upon you.

This is the seed that’s planted—your ticket out of there. Now all that’s left is to set everything in motion.

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cpvnksabm · 23 hours ago

Text

Please stop trying to "fix" RTC's disability rep without doing prior research, especially if you are able-bodied.

I'm not just saying this because, on principle, I think it's important to centre & uplift disabled voices in discussions of disability representation. I'm saying it because in practice, I've noticed that when people take the "canon sucked so I'm just going to change it" approach to Ricky's depiction in RTC, they frequently end up erasing the parts of canon's representation that were valuable and important to me, sometimes doing things that are worse than canon.

It's important for a fandom to be able to recognise canon's flaws, especially in its depictions of serious topics. But I often feel that the discussion of criticising RTC's disability rep is dominated by people who haven't done a lot of research or don't understand the issue.

I've found that most of the things I actually consider objective flaws in RTC's disability representation are incredibly underdiscussed. Instead, criticism tends to focus on a few specific points, most of which are things I don't agree with or things that are just objectively wrong. For example - it was not ableist to remove the scene where Ricky concedes the competition. At all. I could even argue that this was a positive change, but it gets lumped in with the more ableist script changes (the 2022 rewrites removing Ricky's disability) simply because both happened after the most popular proshot was released in 2016.

Another criticism I see frequently is the idea that canon should have named Ricky's specific disability and was bad rep for not doing so. I understand the idea behind this and somewhat agree with it, but I also think it's more complicated than most people give it credit for - Ricky specifically has a rare disease, meaning most of RTC's audience would not be familiar with it, and when the musical was written, the intended "official" watching experience was for people to see it live, in a dark room with their phone turned off. While the majority of the fandom (who got into RTC through bootlegs) would benefit from Ricky's condition having a known name that can be easily googled, I think it makes sense for the the writers to avoid using terms the average audience member wouldn't be familiar with, given they wouldn't be able to Google it unless they remembered it after the show.

This wouldn't be an issue, if not for the fact that fans frequently use "canon wasn't clear enough" as an excuse to erase the things that canon was clear about. There is a big difference between a character having some sort of "blank slate mystery disease", leaving it entirely up to the fandom to decide what disability he has, and a character who is explicitly said to have a rare degenerative disease with a clearly shown set of symptoms, without the exact name of the disease being mentioned.

I think part of the issue here is a lack of awareness. Many people don't understand how one disease would cause both Ricky's inability to speak and his need for mobility aids, and so they assume canon must have just chosen these symptoms at random. And since "choosing symptoms at random" isn't exactly a great approach to disability depiction, these fans then try to "fix" canon by coming up with separate plausible explanations for Ricky's symptoms.

But the fact is that Ricky's symptoms were not chosen at random - they are in line with symptoms that are caused by real-world neuromuscular disorders. This is heavily implied to be the type of disability Ricky has (I've made a post explaining why, check it out on my account if you want).

Seeing erasure of Ricky's disability is always upsetting, but it's even more upsetting when it comes from people who think they are "fixing" canon by removing "unrealistic" depictions of disability. A person being unable to talk and a mobility aid user due to neuromuscular disability is not unrealistic. Just because you aren't already aware of how something can exist, doesn't mean it is unrealistic.

And there are other issues too, such as whether the "feed him through a tube" meant anything with regard to ricky actually having a feeding tube or generally how well canon handled ocean's ableism, where I feel like people are too quick to jump to "I don't know why canon did that, must be bad representation, I'll fix it" without fully understanding the issue. And if you try to "fix" canon without understanding where it went wrong, you might just make it worse.

I just think it's time for everyone to step back a bit and remember that it's okay to not know everything. Ricky is a character with an underrepresented disability, and it makes sense that some things about him might not be things you've seen before or things you understand well. It's okay to be confused. It only becomes a problem when people make assumptions and then spread these assumptions without fact-checking.

It's very easy for misinformation to get spread online. One person makes a claim in a post, and other people just believe it without fact-checking, because they don't see why the OP would lie about it. And often OP isn't lying at all, but they may be misunderstanding something. A lot of the time, complex subjects like disability representation can be accidentally stripped of important nuance in a game of telephone, when a discussion aimed at one group of people gets taken out of context. And the 2017/2018 RTC scripts frequently get lumped in with the ableist post-2022 script, purely because they both come after the most popular version (the 2016 proshot bootleg).

So before you try to "fix" RTC's disability representation, I think it's important to take a step back and think about what you think RTC originally did wrong. What makes you think these parts were wrong? If it's simply because you don't understand it, or because other people have called it bad representation but you don't understand why, it's time to do some more research to figure out how to best fix it. Otherwise, you might do something that is also bad representation, or plain erasure - and you might do this in an attempt to "fix" one of the things that RTC actually did a good job of originally.

My asks are always open if you're interested in hearing one disabled person's perspective on how RTC handled a specific topic. Please do not assume you don't need to ask because you already know what my perspective will be, and please don't feel like you're bothering me by sending an ask. I am much less bothered by good-faith questions than by people speaking over me, even unintentionally, or taking it for granted that i'll agree with their views.

I think getting a disabled perspective is incredibly important if you're planning on changing any aspect of ricky's disabilty in fanworks - there is a fine line between genuinely improving on canon's flawed rep, and just erasing canon's rep (including the good parts) and excusing it with "well it was bad representation anyway". Remember, disability erasure isn't only when a disabled character is made completely abled - it is possible to erase an aspect of ricky's disability even if he is still disabled.

This is a little more blunt than my usual posts, but it is very important. Thank you so much for reading.

#rtc #ride the cyclone #rtc fandom #ricky potts #ricky rtc #ricky potts rtc #ricky potts ride the cyclone #save ricky potts #ricky ride the cyclone #harper explains

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brummiereader · 2 days ago

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@mischievouslittlecreature Asher 🥰. He's such a good boy!

That four legged fur baby was such a joy to read about when he took note of his mum as she internally battered herself 😩.

Lucy watched Tommy where he was perched on the arm of a couch and talking to Lizzie, feeling her heart squeeze painfully, quickly looking away. Urghh I hate it, I hate it, I hate it! It was ok in canon because there was no one else. But in this story, which honestly feels more realistic than the canon series 😍, I couldn't stand the image of this. It's just heartbreaking. I get increasingly pissed of at Tommy when he even talks to Lizzie lol. I know it's just a messy situation, and not really his fault, but it hurts me to see Lucy this way. I'm waiting for the day he experiences the same feelings of insecurities, jealousy and heartbreak as she does right now, Lilly! You gotta give us a jealous, moody Tommy to compensate for the the torment you're putting our dear Lucy through 😂.

She sat up a little when the room quieted so that Tommy and Arthur could each make toasts. At Tommy’s comment of being in a happier place, paired with a quick glance towards Lizzie, she swallowed painfully. Oof no, fuck that 😩! Arthur should never make speeches, look what happens when he does 😭.

I'm glad Lizzie is making an effort, and I thought it quite sweet how she approached them with a deck of cards to play a game. But her attitude always has me on edge as much as it has Lucy on edge. I feel like she could completely change her tune at any minute and start making her passive aggressive remarks again. Hmmm, I hope they both stay on their toes with her, and I REALLY hope, Tommy doesn't begin to underestimate her pettiness.

No, treacle, I didn’t know they took ya. If I did, I…” his eyes moved to the bandages that poked out from under the hem of her shirt. “That wouldn’t have happened. Ahhh I love how he talks to her 😩❤️. Which only makes this scene even more upsetting for Lucy. Although I don't know much about their relationship, it's clear that their genuine friends that care deeply about the other. But the famous line from the Godfather "it's not personal, it's just business" feels appropriate in this scene.

“We have to go back for the fucking dog.” Tommy heaved. - “We should take the dog,” Lucy spoke at the same time. They shared a look, then a small nod of agreement, and turned around to gather up Cyril’s lead and wrangle him with them towards the car. I love that you added this part, because this is exactly what I imagined happened. I would bet money on Tommy just coming to a stop with a huffy "fuck", knowing he's gotta go and get the dog 😂. Just one more animal to their growing zoo 🤭!

They’d both been drinking more. And his stash of opium for the pipe that they sometimes shared, usually enough to last nearly half the year, was already almost depleted. Most nights one or both of them woke up screaming. Ahh, loving the shared despair! And how they both were mutually going through the horrors, spiralling down together. It feels very intune to their whole relationship and their codependency. When one falls, the other rapidly falls after them. Even though it was a powerful scene to read, i think it was the fact that little Charlie saw his parents in this way that ultimately had them stop. They love that boy so much, enough to force themselves out of the pits.

The smut scene was so beautifully written. I'm honestly relieved they've been able to get back to that point where she feels comfortable enough to be intimate with him. They're both so passionate, so obsessed with the other that It would almost feel unnatural to not read about them in this way.

“Lucy, do you remember when you asked me if I’d ever thought about entering politics?” ahh shit, here we go 🤦🏼‍♀️😂. This line reminded of the scene with Freddie and Ada when she says about the moment his balls are empty it's back to politics 😅. Freddie and Tommy are more alike than they'll ever admit! But the problem with this line means...a tonne load more of problems are coming there way. One of the biggest, Tommy's marriage to Lizzie 😬.

Amazing chapter, hun! Can't wait to catch up on the latest one you posted as soon as possible 😍.

Part 21: The Shadow of the Abattoir

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: The vendetta may be over, but peace is still but a distant dream for both of them.

Word Count: 5,769

Notes: Warnings for depictions of trauma, chronic pain, insecurity, smut, and references to torture and pregnancy.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 28: Scarlet Fog

She sat huddled in a corner, watching the celebrations occurring around her as distantly as if she was looking in through the window. She supposed, in a way, that she might as well have been. No one had really paid her any attention throughout the entire gathering.

They were all assembled in one of the big sitting rooms in Arrow House, drinking and chatting and laughing. Lucy watched Tommy where he was perched on the arm of a couch and talking to Lizzie, feeling her heart squeeze painfully, quickly looking away.

She would have to get used to that: seeing them together. Side by side as their own little unit while she was pushed aside.

At least Tommy finally seemed happy again.

How horrible did it make her, that she found herself half longing for the time when it had just been her, him, and Charlie?

Of course she did not want Tommy to be miserable. Of course she did not want him and his family to be estranged. Things were better this way, of course they were. She could take it; feeling like she was an outsider encroaching where she was not wanted. Like she was not as valued. Not loved. She’d done it before, prior to the schism between him and the rest of the Shelbys. She could do it again.

At her feet, as if sensing her thoughts, Asher whined, raising his head. She gave him a tiny smile, reaching out to scratch him behind the ear. His tail thumped against the rug, looking up at her as if to say, I still love you, Mommy.

He’d been glued to her side since they came home, protective on account of her still healing injuries. She was grateful for his presence and companionship. Being alone had gotten a lot harder than it had been previously.

She supposed she would have to get used to it just being her and the animals for stretches of time. Moments spent alone with Tommy would get even rarer after Lizzie’s baby arrived. Lucy couldn’t help but wonder if she would see much of him at all.

She sat up a little when the room quieted so that Tommy and Arthur could each make toasts. At Tommy’s comment of being in a happier place, paired with a quick glance towards Lizzie, she swallowed painfully, trying hard not to read too much into the look, and failing miserably.

Surely it had to be coming soon. The inevitable. When Tommy sat her down and gently told her to pack her things. That he could no longer be with her. Because he loved someone else. And that someone else had demanded he chose between them. And of course he was going to choose the one he was already having a baby with. Who was loved by his family. Who wasn’t broken beyond repair. Who he could actually have a chance at a happy future with.

As if sensing her thoughts, Asher nudged at her knee with his nose, trying to draw her attention away from the ache in her heart. With stilted movements, she reached down to stroke his soft black fur.

Next was Arthur’s toast. A dreaded look crossed Tommy’s face at his brother’s insistence that he take a holiday. The expression only deepened when Arthur raised his glass to peace. Lucy wondered if Tommy was thinking the exact same thing that she was: there would be no peace for them. Not now; not ever. Not with the things that lived eternally inside their heads.

Once the toasts were done, everyone began slowly making their way towards the doors leading into the dining room. Lucy made no move to follow them, just shrinking tighter in on herself in her little corner whenever someone wandered past her.

“Lucy?”

At the sound of Tommy’s voice, closer to her than she’d expected–she had figured he’d just head straight into the dining room with Lizzie–she looked up. Those blue eyes of his were fixed on her questioningly, shuffling a little closer to her while everyone else drew further away towards the other room. Tommy cocked his head.

“Are you coming?”

Drawing in a shaky breath, she shook her head. Fingers still carding mindlessly through Asher’s fur, trying to focus on the soft pelt to keep herself grounded. “I’m not hungry.”

Tommy sank down into the vacant spot next to her on the couch. “Are you in pain?”

“No. I’m just tired.” Only half the truth. Her cuts and shoulders were starting to ache a little.

He frowned, one hand moving to rest on the cushions behind her back. “You’ve barely eaten since we got back, sweetheart.” When she didn’t say anything, he scooted closer to her. “You need to eat.”

“I’m fine.” Eager to change the topic, she swirled the remainder of whiskey in her glass before downing it, mind fishing for something else to talk about. “What did Lizzie have to say?”

“Nothing all that interesting. Just some things about a few renovations that she wants to make to her house.” She could feel Tommy’s worried eyes still fixed intently on her.

“This’ll be the first holiday you’ve taken in awhile. What do you think you’ll do?”

“I don’t know.”

Her gaze drew back to Lizzie where she was standing by the doorway, smiling and chatting animatedly with Polly. She’d been nicer to her since the kidnapping, but Lucy couldn’t help but feel a constant level of tension when around her, waiting at any moment for her to have said or done the wrong thing that would cause Lizzie to snap at her. “You should use it to spend time with her. Could even move into her house for a little while.” She looked down at her empty glass, in desperate need of a refill. “Be there for all the big moments in the pregnancy and everything.”

“And leave you here all alone?” Tommy asked. The worry she’d sensed in his gaze had leaked into his voice.

“I’d survive.” A lie, she was pretty sure, but he didn’t need to be burdened with that.

“You’re still healing.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“I know, but…I don’t want to leave you by yourself. If I have to take a bloody holiday, I’d rather spend it with you.”

Sighing, she kept her gaze glued to the floor until Tommy’s hand forced her head up, his icy blue eyes boring into hers, trying to read her mind.

“I am not leaving you alone.”

“But you should–”

“Fuck what I should do!” His throat flexed, eyes darting towards the doorway to make sure no one had heard him. Drawing in a deep breath to steady himself, he looked at her, jaw set in that stubborn way she knew meant she’d have better luck picking up an entire mountain than getting him to change his mind. “I’m not leaving your side. End of discussion.”

Shaky sigh leaving her lips, Lucy nodded defeatedly. The back of Tommy’s hand stroked over her cheek. The rest of the family had wandered out the doorway, leaving them alone.

“Please come to dinner.”

“No one wants me there anyway–”

“I do.”

For some reason, that made her feel like she was about to cry, leaning closer to his side unconsciously. When his fingers ran delicately through her hair, she closed her eyes. “Promise me you aren’t just saying that because you feel sorry for me.”

His fingers tightened a fraction where they’d come to rest on her shoulder. “I promise.” He turned her face to look at him. “I swear it on my mother’s grave. I want you with me always. Eh? Every second of every day.”

She closed her eyes, leaning into him, letting the words soothe her and abate the raging insecurities inside her. Even if only for a moment.

“Come on,” his lips moved against the top of her head as he kissed her forehead. “Please don’t make me face them all alone.” His chin shifted against her head, cheek laying against her hair. She huffed out a tired, breathless laugh against his chest.

“Alright. Since you asked so nicely.”

He took hold of both her hands with a small smile, helping her to her feet and entwining their fingers as they began to follow the route that the rest of the family had taken out of the sitting room and into the dining area. Asher padded along beside them, his ears twitching every once in a while as he remained watchful and protective in demeanor.

Tommy helped her into her seat next to him at the table, his ankle hooking around hers, the toe of his shoe every once in a while rubbing up and down along her shin whenever she started to get anxious.

Once the meal was over and everyone retired into the drawing room, she wound up seated on a couch with Tommy’s arm around her, her head resting lazily on his shoulder, trying not to doze off despite how tired she was. Lizzie eventually approached them timidly with a deck of cards, shyly proposing that they all play, and soon enough they had a lively game going amongst themselves and several family members.

For a little while, she thought that things might actually get better.

∗ ∗ ∗

Lucy quietly lamented the fact that she’d probably be picking little granules out of her socks on the drive back home as her boots sank into the sand. Overheard a seagull squawked, riding the cool wind that rushed over the beach. Waves roiled and crashed against the shore, lapping across the sand until they almost kissed the toe of her shoes. The sand where they were standing was damp, hardened over with moisture more so than the soft, dry mounds they’d had to traverse to approach the figure already standing on the otherwise abandoned beach when they arrived.

He was just looking out over the expanse of the waves, a huge bullmastiff seated next to him, his lead clutched in Alfie’s hand.

Lucy stared at her friend, confliction weighing heavily inside her. Despite everything, she still considered Alfie an important figure in her life. He’d helped to save her, a long, long time ago. And his position as an ally to the gang had brought with it significant advantages. But perhaps most importantly, she liked him. He was fun, and deep down she really did believe that he cared for her and Tommy.

Just not enough to stop him from betraying them when the price was right.

“Alfie, did you know that they took me?” she asked, voice hoarse. The salty wind whipped at strands of her hair, leaving them to dance around her face. Alfie, who until that moment had hardly turned his head to look at them, finally glanced over at her.

“No, treacle, I didn’t know they took ya. If I did, I…” his eyes moved to the bandages that poked out from under the hem of her shirt. “That wouldn’t have happened.” He said, looking at her regretfully before turning back to stare at the rolling waves. Lucy swallowed painfully at the truth in his voice, a little of the weight lifting from her shoulders at knowing that her friend had, at the very least, not been involved in the horrors that had been enacted upon her.

He and Tommy talked for a while more. Well, Alfie talked, Tommy mostly just listened, and then Tommy pulled out his gun from inside his coat. Lucy turned away, face contracting, unable to watch.

The pieces fell into place at Alfie's revelation of his cancer diagnosis. So he’d wanted them to kill him, then. Or maybe he was just saying it so they wouldn’t feel so bad after it was done.

She was still angled away from Alfie when he turned sharply on Tommy with his own gun, so she had no warning when a bullet suddenly skimmed across Tommy’s side. Tommy pulled the trigger of his own weapon on instinct, and a sizable chunk of Alfie’s face was blown off. Both men collapsed backwards onto the sand.

“Tommy!” Lucy lurched towards him, ignoring the way that the sudden movement pulled on her stitches. Her knees hit the sand, trousers growing damp from the moisture as she knelt at Tommy’s side, hands hovering over his torso. He groaned softly, legs kicking in the sand, damp granules sticking to the side he’d fallen on.

“I’m alright,” he mumbled, hand going to his side. Blood stained his palm when he drew it away. “I’m alright, it just grazed me.”

Lucy glanced over her shoulder at where Alfie laid on his back, unmoving. Cyril was whining softly in distress, nosing at Alfie’s face.

“I think he’s dead,” she said softly, not wanting to go over and actually check. Tommy swiped a hand down his face, gripping her hand to let her help pull him from the ground. She eyed his side worriedly. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

He drew his coat in tighter around himself, suddenly looking very small and fragile. “I’m fine,” but his voice was anything but, rough and rasping in his throat. He took one look at Alfie’s body and cringed away, arms squeezing tighter around himself. Lucy watched as his head bowed, sorrow etching onto his features. For a second she thought that he was going to cry. “Come on.” With a jerk of his head, he gestured for them to head back towards where they’d parked the car.

Shuffling to follow him, she curled close to his side, the pair of them beginning to slow trek off of the beach. The lump in her throat kept building every time she looked back at the figure splayed out in the sand. A few sniffles left her, and she hastily wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“He fired to force you to shoot him,” she noted quietly as they walked. With how close they’d been, there was no way that Alfie would have missed his shot like that if he’d actually wanted to cause Tommy legitimate harm.

“Yes.”

She tightened her arms around his bicep, cheek squishing against the soft material of his coat as she sought refuge from the chilly air against him.

They got about halfway down the beach before they both stopped at the same time.

“We have to go back for the fucking dog.” Tommy heaved.

“We should take the dog,” Lucy spoke at the same time. They shared a look, then a small nod of agreement, and turned around to gather up Cyril’s lead and wrangle him with them towards the car.

∗ ∗ ∗

Three months passed.

Lucy healed slowly, the scabs of her injuries scarring over into rough, pale bumps on her otherwise smooth skin.

Tommy knew that she was horribly self conscious of them. Really, he was pretty sure that she thought them far worse than they actually were. She was still beautiful to him, even if the sight of the criss-crossed marks all over her back triggered sorrow and guilt to wash over him at the reminder of the pain she’d gone through.

Slowly, she was able to do more. The stitches were removed and the bandages came off. Her shoulders were still giving her trouble, but according to the doctor, that would always be the case. He tried his best to help her, giving her massages and bringing her ice packs on the days that the pain was particularly bad. Applying salves that Polly sent over to help relax and soothe the muscles. By all accounts, she was considered healed. At least physically.

And yet she was worrying him. Hell, he was worrying him.

Golf. Fishing. Both were things he’d heard that other men liked to do on holiday, but he only got to the sixth hole at the golf course before throwing his club across the green field, not out of frustration, but from sheer boredom. The entire game was so…useless. Lucy had raised her eyebrows at him from where she was leaning against the little green plaque that displayed the hole number.

“You know you’re supposed to hit the ball with the club, right?” she’d asked. Tommy shook his head, yanking out a few notes to pass to the caddy carrying his clubs.

“We’re going home,” he mumbled, draping his arm around her as they started the walk to the car. “This is ridiculous.”

Fishing hadn’t fared much better. They’d been sitting by the bank, Lucy leaning into his side, eyes staring numbly out at the pond. For a second, the world was quiet and peaceful.

But the silence only made things worse. There was no sound to drown out the noises in his head. The horses and gunshots; the screams of men dying around him.

An explosion suddenly boomed around them, and he dove to the ground, taking Lucy with him as he sent them both crashing half into the pond in an attempt to use the bank as a source of cover against enemy fire. One of his hands curled over his head while his body pressed hers to the ground, attempting to shield her from the perceived danger. It wasn’t until more sounds–gunshots, not explosions like he’d originally thought–and the barking of hounds, erupted nearby that he realized it was simply a hunting party passing by, and not the war returned with the intention of swallowing him whole.

“Tommy?” Lucy asked, voice quiet. She had grabbed onto the front of his shirt in surprise, her eyes wide.

“Shit.” He leaned off of her, water sloshing around his legs, damp grass and dirt clinging to his arms where he’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. “Sorry.” He couldn’t quite meet her gaze, embarrassment burning its way across his cheeks.

“It’s okay.” She made no move to pull away, despite now standing nearly up to her waist in water thanks to him. Her head cocked a little when he flinched at another echoing crack of gunfire from the hunters. But she didn’t say anything, just reached out to flatten her palm on his chest. “Sweetheart?”

He finally snapped his head around to look at her. Fear suddenly seized at him as he processed how he’d practically grabbed and thrown her into the pond with him. “Fuck, did I hurt you?”

“What? No,” she shook her head. “I mean…my socks are wet now, but other than that, I’m fine.”

He’d helped her up out of the water, and quickly gathered together the fishing gear so they could head home. The fish weren’t biting anyway, and he didn’t want her sitting around in wet socks and trousers and catching a cold.

They arrived home to find dinner ready for them at the table after they’d changed into dry clothes. Not that either of them touched most of it.

Lucy had gotten almost as bad as him about eating. Where she once almost always cleaned her plate, she now often left it three fourths of the way full before pushing it away. And that was on the days that he was able to convince her to eat at all. Her body weight had dive bombed. She was even smaller than usual; so skinny it scared him a little.

He could feel Frances watching them worriedly from the doorway, hands clasped together, lips set in a firm frown that only deepened when they both rose from the table and went into the drawing room to finish off their evening with two large bottles of whiskey and gin shared between them.

They’d both been drinking more. And his stash of opium for the pipe that they sometimes shared, usually enough to last nearly half the year, was already almost depleted. Most nights one or both of them woke up screaming. He’d lost count of how many times he’d cradled her in his arms, rocking her gently against his chest, stroking her hair until she finally calmed enough to fall back into a fitful slumber.

She’d draw him into bed to make love, only to push him away a few moments later, sobbing and burying her face in her hands. The phone would ring, but they never answered it. Even during the middle of the day, they kept the curtains drawn, the lights dimmed. Everything was easier in the dark.

They drank, and cried, and held each other, and drank some more. The cycle repeating over and over. He knew that they were both spiraling downwards into a deep dark well. But he did not know how to pull them out of it.

Ultimately, it was not really him who gave the push for something to be done about things. It was Charlie.

He was sprawled out on the floor, so drunk he was almost going cross eyed. Glass, from the objects he’d knocked to the floor during his tumble, had sliced into his palms, blood running in thin rivers down his hands. Lucy was kneeling beside him, reaching out to try to get a look at where he’d cut himself. Despite her movements being as uncoordinated as his thanks to her equally drunken state. Her makeup was a smudged mess around her eyes, black smears trailing down her cheeks from when she’d been crying earlier.

The door creaked open, and Charlie peeked his little head in, and their eyes met. A look, not of sorrow or confusion, but complete, all encompassing disappointment crossed his little boy’s features as he took in the image sprawled out before him. Tommy swore that there was a hint of contempt in there as well.

“Charlie,” he choked out, trying–and failing–to scramble to his feet. Lucy’s head snapped around to fix on the boy, who was quickly ushered out by one of the maids. The door closed between them with a sharp, final click.

Tommy managed to finally heave himself to his feat, injured arms crossed around his middle. Shame, hot and violent, bowled into him, and he folded at the waist, face collapsing in on itself as tears rushed into his eyes and began to stream down his cheeks.

Never, never had he wanted Charlie to see them like this. But now he had, and that was something that would never be able to be undone.

“Tommy,” Lucy pulled him into her arms, letting him bury himself in her chest while he mentally collapsed almost entirely on himself. Her fingers petted at the nape of his neck and down his back, trying to soothe him as he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed against her.

The next day, he called Polly.

∗ ∗ ∗

Lucy retreated to bed when Polly came over in the evening, mumbling something about being tired. Tommy didn’t try to stop her. She still felt so fragile, he was worried that if Polly took any of her usual swipes at her, it would cause her to only crumble further in on herself. So he’d just sent her off with a gentle kiss and a promise that he’d join her as soon as he could, watching to make sure that Asher followed her as she climbed the stairs.

“Lizzie wants to see you,” Polly informed him not long after they sat down. Tommy’s stomach roiled with nausea, quickly looking away.

“No.”

“Tom, she’s showing,” Polly tried again, but that just made the sick feeling in his stomach surge. The mental image of Lizzie’s belly protruding as his baby grew inside her elicited nothing in him but dread. The idea of having another child was completely overwhelming, and he was often struck with constant worry at how it would affect Lucy once the baby finally came and he would have no choice but to spend more time with Lizzie.

He’d spent an awful lot of energy these past few months actively not thinking about Lizzie and the baby that would arrive in but a few short months' time. But Lucy…he had a feeling that Lucy spent far too much time thinking about them. She’d said some things, whispered mumbles while she was drunk, that made little sense to him. Things about how he should leave her. That she was bringing him nothing but unhappiness. How he could be happy with Lizzie if he just gave her a chance. He didn’t know if she was aware of the things she was saying, or if she even remembered uttering them after she’d sobered up. No matter how much he tried to soothe or contradict her statements, she always circled back to them. It was like an infection that was not actually getting cured, the symptoms only battered back for a little while by his reassurances before flaring up once again. He did not know how to entirely eradicate the insecurities brewing inside her.

“I don’t want to see Lizzie, Pol.” He looked down, ashamed at the words despite their truthfulness. He felt her looking him over, examining his reaction carefully. Ultimately realizing that now was not a good time to push the subject any further.

“How’s Lucy?”

That got him to look up, brow lifting. “Since when do you care?”

Polly shifted awkwardly in her seat, it being her turn to look away. Tommy frowned, the almost apologetic look on Polly’s face uncharacteristic, especially when it came to anything involving Lucy.

“Pol?”

“Aberama says that I’ve been too hard on her,” Polly sighed. Tommy blinked, too stunned to speak for a moment.

“You been talking with Aberama a lot lately?” he finally asked. Polly shrugged, squirming in place, clearly uncomfortable, looking for a way to dodge the question.

“How is she?”

He wetted his lips, fingers twitching around his cigarette. “Not good.”

“Francis said that she isn’t eating.”

“I can count her ribs with my hands when I hold her.” He mumbled, glancing at the drawn curtains that hide the outside world from view.

“After what Luca did to her, I can’t say that I’m surprised that she’s broken down. Took you right down along with her.”

He bristled. “It’s not her fault–”

“That’s not what I mean,” Polly shook her head. “What I mean is that, if she hadn’t fallen into the dark abyss, she would have been able to keep you from spiraling as well. Like she has before. You’re right. It’s not her fault. It was just shit timing, is all.”

“I don’t know how to pull her out of it, Pol.”

Polly fiddled with her fingers. “I think it’s time you both came back to work. Rattling around idly in here is clearly helping no one. Having something to focus your minds on will help.”

He nodded slowly, heaving out a breath. Polly stayed to talk for a little while longer, offering a few more sage words of advice before gathering up her things and leaving. After she was gone, Tommy spent a long stretch of time sitting and staring at nothing, the cogs in his head starting to slowly spin.

Jamming his cigarette into the ashtray, he stood, making his way to the stairs and towards the bedroom that he shared with Lucy.

She was already curled up under the covers, on her side with her hands pressed flat onto the pillow and her cheek resting atop them. Asher was laying in his dog bed in the corner, his big head on his paws, eyes watching them worriedly. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Tommy reached out a hand to rub across Lucy’s forearm. Her eyes opened slowly, head cocking against the pillows.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he moved his hand to stroke her face.

“How did it go?”

“Fine. She thinks we ought to go back to work.”

“Mm,” Lucy sat up slightly. “Probably not the worst idea.”

“Mhm,” he moved his hand to play with her fingers, tracing the places where she’d picked a layer of skin away while nervously fidgeting. The nervous habit had thankfully mostly ceased since they’d gotten her a replacement set of rings for the ones Luca had taken from her. It was not until Tommy had first noticed the little scabs on her fingers that he realized the importance of her having something physical to busy her hands with. Otherwise she started picking at herself.

“You’re scaring me, love,” he said, doing his best to keep his tone gentle and non-accusatory. And yet still Lucy’s lower lip started to tremble, tears filling her eyes.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know; I’m sorry. I…” her chest rose and fell deeply with her breaths. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault,” his fingers curled loosely around her wrist. “We’ve both fallen apart these past few months.” He looked at her regretfully. “I’ve done a shit job at taking care of you.”

Lucy frowned, sitting up fully, reaching out to cup the side of his face. “That’s not true. You’ve kept me alive.”

“I think that’s the very definition of the bare minimum, love.”

She shook her head. “With where my mind has been at sometimes, Tommy, it’s no small thing that you’ve managed.”

He let her words sink in, both hands raising to take her face between his palms. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She gave him a weak, not wholly convinced smile, and he kissed her insistently.

“I mean it. I love you.” Forehead laying on hers, he breathed in the scent of rose perfume that lingered on her skin. “We’ll get through this.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, angling her head up to kiss him again. Tommy trailed his hands carefully down her body, skimming them along the curves of her breasts, lowering to loosely hold her waist.

They’d had sex since the doctor deemed her fully healed. But he still felt the need to handle her as gently as possible; too worried about accidentally hurting her. The first time, he’d spent over an hour worshiping her body, placing kisses to each and every one of her scars, taking his time to make it clear that he still found her as heart-stopping beautiful as he did the first day that he saw her.

He took the same care now, delicately undoing the ties on her nightgown and sliding it off of her shoulders, lips pressing into her soft skin, following the raised lines of her scars. A groan left his throat when her fingertips sank into his hair, massaging his scalp when he dropped his head to take one of her nipples into his mouth.

That grip on his hair only tightened deliciously as he advanced lower, laying her down on the bed and spreading her legs so that he could lay between them, nosing at her cunt, breathing in her delectable scent before leaning forward to swipe his tongue across her clit.

Her sounds were so pretty as he ate her out, the hand in his hair helping to steer him to where she needed him most. Watching her through his lashes, Tommy had to stifle a smirk at the way her head fell back against the pillows when he sank a finger into her, crooking it so he was rubbing right up against the spot that made her moans go up a pitch.

When she came on his mouth, he grabbed greedily at her thighs, lips parting in an attempt to drink her all in, begging for everything she had to offer him.

“Fuck, come here,” she half pleaded when he raised up on his arms above her, reaching out to drag him closer, slotting their mouths together with her release still clinging to his lips. Her hands pulled at his clothes, his own moving eagerly to help her to remove them, covering her body with his once he was bare.

“Ready?” he asked, hand wrapping loosely around his engorged cock, giving himself a few pumps before lining up.

“Yes. Yes,” she chanted, arms winding around his neck. He entered her slowly, watching her face carefully for any sign of discomfort while he pushed forward. The warm embrace of her cunt remained to be like nothing else he’d ever experienced before, her walls hugging around him, so tight and perfect there was to be no doubt that they’d been made for each other.

The combined sounds of their pleasure echoed throughout the room as they started to move. Lucy’s head tipped forward, burying in his neck, her soft lips brushing against the sensitive skin. His eyes rolled in his head everytime she squeezed around him, and he slipped an arm under her to rest between her shoulder blades while he rocked into her steadily. He kept his thrusts at an even, gentle pace, taking care to go slow with her. She knew that she could stop him at any time if she needed, and no matter how lost he may have been in his own pleasure, he always took care to be mindful of her reactions to his movements, on alert for any indications of pain, discomfort, or fear.

“Tommy–” her nails scratched at his shoulder, not enough to break the skin, but just enough to sting. His hissed at the contact, the idea of being marked by her sending a thrill through him that had his cock twitching inside her.

“Just like that,” she whispered when his tip brushed against her g-spot. “Just like that; don’t stop.”

He grunted deeply, doing as instructed, feeling a surge in his balls as his own release drew nearer. Slotting a hand between them, he started to work on her clit again, rubbing it in small circles carefully timed with his deep thrusts. Her walls squeezed around him, even tighter than before, and he had to grit his teeth and focus hard to keep from coming prematurely.

With a cry and a tightening of her legs around his waist, Lucy came, a hand at the back of his head guiding him in for another kiss while she squeezed and gushed around his sensitive cock. Tommy moaned into her mouth, following her right over the cliff, stilling as he came deeply into her. His mouth continued to work, kissing her slowly and sensually as they rode out their climaxes and steadily started to come down.

After, when they were laying together in the dark, Lucy in his arms with her head on his chest and her fingers tracing the lines of the tattoo of her name that he had emblazoned on his forearm, he began to tell her of the new plan that had started to take shape within his mind.

“Lucy, do you remember when you asked me if I’d ever thought about entering politics?”

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#tommy shelby #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby series #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders series #peaky blinders imagine #cillian murphy

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lokibutterknife · 2 years ago

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Princess Shuri of Wakanda and Namor The Sub-Mariner in Black Panther: Wakanda Forever (2022 | dir. Ryan Coogler)

images source

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deadrlngers · 6 months ago

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I'm the reticent vampire of the Ninth Arrondissement. I walk the night capturing disappointment and regret as only the reticent vampire can.

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE (2022-)

#interview with the vampire #iwtv #iwtvedit #iwtv amc #louis de pointe du lac #iwtv spoilers #perioddramaedit #tvedit #tvfilmgifs #cinematv #filmtvcentral #dailyflicks #mine #idk i can't stop thinking of the implications of the hobby of photography #maybe i'm just crazy but this recurring theme of identity and cameras being in the scene. also armand saying put your camera down etc as if #the lens of the camera put some separation between him and the ppl around. photography as an escapism method also #and i find interesting how he chooses to take photos of random slices of the lives of human life and gets critizied for it #as if louis tries to have one last tie with humanity through photography..'stealing' it through a photo in this whole bigger picture of #vampire pride vs his desire to distantiate himself from it.#i don't remember exactly what jacob himself said but smth smth louis PLAYING the part of the recitent vampire #anyways much to say..also i just find him very cute with this photography hobby thing fsdkjfsdkj

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aroaceleovaldez · 5 months ago

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tbh my latest biggest theory for why HoO and onwards is such a dramatic drop in quality and consistency is just. Rick stopped making teaching guides.

Like, the Lightning Thief teacher's guide is SUPER in-depth with even stuff like sources about middle grade child psychology and exact specifications of where he's applying that, explaining what different character's goals/motivations are, their dynamics with each other and their environments, etc etc. Even specifying which specific myths certain plot elements are supposed to reference or be about.

That stuff just doesn't exist for later books. There's activity guides and smaller, significantly more simple teacher guides for later books but they don't go into anywhere NEAR the same level of depth. The TLT one is a full lesson plan that breaks down the book at every level and explains what's going on and more or less why Rick did that. The others are all basically just glossaries of terminology and some simple question guides.

And they didn't even use the TLT teacher's guide for the Disney+ show because they clearly aren't adhering to any of what's discussed in that breakdown of the book.

By creating a teaching guide alongside writing the actual book, that's forcing you to document what you're doing, why, your sources, and information about your characters and the story they're in. It's like an even more in-depth version of a series bible. But that's lacking for later books (and etc) and it shows because that level of thought and depth and attention just isn't there anymore.

#pjo #riordanverse #rick riordan #rr crit #< i suppose #imo one of the most damning parts of the drop of quality in the later books is you can tell exactly what parts of what books #Rick had planned in advance and which are just filler to get from point a to point b #because characters will jump in and out of consistent behaviors - particularly in HoO - and those lapses where they act weird #are almost always super disconnected from the rest of the plot or storyline or whatever arc that character is on #or are just so clearly sped through because they aren't important #Leo is a great character imo to look at to figure out if it's a filler scene or not lmao #if he's clearly masking being somber by putting on a silly act but dropping it quickly or otherwise largely acting serious/somber #then it's probably a more considered scene and actually paying attention to his overall character arc #or just remembering how the characters are supposed to act (in Leo's case - quiet/thoughtful/somber but masking it with humor/etc)#if he's 100% silly goofy depression arc nowhere in sight then its probably mostly a filler scene or at least his part in it is filler #anyways i highly recommend reading the tlt teaching guide its really interesting actually

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sapphiresaphics · 2 days ago

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“they don’t work out their issues. they don’t discuss any of their issues. they are forced to work together because vander’s situation provides urgency. and then they insult each other and slap fight without explaining why they did what they did, what’s been going through their minds, why they’re angry at each other. they don’t communicate at all.”

You’ve never had siblings have you? Or if you have.. you’ve never gotten into actual fights with them have you?

Vi isn’t “forced” to do anything. She CHOOSES to go with Jinx. And the Vander situation is a problem, yes, but it’s not URGENT. If it was they wouldn’t be casually strolling through the caves. And this is where they TRULY come to blows. The big epic fight earlier was just spectacle. THIS is the fight between sisters. And it’s raw and silly and childish. That’s the point of it.

And again. You don’t need to SAY why you did anything. Vi learns Mir about Jinx as a person by how she interacts with Isha than she does taking to her. It’s also no secret that during their little brawl in the caves on a mission to save Vander, Vi accidentally hurts Isha (Jinx’s personification) just as she did when she punched Powder back in season 1. This is very deliberate storytelling parallels.

Also, screenwriting 101: characters never just say what they mean. Cuz that’s just boring and uninteresting. Scenes are more interesting when characters can’t say what they want to say, so they talk about other issues to make up for it. All dialogue should HINT at what they really want. The tussle in the mines is far more authentic and realistic than the over the top brawl they had in the pipe works.

Take the note they find from Vander to Silco. Jinx reads it out loud and then comments about how if Silco had found it maybe things would’ve been different. And in that moment Vi raises her hand and wants to touch Jinx’s shoulder but can’t quite bring herself to do it yet. Because that moment isn’t REALLY about Vander and Silco. It’s about Jinx and Vi. Say one thing, but mean another. That’s GOOD scriptwriting.

“She’s not exactly a dictator in the traditional sense”

Okay stop right there. If she’s not a dictator in the traditional sense then she’s not a god damn dictator. End of story. Stop trying to justify her being one when you freely admit she is not one.

The show repeatedly shows that despite her being hardened and angry and doing these things out of fear and hate… she ultimately doesn’t want to. Has she been impressing Zaun even more than before? Absolutely. But is she also chastising Ambessa’s guard for instigating violence and calling out Ambessa’s justification for more violence? Absolutely as well.

Caitlyn is an oppressive authority figure clouded in privileged and doing what she’s doing because of hate and fear and anger. Yes. 100% no getting around that. But she’s not a dictator. And she doesn’t WANT to be a dictator. She was thrust into this position through peer pressure and manipulation just like Jayce was when he became a counselor. And she’s been looking for an excuse to get out of it for a while too. Maddie says as much in bed.

And remember Vi? When Caitlyn is sad after her mother died, she refers to Vi as the person who calms her down and guides her through things. Vi is who she breaks down and cries with. Vi is who she listens to when things get more dangerous in the pipe works. There’s a reason why when Vi shows up again, Caitlyn is all too willing to help her out. Especially if it means she can get rid of Ambessa and save VI’s father in the process.

This show is filled with nuance and morally grey characters. So when you reduce them to binary black and white roles and call them dictators, yeah that’s not gonna jive well when they do stuff contrary to that binary. That’s what I’m calling you out for and why I insist you don’t refer to Caitlyn as a dictator. Because calling her a dictator erases her moral complexity and ignores everything that happened in season 1. You are flattening out her character so you can whine.

“Hextech didn’t break them apart, systemic oppression did”

No… hextech broke them apart. The bomb Powder used in season 1 was hextech. It happened at the exact same time Jayce and Viktor were experimenting and their experiments resulted in teleportation magic. And if you watch closely when the explosion goes off, there are pieces of debris and rubble that get teleported through the door and end up killing the two boys. As we’ve learned this season, all Hextech devices are linked. It was Jayce and Viktor tampering with Hextech that resulted in the bomb going off being so devastating to Vi and Powder’s family.

Additionally, the explosion at the beginning of the show that sets everything in motion is Hextech. Yes they were infiltrating Jayce’s workshop because of systemic inequality, but that’s a background detail to explain why. It’s not the inciting incident that started it all. That’s the hextech gem explosion. The show begins with Hextech being volatile and dangerous and that’s the reoccurring conundrum throughout the entire show. Everybody wants this power and they use their positions of inequality and oppression to get it. Again… that’s the inequality being a background excuse, but not the driving force.

“How does Vander being alive fix everything?”

Because that’s the rift that broke Powder and Vi apart. It’s because of Powder’s bomb that Vander died. It’s because Vander died that Vi hurt Powder and started her on this path to becoming Jinx. It was the inciding incident that broke them apart.

Vander being alive means they can heal their rift. Vander being alive means Powder didn’t kill him. Finding Vander and bringing him back allows Vi to forgive Powder for what she did. Like Jinx says “maybe this is a do-over.”

Vander is their father. Having him back means they don’t have to fight anymore. They don’t have to try to kill each other anymore. It means Jinx can heal and become herself again. Vi can forgive Jinx. Etc etc.

This is like one of the biggest moments in the show. That you seem to put so little emphasis on its importance and can’t understand why Vander being alive could heal their rift is sad.

You seem like the type of person who needs characters to just say what they mean literally or else you don’t understand what’s happening. Body language, voice acting, dialogue, shot composition and framing… you seem to IGNORE all of that and complain that characters just don’t sit down and talk one on one with each other. You don’t seem to understand or respect the craft of the show.

When a character says something but means something else, you seem like you only take things at face value and can’t comprehend that they might be lying, or saying meaning something else.

Take the moment when Sallow is rolled in on a wheelchair demanding they go to war with the undercity. Mel clocks that this is not how Sallow talks. And since he was rolled out by Ambessa, it’s made very clear that it’s Ambessa who’s ACTUALLY talking in the scene. Even though she never says a word. I wonder.. how did you read that scene? Did you pick up on Mel playing chess with her mother? Or did you think she was actually addressing Sallow the whole time?

I don’t know what else to tell you dude. You’re not wrong that systemic oppression and power dynamics play a significant role in the show’s message. I would just argue that it’s not the MAIN FOCUS of the show and has never been. It’s window dressing at best. The main focus has always been how attempts to do good for love and for family can result in doing terrible awful things.

As Victor puts it “we lost ourselves. Lost our dreams. In our attempt to save the world we failed to do good.”

I find it hilarious when the show called ARCANE starts talking about the ARCANE and the ARCANE starts having a more prominent role in the trajectory of the show named ARCANE that people are only now complaining about “lore” being added to the show.

Like, my dudes… the show was about the ARCANE. Now that it’s reacting and developing and becoming the big thing the whole show is heading towards… NOW you’re worried about the “lore” messing things up??!

Hahah

Sorry guys. I know we started with class inequality, and that’s definitely a theme of the show… but the TRUE star has ALWAYS been the ARCANE and how it reacts to the events around it.

They wouldn’t have named the show ARCANE if they weren’t going to address the ARCANE.

#arcane #league of legends arcane #arcane criticism #arcane critical

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