#toeing the line of treason [about]

[yanderes-galore]

I'd like to see a yandere concept of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Either romantic or platonic is fine.

I'll do a general pairing and spill my thoughts, then! Sorry for the long wait, I have a lot to get through, lol ^^; I am having fun though, so that's all that matters. Can't wait for HOTD Season 2! I'm so worried her character isn't right but I wanted to lean in on her more unhinged side.

Here's an older concept I did for her.

Potential Fire & Blood/HOTD Spoilers Below

Yandere! Rhaenyra Targaryen Concept

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Controlling behavior, Condescending behavior, Possessive behavior, Murder, Blood, Violence, Mature themes, Possible sexism, Delusional behavior, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Mind break, Dark content, Threats, Trust issues, Forced companionship/relationship.

It's been a while since I've seen HOTD, so pardon me if anything is too off personality-wise.

Rhaenyra is described as strong-willed and independent.

She's always hated being a traditional lady and prefers to fly on her dragon, Syrax.

She wants to choose her own destiny and take her birthright on top of the iron throne.

However, something noted in the book is that her personality is similar to Maegor.

Which implies Rhaenyra is rather ruthless, cruel, and entitled.

Rhaenyra would bond well with someone she knew in childhood, like a childhood friend.

But I can also see her attached to a personal servant or loyal supporter of The Blacks.

That or there's some drama that could happen if you support The Greens when the war comes around.

I feel if you knew her in childhood you can clearly notice her change in behavior.

From child to adult, the whole world has been against her.

Combined with the death of her child(ren), Rhaenyra grows into a cruel queen for The Blacks.

While she holds care for you, she's deceptive and every word carries a threatening tone.

It's said in Fire and Blood that Rhaenyra has trust issues, feeling the whole world is plotting against her due to The Greens.

That along with the betrayal of the Velaryons later on.

So you can imagine she wants to cling to her obsession... but worries they'll work against her.

Due to this distrust, you're forced on your toes.

After all, it takes one order for her to decide your fate.

She could have all you hold dear burned by Syrax.

She could imprison you for treason.

Or even worse, she can have you killed to keep you to herself.

You should know that Black Queen Rhaenyra is unhinged due to what she's gone through.

She'd do anything to keep her obsession and their loyalty.

Every word she says towards you feels like a subtle threat, a warning to keep in line.

Rhaenyra is a dangerous yandere, especially as she begins to lose her mind.

Regardless of if you're a loyal follower or not, ahe worries her obsession will go against her.

Considering how obsessive she is... she may snap completely without you.

If you're loyal to her, she often tries to test it.

She gives you tasks or forces you to make promises with her.

If she loves you romantically, she may make you prove yourself by being... intimate.

One way or another she wants you to kneel before her.

She's desperate for your attention, sometimes even holding your face as she whispers how she can't continue without you.

I only imagine she gets worse when her kids are dead, all except her Aegon.

She keeps you at her hip.

If platonic, she may make you her Hand.

If romantic, you're her secret partner.

If you support The Greens, she's determined to change that.

I'm talking about kidnapping, Imprisonment, and psychological conditioning.

You're fed propaganda, you're threatened, and Rhaenyra no doubt guilts you onto her side.

She wants to make sure she has you on her side... making you reliant on her by neglecting resources so you can beg for her.

A side I imagine Rhaenyra having is a more ruthless and sadistic side.

She hates The Greens, in this case she feels they stole you from her.

She has to find a way to get her dearest obsession back... even if it means breaking you.

She's mentioned to be cruel, so her doing such a thing seems plausible.

She's already burning countless people who oppose her.

You might as well submit.

If you just listen to her, support her, she'll give you everything.

If you don't, she'll find other methods.

If Rhaenyra can't break you, I can definitely see her having you killed.

If she can't have you, no one can.

She's already spilled a ton of blood, by this point she may be delusional enough to think this is how she keeps you.

Otherwise, you'll be forced by her side until she dies.

It's hard to escape from The Black Queen, Daemon and her other supporters no doubt wish to keep her happy.

She loves it when you take care of her children, she loves it when you show you're loyal.

If she has to trust anyone, she wants it to be you.

You're her beloved obsession, a dear friend/partner.

She refuses to give you up...

No matter what it takes.

"Pledge yourself to me... show me I can trust you... show me you'd give your life to keep me happy...."

[tadpolesonalgae]

Demon!Azriel x reader: Teeth and Talons - Part 7

A/N: might be sprinkling in a little foreshadowing for what the next chapter will be about :)

Warnings: biting?

-Part 6- -Part 8-

As usual, you’re left to yourself throughout the day.

As usual, you pillage the bookcase for something new—anything new to read.

It’s been fifty-fifty with the books so far, some have been written in your tongue, while others are indecipherable—scribbles and runes and strange illustrations of caves and creatures and blood. Well, it’s ink on parchment, so you don’t know it’s blood. All you can really tell is that it’s a dark liquid, but knowing Azriel, it’s probably blood.

A couple have proven interesting, in the sense they make you question your faith toward the gods—in a careful toeing-the-line-between-gentle-prying-and-outright-treason sort of way.

Others have contained less heathen-esque content: tales of worlds without deities (how you lament!), stories of chivalry and justice (how romantic!), erotica—you don’t care to comment on some of the passages you’ve unfortunately read.

But it’s been a while since more have oh-so-mysteriously appeared, so you’re left to flip through the illustrations of the books you’re unable to read. You’re more than content to lay on your stomach, but something shifts in the air. It’s difficult to put your finger on the exact change—similar to when Azriel returns near nightfall. That ripple of power that rushes through the room. Like some sort of pulse. Boots scuff on the floor—you’ve never seen another soul in the castle, but have also rarely ventured beyond the confines of your room. Mostly from a mix of fear, and contentedness in the room.

Blood rushes round your ears as you slip out of bed, padding quietly to the door. Pressing your ear against the wood, you listen, holding your breath incase you miss something. It’s completely silent.

You swallow, taking a step back. The door suddenly seems much larger, as if it’s looming over you. Your eyes drop to the small keyhole beneath the handle…

Not allowing any doubts, you quietly step back, crouching down as you peer through the tiny hole…only to be confronted with those familiar hazel eyes.

You exhale heavily, heart pounding with relief as you raise to your feet, turning the handle to greet him, half wondering why he’s back so early—and why he was peeping through your bedroom keyhole. Your shared bedroom keyhole.

“Azriel,” you begin, opening the door, “please don’t do—”

You freeze.

Terror strangles your throat as you stare into two sets of blacked-out eyes, each at least a head taller than you. A female on the left, a male on the right. You scream, scrambling back, slamming the door shut on them.

Hands fly across your mouth as you attempt to regulate your breathing, sight blurring. Boots scuff on the floor, and the handle dips, as if they’re trying to get in. Your stomach lurches as you spin on your heel, nearly flipping over the rug on the smooth stone floor in your haste. You dart to the bed, slipping beneath its large wooden frame, and hold your breath.

Hot water drips down your cheeks as you keep your hands over your mouth, shifting to make sure you’re as concealed as possible, shifting further and further beneath the bed until your feet brush something…granulated. Like sand.

Salt, you realise, but why is there a circle of salt beneath your shared bed? And why is there something drawn across its centre? What looks to be a—

Mother fucking boil and burn.

Thoughts eddy from your head as you realise your lower half is across a pentagram. A pentagram formed with black salts.

A deep snarl sounds from outside the door—raw and beastly, laced with fury. Two sets of feet scramble away, fading into the distance. You don’t dare release a single breath, not as you hear the door snick shut, and something enters. Something scary enough to send those two running.

Your teeth find your lip, and you bite down to keep from whimpering with fear. Four paws stop beside the bed, and you nearly vomit with terror. You squeeze your eyes shut, tears rolling down, splashing on the floor. It’s enough noise to be picked up. The beast stalks closer, until it’s at the edge of the bed��it’ll be able to see you.

“Get out from there.”

You stiffen at that cold command. Voice razor-sharp, merciless. You nearly weep with relief as you recognise him, opening your eyes to take him in.

Sheer horror greets you, mouth dropping as the whites of your eyes bulge at the sight of him. Three-pronged paws, quadrupedal, hind joints—where his knees should be—inverted. Like some hell-beast. You scream, his milky eyes snapping closed, then opening to reveal total black. Snapping bone sounds, and then he’s right again, hand gripping your forearm as he forcefully drags you out, across the smooth stone. You kick and thrash against the brutal grip, salt spraying at your feet, then reforming back into that neat, satanic symbol.

He grips your shoulders with both hands, fingers biting into your trembling muscle as you stare at him with wide, shining eyes, flicking between him and his knees, checking they’re back to normal. “What—?” You stammer, peering at him, hands lowering from your mouth, shaking.

He growls low in his throat, gripping you tighter with displeasure. As if he’s silently reprimanding you for taking too long, for appearing such a state before him. “Spit it out.”

You stare at him, utterly bewildered. “What were—who were those…?” You don’t know what to call them. “Were they more of your ilk?” You manage, focusing on the bite of his nails in your shoulders, the unforgiving glint his hazel eyes.

But he doesn’t answer you. Instead, his brow narrows with what you could swear is anger—rage. “Why did you open the door?”

You stiffen beneath his bruising touch.

His grip tightens and you whimper, instantly covering your mouth. Something dark and evil glints in response to the small noise. Something ancient and predatory—instinctual.

He leans closer, hot breath curling with his lip. “Why did you open the door?”

“I thought it was you,” you stammer softly, peering at him beseechingly. He snarls at that, as if insulted. “How stupid can you be?” You reel back at the harsh words, staring.

“It had your eyes,” you mumble, blinking back tears as you attempt to steady your breathing, “I thought it was you. Don’t call me stupid.”

Just like that, he surges forward, tipping you backward onto the stone floor, pinning you down. His lip curls back from his teeth, then they’re sinking into your neck.

Words and sound are ripped from your conscious as pain lashes through you. It’s not like before, not when it sent aching pleasure singing in your blood. This is punishing—agonising stinging. Muscles seize, fingers tremble, eyes wide. Your back arches into him at the onslaught of blazing brutality he’s stamping into your skin.

Surely its no more than a few seconds. No more than mere moments, but it blares through your mind, hammering your bones, crushing your skin as he retracts his teeth. He pulls back, wound already sealed as he grabs you by the hair, yanking you up so your throat is again exposed.

“Never,” he snarls, so gutturally you can barely understand him. “Never do that again.”

Tears spill as more fractures appear. Splintering deeper, cracking open something so raw you don’t know what to do. He’s panting, fury blazing in his pitch black eyes, razor-like talons slicing at your back as they slide from his knuckles, cutting through your clothes.

“You…” You hiccup, hand raising to your neck, feeling the two small indents of scars. “Why…?” He snarls again, and you flinch, eyes squeezing shut, bracing for another wave of that soul-splitting pain. The snarl cuts off, hands stiffening over you.

A beat passes.

Then another.

No pain.

Then he’s pulling away, and you fall back against the stone floor, watching as he stands, looming over you. He stares down at you, distaste shining in his eyes as he looks at your crumpled form. You hate that look. Hate it for everything it stands for, hate it for everything it’s done to you. Hate it on him.

“If I disgust you so much, you know you can just return me to my home,” you cry weakly, “nothing’s keeping you from doing so, so just put me back. Find someone else. We clearly aren’t suited for one another.”

Pain blazes through his chest, contracting, tightening, suffocating the air from his lungs. He can hear your hummingbird heart, can scent the fear drumming through your blood, can see your arms are on the verge of giving out from their trembling. Why are you so weak? Why don’t you fight back? Why are you giving up on him?

“You want to see your home?” He snarls, fury lighting his skin on fire, rage riding his mind, “fine.” He grabs you, hauling you against him roughly, talons slicing at your arms in neat little cuts. Then darkness swirls around the two of you and that weightless feeling overtakes his body, as if he’s plummeting deeper and deeper into that unfillable void.

You hate how you cling on to him despite the small lacerations he’s gifted you, pain stinging your skin as you squeeze your eyes shut in attempts to keep your tears inside. Then the dark clears, and you feel sand beneath your feet—bare feet. And it burns like it’s been heated by the scorching midday sun.

Granules bite at your skin as the wind picks up and Azriel steps away. And vanishes.

You barely had time to raise your hands to reach for him, but now he’s gone. And you’re stranded in the middle of the citadel in nothing but your night clothes. Mortification burns your insides—already people are staring: at your bare ankles, naked collar bones, unclothed arms.

You duck your head and scuttle beneath the overhang of a building, the scalding sand cooling beneath your soles as you try to figure out where he’s dumped you. All it takes is for you to spot the well in the square, and you know. You spin on your heel, and run.

————

Cinders and ash mix with the sand. Fragments of bespoke vases spike the wreckage. The smell of smoke still clings to the desolated site.

Aside from the crushed wall that stands no higher than your calves, nothing remains of your home.

You look around, but everything is in correct relation to your house as you remember it. You’re in the right place, but there’s nothing left. It’s been torched, ruined, and wrecked. At the entrance, the sand is still stained dark from where a cleansing sacrifice would have been made.

How long has it been like this? Left in pieces?

The winds die out, and the world goes silent.

Your feet make no sounds as they crunch over the sharp fragments. The sand doesn’t hiss as you step within the site, neither do you make any noise at all as the granules burn your soles. One step after another you track the obliterated halls and rooms of your home, burned to the ground.

Anything of value has been taken—the coloured stones, the small pieces of softened stained glass you’d found in the river beds. Either the dried plants and herbs were set ablaze with the rest of your home, or they were taken and relocated.

Stolen, a small, wicked voice whispers. Stolen, desecrated, destroyed.

You walk to the tiny room you’d slept in, the heart of your home. Charcoal is all that’s left of the small cot, the sheets and covers long incinerated. You don’t allow the tears to drop, don’t emit anything. The faintest breath dies on your lips, cracked and filmy.

A hand grips your upper arm, sharp nails grazing the small cuts as they turn you. He’s not wearing boots—his feet have shifted to paws, the skin thick enough to brave the scorching sands. Yours must be covered in welts by now, but—nothing.

He shakes you roughly, your teeth clacking together, making your head ring. Then he’s gripping your chin, raising you to look at him. Still, everything’s quiet. His eyes are blazing, not longer that cold, merciless hazel, but burning with something. Something you’ll never let yourself match.

His lip pulls back from his teeth in a flash of white, and it occurs to you his mouth is moving. He’s saying something, but the edges of your vision are blurry, as if muffled by something. In the back of your mind, in the depth of your repressed feeling, something twinges, reaching up a small hand from the crushing pile of guilt and raw emotion. Barely alive.

You shove it down.

You step back, and he releases you, watching.

You don’t look at him, lowering your gaze as you step around him, not even acknowledging him. What is there to acknowledge, anyway? The ruin he’s brought upon you?

You once swore you would survive him, that you would weather him. Well, that’s all you can do. You don’t have a choice but to take everything he gives. It’s not like you have darkness glittering at your fingertips. It’s not like you can shift into a monstrous form, or have skin tougher than leather to protect yourself with. It’s not like you have great, powerful wings, or razor-sharp teeth and talons.

You’re human, and he’s painfully other.

Skin crumbles like sand, bones snap like twigs.

One step at a time, you trace the familiar steps. In desperate need of refuge.

One step at a time, away from him.

————

Enough sound has returned to the world that you can hear the scuff of his paws behind you. Looming at your back like a cursed wraith, set on haunting you until your last breath rasps from wet lungs.

You reach the steps leading to the temple, and the footfalls stop; you do not. One step at a time, you ascend the marble stairs, and it’s only when you reach their peak that you’re approached by one of the acolytes. The devout worshipers who dedicate their lives to the temples and the gods. You’d often found yourself considering giving yourself over to them, too.

“What troubles have you come by, sister?” The acolyte does not touch you, but offers a patient smile, reeking of warmth and soft femininity. Gentle, and welcoming. The tears are falling before you can stop them, but the young woman does nothing to clear them. Merely watches and waits.

“I would like refuge for a few days,” you murmur through quiet sobs, “I have been favoured by malignant misfortune, and she has not treated me well. I would request a cleanse.” The woman’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly, “follow, child.”

Relief sweeps in so heavily you almost crumple then and there, but then he’s manifested before you, wreathed in thin shadows that make him appear as a reflection in water. He’s displeased; angry. “You think an exorcism will take you from me? You torture yourself needlessly.” You stare at him silently, watching warily. “I’ve been through enough at your hand,” you mumble. “You brought me here, and I will gladly rid myself of your presence in any way I can. Let me go.”

Beside you, the young woman stiffens, observing silently. You miss the way she catches another’s gaze, gesturing subtly toward your one-sided conversation.

“So affixed with your religion. Has it ever occurred to you to question it?” You narrow your eyes at him, considering the merit of engaging in this conversation. “What would I need to question?” You ask, “the gods had been merciful toward me until you entered my life.”

“Blind faith counts for nothing,” he counters, “you are good in exchange for exemption from the silver fires of hell. Your insides rot like mine beneath your pristine skin, bride.” You recoil at the title—he hasn’t used it in such a while it had managed to slip your mind.

“I am not your bride. No longer,” you manage, taking a step away from him toward the acolyte—who’s been joined by a similarly robed young woman. Both of them watch on warily. “Let me go—we are not suited for one another.”

“We are,” he insists, “if you would let go of yourself for one damned minute, you would see.”

“I. Can’t. Trust you. Azriel,” you grit out, finding it hard to look into those cold eyes of his. “You belittle, hurt, and taunt me every chance you get. Why would I ever let myself be when you’re around. It’s not like you make it easy for me.”

“You were fine in the air,” he snarls, stepping forward, “and you were fine on top of me, too.”

You’re lucky that someone interrupts, because you have nothing to say to him. No barbs to reach for, no verbal weapons to hurl at him. He’s right. You did enjoy the flight.

A woman—cloaked in the robes of a priestess—steps forward, the two acolytes now dismissed. “I have been told you seek refuge here. Come inside.” You turn to the voice, only to be met with a woman who can’t possibly be older than you. She appears to be slim, and tall, with cascading silky hair that curls lightly in spirals. Her deep cocoa eyes are warm, and open.

Beside you, Azriel has gone rigid.

“Elain.”

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

[emeraldspiral]

Sometimes I wonder about the amount of Zimfluence there was in Avatar.

Like, I've already talked about how Aang defeating Ozai through sheer willpower is reminiscent of Zim overpowering the Control Brains with raw insanity in The Trial, how LoK's ending resembles the post-cancellation ending comic where Zim and Dib leave earth to go frolicking in space together, and how Mai's sour, apathetic attitude being the result of feeling pressured to behave herself all the time to please her parents is similar to Gaz trying to win her father's approval by being the Good Child to Dib's Problem Child.

But like, more than a few people at Nick, including co-creator Bryan Konietzko, worked on Zim before Avatar, and members of the Zim crew have expressed regrets about the show being cancelled and not getting to explore things that they had wanted to. So it'd honestly be more weird of Zim didn't have an influence on Avatar.

So let's consider some of the similarities between the shows and elements that may have been inspired by things people wanted to explore with Zim but never got the chance to.

Like, to begin with, the premise of both shows is that there's a war instigated by an Imperial colonizing force that wants to wipe out and/or enslave all other races and take everything over. It's not a super original concept but there are more specific similarities.

Both shows, rather than just having one protagonist that the story centers around, have a protagonist and a deuteragonist, who both have their own stories which are separate yet interconnected to form one large picture integral to the overall narrative. Both sets of characters are both boys who due to circumstances are pitted against each other on opposite sides of the war but have the potential to be great friends if they didn't have that conflict in the way.

Both Zim and Zuko are banished for stepping out of line and sent on a fool's errand at the beginning of the story to keep them from interfering in the war and embarrassing their leaders. Both are determined to succeed and willfully deceive themselves into believing that the ones who sent them on their missions really do expect them to because they're so desperate for their love and approval. Zim and Zuko both have a second rival (Tak & Zhao) looking to make a name for themselves by stepping on their toes, and Zim & Zuko both end up committing treason by teaming up with their main rivals to stop their secondary rivals from succeeding and robbing them of the victories their self-worth hinges on.

Dib and Zuko are both obsessed with capturing a singularly unique individual in their world in order to win their father's love, but even if/when they succeed it doesn't get them what they want. With Zuko, he realizes that his father only loves him conditionally, and that's not real love at all. With Dib, he realizes that his father does love him unconditionally, but in ETF, the comic Dib's Dilemma, and the Zimvoid storyline it's made clear that Membrane will never believe Dib or respect his chosen field of science, regardless of whether he defeats Zim or not. So defeating Zim isn't the key to his happiness either, although Dib has yet to come to that realization.

The Membrane family and the Fire Nation Royal family both have a single dad with two kids, a boy and a girl, with the boy being the eldest. The boy is supposed to be his father's successor but he and his father disagree and his father refuses to accept his son's dissenting opinions and makes the son feel that he has to earn his father's love and approval by accomplishing something great. The daughter resents her brother and tries to prove that she's more worthy of their father's love by being a Daddy's Girl who acts more like the child he wants. The son is known for being a loser while the daughter is known for being incredibly scary. Both are strong and talented, but the daughter seems to better at everything with less effort while the son is unfairly maligned. The daughter gets treated better by their father, but he's still not really being a good father to her. Although the son is motivated by a selfish desire to prove himself to his father and fueled by a lot of anger, he has a good heart deep down and cares about doing the right thing while the daughter doesn't really care about anything except pleasing her dad and her own gratification.

Dib and Gaz are also somewhat like Sokka and Katara in that they have to more or less raise themselves because their mom is gone and their dad's preoccupied with important world-saving work that keeps him away from them. Katara feels that she has to step up into the role of a mother, despite being the younger sibling, while Gaz is often tasked with wrangling her brother. Sokka and Dib both fantasize about being heroes and making their fathers proud, but are a bit too cocky and get in over their heads their first time facing a real enemy combatant and have to learn to think more strategically and sort out their priorities.

Many fans see Zim as a victim of the society that created him, who's just doing what he does because it's the only way he can feel valued or loved, and wish that if the series had continued he would realize he was being played for a fool and turn his back on the people he'd been trying so hard to please, realize what he'd been doing was wrong, befriend his rival, and become a hero fighting back against the Imperialist regime. And that's exactly what Zuko ends up doing. Also, something at least one of the writers has said they would've done with Azula had the series continued.

Azula is mostly shown as cold and ruthless throughout the series, but near the end she starts to show more vulnerability, starting with the Beach episode. In that episode, her obsession with competition and asserting dominance to affirm her superiority is played for comedy, which makes the similarities between her and Zim stand out much more than it normally does when the series frames her as dead serious. The scene where she awkwardly flirts by telling a guy they could dominate the earth together in particular always gave me Zim vibes from the first time I saw it. There's also one scene where she makes one of her only friends cry and actually feels bad about it and apologizes, similar to the scene in Walk of Doom where Zim thinks he's made GIR cry and tries to make him feel better. Both scenes stand out as rather uncharacteristic for two characters who are usually cruel and callous and don't care about anyone else's feelings.

Zim and Azula also both have huge, but fragile egos, believing themselves to be better than everyone and unable to accept being less than perfect. They both derive their sense of self worth from having power over others and believing that they were just born better, regard themselves as above the need for genuine friendship, view love as a weakness, and consider everyone in their orbit as either an asset to be used and discarded or an obstacle toward getting what they want.

One of the most popular concepts to explore in Zim fanfic is the idea of Zim's ego being broken by the realization that his mission is a lie and breaking down over it, and that's exactly what we get from Azula when she realizes the control she thought she had over her friends and the prize her father was dangling in front of her the whole time were just as fake as Zim's mission.

Bonus: The most popular ship in the fandom is a Red/Blue ETL ship which the creators hate but board artists draw fanart of in their free time and the voice actors are willing to indulge for the fans. Also, it used to have a large hatedom that was just upfront about not liking it because it got in the way of other ships, but then a new generation discovered it on Netflix and now people dress up their petty reasons for disliking it with purity culture BS about it being "problematic".

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

Jurgen was enjoying a peaceful morning of deep contemplation in his chambers when the sound of a fierce argument arose just outside of his door. Long experience with his compatriots gave him the wisdom to arise and begin to drag his desk in obstruction of the entrance, but alas, he was too slow; the wooden door was thrown open with a violent clatter, and the incarnate of fury roiled into the room.

"I've had enough of her!" bellowed Hoag. The dark, diminutive man was practically frothing at the mouth, frenziedly waving about something Jurgen couldn't quite see. "Enough of her, Wind-Caller, she ought to be stopped! She ought to-- she ought to be put down like a dog!"

"You're over-reacting!" Barfok shouted from further down the passageway.

Jurgen briefly contemplated whether he could push Hoag back down the stairs, but in that moment of hesitation, Hoag had already forced his way past the desk that had meant to keep him out, penetrating Jurgen's previously-serene sanctum. "Deal with her, Wind-Caller!" Hoag spat, "Deal with her or I'll-- I'll--"

"My King," Jurgen interrupted him, pinching his own nose. "Let's all calm down for a moment. What has she done now?"

"I'll tell you what she's done!" Hoag shouted. "She's gone and anthropomorphized my lunch!" And he thrust his hands towards Jurgen.

The object in Hoag's hands was a haunch of roast ox, but it held itself with a dignity that surpassed its humble origin. In the light glinting from its marinated surface it surveyed the room with calm acceptance, observing its crude surroundings with the plain-hearted absence of judgement that set all of Skyrim's peasants apart from their supposed betters. It remained steady as Hoag waved it at Jurgen, unperturbed, as if thinking: 'And you are the so-called leaders of this Empire? You are the men I should call Lord?'

"He's over-reacting!" Barfok had finally appeared in the doorway, panting from the long climb, her pale hair disheveled and falling out of its braids. "It's a joke," she protested to Jurgen, "A silly joke, a prank, that's all!"

"A joke!" roared Hoag, pivoting around. "You bitch, it's a guilt-evoking metaphor for the lowest of my subjects! How am I supposed to eat it now!"

"If you get queasy when your lunch alludes to the petty-folk you send out to die into battle, well, that says more about you than it does about my pranks, doesn't it!"

The ox haunch regarded this argument with bemusement. As did Jurgen.

"She's been at this all day," said Hoag through gritted teeth, returning his attention to Jurgen. "She went and messed with Chemua's soup--"

"Oh that was funny," Barfok guffawed.

"-- Turned it into a complex metaphor for shame. Put him in the foulest mood. And now she goes and ruins my lunch! You've got to make her quit it, Jurgen. Morale's bad enough out there without her turning things into allusions and euphemisms and such!"

Jurgen exhaled through his nose. "Barfok," he said patiently, "Stop turning people's food into literary devices."

"Hey!" Now it was Barfok's turn to push her way into the room, crossing her arms defensively in front of her chest. "Don't you take his side because he's a wimp! It's a joke, Jurgen, a silly little goof-about to make the men laugh. He's the only one who's got a problem with it!"

"Yes, well, he's louder and more irritating. We don't stop a baby bawling because the baby's in the right."

"I'm no babe!" Hoag interjected. "I'm your King even now, Wind-Caller!"

Does this man deserve fealty? the roast ox seemed to say, when Jurgen's gaze fell upon it. He closed his eyes briefly.

"Barfok," said Jurgen, "Please, just-- stop."

A shadow fell over Barfok's usually-jolly face. She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin at Jurgen, staring at him coolly from over her round cheeks. "Why should I?" she said slowly.

"I'm begging you, Sister in Kyne! Do me a favour and keep the peace?"

"Aye, you hear him? Keep the peace!" Hoag directed his wrath once more at Barfok. "You're toeing the treason line, sabotaging us like that! We're getting our arses beat by the elves and you think it cheers anyone up when their saltrice is a biting allusion to the evils of occupation? Get a grip, woman!"

"Stop yelling at me!" Barfok snapped. "I don't take orders from either of you! Nay, not even you, Wind-Passer! And I ent standing here while a couple old nannies squeal at me to mind my manners! Look, Hoaga, even your ox thinks you're pathetic!"

The ox haunch did, indeed, seem to have taken on a scornful air. It had borne witness to the discourse of Nirn's most powerful men, and it had come away disenchanted with both the airs of power and those that bore it. Its scathing observation was enough to bring them to shame.

"Hoag," Jurgen said tersely, "She has a point. I can't control her. Why not go to Ysmir about her?"

The hue of Hoag's face had deepened to a striking crimson. "Because he agrees with her," he said through gritted teeth.

"Ysmir has a sense of humour," Barfok said with pride.

"He encourages her tomfoolery!"

"I framed his chambers with subtle imagery of a forsaken homeland, and you know what? He liked it."

"Traitors and soul-sick fools, both of you!"

"Well," announced Jurgen, as calm as a man being judged by a haunch of meat could possibly be, "That settles it. You just have to let her do as she pleases."

Hoag's face flushed, somehow, even redder. "Let her!" he roared indignantly. "Let her lose this war with japes!"

"And what can you do about it?" Barfok asked smugly. "I'm the stronger Tongue."

"We can't command her, Hoaga," said Jurgen. "So. You'll just have to live with it."

"Damn you! You're meant to be the peace-making one! Can't you negotiate with her?"

"Oh, keep whinging, Hoaga, I'll turn your trousers paradoxical next!"

"The matter is settled," said Jurgen firmly. "Now, both of you, get out of my chambers."

"To Apocrypha with you, Wind-Caller! You know what?" Hoag turned his attention to Barfok, waving his accusing haunch in Jurgen's direction. "Why don't you mess with him this time? Hey? Why don't you, I don't know, fill his desk with symbolism or something!"

"Why, Hoaga, you know I'd do anything you ask!" Barfok said cheerfully.

Jurgen blinked. "Wait--"

He had barely begun to inhale for a counter-thu'um before Barfok sung out three crisp dovahzul words. Nothing happened, but everything was subtly, slightly different, as if they had just slipped from one dream to another-- disconcerting non-transition.

Jurgen blinked again. "Barfok," he said slowly, "What did you just--"

"Oh, would you look at the time, Hoaga!" Barfok butted in. "I'm late for my lunch! Good talk, Jurgen, dremyollock, make sure to shut your windows!" And before Jurgen could intercept her she had lurched out of the door and was rushing down the stairs, leaving behind only the receding sound of triumphant cackling.

Hoag looked from the doorway, to Jurgen, and then, finally, to the large window that dominated one side of the room. He drew in a breath. "Now that's just grim," he muttered, before taking a morose bite of his ox haunch. And, without further explanation or farewell, he turned and followed Barfok out of the room, leaving Jurgen in much-desired solitude.

For several seconds Jurgen stood facing the doorway. He pressed his fingertips to his temples. He contemplated whether he had the courage to turn around.

Finally, he turned to face the window.

The curtains hung limp against the pane, like the sails of a ship bereft of air, betraying a stagnation, a stranding, a loss of all will to go on. Though the window was open, no breeze stirred them, as if Kyne herself had abandoned the sorry scraps of fabric. Against the backdrop of the clear sky outside, the faded blue of them was outright depressing...

[wonderrot]

FORTNIGHT

buffy summers x female!reader

WRITING WARNINGS: we’re in for an angsty one tbh! buffy has been officially dead and in heaven for two weeks currently in this fic! mentions of mental health problems, mentions of drinking alcohol to the point of toeing the line between a normal individual and borderline alcoholic, also this is a pre-established relationship!!

XOXO, CHESHIRE — this fic begins my anthology series and i’m so excited to write all of these fics for y’all! it’s not gonna be dropped all in one day but overtime so please don’t rush me on this series but please do enjoy it!

a fortnight had changed the fate of everything. a simple two weeks had destroyed y/n y/l/n. she was supposed to be dragged away by the police, upon a legal order that her own mother had called in — out of worry for her own daughter, but no one ever cared to even show up to drag her kicking and screaming to the nearby psych ward in the sunnydale hospital.

her mother only noticed how even more quiet her daughter had become and how she became a hollow version of herself but never tended to notice how much alcohol that she was consuming in unhealthy amounts.

in fact nobody had. not even her dear friends or even frenemies had noticed it despite how much time she had spent with them. living more similarly to a phantom then an individual.

everyone simply assumed why y/n had become more quiet than ever was due to her grieving as everyone else happened to be. they didn’t notice that she would wait til she was alone in her family home during the night and scream as loud as she can, slurring her words and nearly tripping over her own feet, as she would go on and on about how the love of her life had performed her own quiet treason. how buffy summers refused to listen to her girlfriend’s own pleas to not sacrifice herself, once again, especially with the knowledge that she would never make it back alive.

buffy went behind her back and she blamed her. but, oh, how she loved her unabashedly and terribly all the same.

it was ruining her life transforming her into a terrible shell of the woman that she used to be. the treason made her damage everything that made her who she was and made her lose herself to the point of her dreams, whenever she would blackout from the alcohol, were filled with all of what she wished to tell buffy anne summers.

“you finally got me to be yours after years of me pining after you! years of you going to other men, having other lovers, while knowing for a fact that i’ve been in love with you since i met you! it only took that damned weekend trip to florida as you didn’t wanna be alone and you kissed me near the mailbox! you looked so damn cute wrapped up in my favorite sweater and yet i only held you and had you as mine for two weeks! two damned weeks buffy! then you go and ruin it all for what?! saving your sister when we could’ve gone down a different path if you just listened to me for once and didn’t go on to sacrifice yourself like you always do for others that don’t even care for you doing this repetitively!”

just another drink. just another sip. just another blackout sleep. that’s all y/n told herself as she stumbled upon the staircase upon her journey to her bedroom. then she’d stop and let buffy go.

she’d stop loving buffy for the first time in years and just let the pretty blonde slayer go with her very last blackout sleep. one more night to see her in her dreams where she could let all her feelings out. just one more step and she’d be in her room. just one more step and she could let go of everything in the comfort of her bedroom. just one more step.

just one more step and her sorrowful heart could stop beating it’s depressing drum. just one more step and the wooden door creaked open to reveal the pretty deceased blonde sitting upon her bed with soaking wet hair from her shower and grave dirt still underneath her fingernails solely dressed in y/n’s favorite sweater.

just one more step and she could feel her heart starting to sway away from it’s depressing drum. just one more step and she could reach out to touch her again.

[fidothefinch]

From Hull, Hell, and Halifax

Whumptober, Day 13: "Til death do us part" Read on Ao3

Dick watched the executioner from his prison cell window.

The masked man was sharpening the guillotine blade in long strokes, the sching, sching, sching ringing in the cobblestone courtyard. The machine was equally beautiful and horrible; a weapon for quick and efficient death.

Dick hoped it would be quick.

The door to his cell opened. No knocking – prisoners were not paid that manner of respect. Still, Dick had been expecting this visit, and he did not turn from the window as several pairs of heavy, metal-laden feet marched inside.

“Kneel for the king,” one of the soldiers commanded.

Dick bit his tongue, straining to keep his posture unbothered as a pair of deceptively quiet footsteps entered. The back of his neck prickled at the feeling of all eyes watching him. He wondered what they saw – the layer of grime on the clothes he had worn since being thrown in this cell? The bruises and dried blood mapping his time in captivity? Or were they focused on the blue bird stitched across his shoulders, a symbol of hope for the community and a source of shame for the throne?

Nobody moved.

When it became clear that he did not plan to turn, and pair of cold armored hands clamped around his shoulders. They forced his gaze away from the window, and slammed him to his knees. Dick barely managed to avoid biting his own tongue. His knees split against the rough stone.

“Bow to your king,” the guard commanded again.

Dick glared. In all of his missions, he had never been so close to the man. He looked remarkably like Bruce – dark hair, the same jaw line, the same nose. Dick tried to imagine his guardian wearing similar attire – heavy velvet, pearls and gemstones, the finest silks. A sickening display of wealth. But the king’s eyes held none of the warmth that his brother’s did. No, Thomas’s eyes were cold and cruel.

“I do not bow to tyrants,” Dick said, voice surprisingly steady despite his weariness.

The hit came so quickly he had no time to dodge, and it landed squarely across his cheekbone, whipping his head to the side. This time, his teeth snapped briefly around his tongue, and blood began to pool in his mouth.

A harsh yank on the chain connecting his shackled wrists to the floor sent his upper body sprawling forward, arms outstretched. “You would do well to show respect to His Majesty, traitor scum.”

Dick craned his neck up to spit thick, red blood out of his mouth and took great pleasure in the disgusted backpedaling of the guards. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked.

Fine leather shoes glided forward and stopped in front of him, toes spreading the drops of blood. “So this is the little bird who has been causing so much mischief?” The king sounded the same way Bruce did when he identified a rare medicinal herb, but with a touch more condescension.

Dick would hardly call his theft, sabotage, and acts of treason “mischief,” but he wasn’t about to confess to his crimes. The chain slacked just enough for another guard to tug his head back by his hair. He grinned without humor, hoping it showed off his bloodied teeth. “Who, me?”

The corners of the king’s mouth tugged down. “Tell the servants to bring a bath,” he told one of the guards, somehow making eye contact with Dick while still not addressing him. “And to mend the clothes.”

Dick’s stomach churned, and for the first time in several days, it wasn’t from the hunger. “I would have cleaned up, if I had known to expect a visitor.”

“Silence.”

Dick’s mouth snapped shut at the word, conditioned by years of hearing it in the same tone from his mentor. If the king noticed, he did not draw attention to it. Instead, he leaned down and gripped Dick’s chin. He tilted Dick’s face side to side, like he were inspecting a prize horse.

“You bear a remarkable resemblance to your parents,” he observed.

Dick’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Something in his face must have shown his surprise, because Thomas’s lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk. “Yes, I saw them several times as a younger man. It was such a shame, what happened.”

He was being deliberate in not revealing Nightwing’s true identity, and the fact only made him more wary. The king had a plan, and Dick was beginning to feel more and more like a pawn.

“Your execution is scheduled for tomorrow.”

Dick swallowed past the urge to vomit.

“I am sure you have seen the guillotine in the courtyard. We had it specially erected, just for you.” The king’s fingers found the divot between two of his neck vertebrae and pressed down, sending a chill down Dick’s spine. It was the position of the cleanest decapitation. “You are well known for your showmanship, so I took the liberty of inviting the entire kingdom to watch.”

Dick stiffened. He knew, logically, that his execution would be made public. It could serve two purposes: a thinly-veiled threat to the Batman’s sympathizers and bid for loyalty from his enemies.

“Of course,” and Thomas stepped back, fingertips leaving burning stripes where he had touched Dick. “There is still time for me to reconsider. You just have to answer my question.”

“I work alone,” Dick ground out, voice steady despite his rising fear.

“Oh, wretched boy. I know that is not true.” Thomas’s thumb wiped away the blood that had dried under Dick’s nose and mouth. “Tell me where your little team of vagabonds is hiding, and I will stay your execution.”

This, at least, was easy. “No.”

“Give me a name, then. Just one name will—“

“Nightwing.”

Thomas was not amused. “You have proven yourself clever. But cleverness will not free you from your fate.” His eyes darkened. “Farewell, boy. Let your guards know if you remember where your friends are located.” His expression took on a dangerous edge as he continued, “I do so hope that they come to tomorrow’s showing.”

The tone sent a chill down Dick’s spine. He felt that he was missing something.

But with nothing more than a final, lingering smirk, the king and his guards left. The heavy wooden door thumped shut, and the lock turned with a thunk similar to that of the guillotine’s blade.

[scarlet-doll-13]

Dulce Periculum - Danger Is Sweet

Lizzie Glass has been running from her family and their empire for many years. Upon hearing her baby brother was in a coma and the world has gone to shit, Bobby Glass drags her back into the chaos once more.

Prelude

Edward was surprised to see a woman with Bobby Glass in the birdcage. She looked a little like Susie from the back, with the same dark hair. But as he approached closer, he could tell the difference. This woman was of similar height but much broader across the shoulders, dressed in ripped jeans and a leather jacket Susie would never be caught dead in. 

“You got some bollocks, ain’t ya? Coming here. Giving my money to the man who battered my son?” Bobby feeds his pigeons. 

Eddie sighs, “I’m sorry about Jack.”

Bobby scoffs; Eddie was toeing a little close to the line in the sand.

“That had nothing to do with me. But I wanted out, so I went to Henry Collins, and that’s why I’ve gone to Mr. Stanley Johnston.”

That little fact intrigued Bobby, “To do what?”

Eddie stands relaxed, hands in his pockets. “To help him acquire your business by obtaining the names of the other lords in your stable so he can take them over. Whoever holds that list holds the keys to the kingdom.”

Bobby turns to face the Eddie, “So you’ve come here to tell me you’ve fucked me twice?”

Eddie tries and fails to hide the brazen look on his face, “Not exactly.”

Bobby turns, gesturing to the woman in the corner. “Eddie. This is my eldest, Lizzie.”

“Susie never said she had a sister.” Eddie held his hand out to shake. 

Lizzie took his hand, shaking with a firm grip. “Technically, I’m dead. But I heard about Jack, and Dad called me back.”

Bobby directed them outside to the table, “Now, tell me your plan.” 

~~~~

Lizzie was impressed by the speech the Duke had given. After some pause and thought, Bobby Glass had agreed to Eddie’s plan. Now the pair stood outside the prison. The clouds parted, and the spring sunshine shone down. Eddie couldn’t help but watch how Lizzie’s hair shone copper in the light. 

He watched her pull a cigarette from the carton with her teeth. “What you’re about to do could be accused of treason in Susie’s eyes. Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I do.” 

She lights her cigarette with an aged Zippo, and Eddie catches a hint of menthol. She takes a deep breath, savouring the rush of nicotine, before exhaling. 

“Well, good luck, your grace.” Lizzie hands him a folded piece of paper, pulled from her jacket pocket, “my number if shit hits the fan.”

Just his luck, shit did hit the fan. Susie was far from amused to hear Eddie was dealing with Henry Collins. One phone call was all it took for his stroke of bad luck to start snowballing out of his control.

~~~~

You can also find it on A03: Dulce Periculum - Danger Is Sweet

A.N. - If anyone can help this old gal with story formatting, would be gladly appreciated. It's been awhile since I've posted on here.

Tag List

@alexa-rae-dreamz

@sabrinareno

[caeli0306]

Violet POV chapter of TFTAB

I mentioned last week I think that I was going to write a Violet POV chapter of TFTAB, and now that I finished chapter 13 of Swan Song, I'm officially getting around to it. A lil unedited blurb below for those of you who I know love this fic as much as I do :)

---

Those eyes of his are trained on me, and I find myself fascinated by them, not for the first time. They’re so dark, they’re practically black, with flecks of gold throughout, and they only add to the unfair beauty of Xaden Riorson. He reminds me of a predator - all sleek lines, powerful muscle, and elegant features. He could be a model with those kinds of looks, but instead he’s committing treason.

My kind of man, I muse to myself without much thought.

I have no doubt in my mind that he knows who I am. I don’t have definitive proof, but something about the way he looks at me changed since he returned from the back of the plane. The intensity of his stare has a very familiar warmth coursing through my bloodstream.

I’m toeing a dangerous line between duty and desire here. My rational brain is telling me to either kill him and go on with my life, or spare him and pray to Zihnal he has the information I want. The less rational part of me is telling me to drag him to the airplane bathroom and find out if he’s as good at kissing as I think he is.

[powdermelonkeg]

I don't know if this has been asked yet, but why is Nellie in Thalmor Jail? What did she do? Why do they hate her?

(I am so excited about her and WILL be adding her to my party as soon as I can, she looks so cool!)

The Direnni clan and the Summerset Altmer don't get along. Summerset Altmeri philosophy, and in turn the extremist Aldmeri Dominion, is based almost entirely around racial purity—something the Direnni clan all but ditched ages and ages ago. They're the elves that are the reason Bretons exist, not to mention that Nellie herself had a Breton grandfather. So, in the eyes of the Thalmor, the Direnni are (for lack of better term) man-blooded mutts. And in the eyes of the Direnni, the Summerset Altmer are stuck-up, prickly, and entitled.

But the Direnni ARE still Altmer. So with the Thalmor closing in on control of Tamriel, they fully expected their "lesser" cousins to fall into line and do their part to extend their influence to Direnni territory. Which has led to some extremely condescending, patronizing, and infuriating talks between Clan Direnni and Thalmor ambassadors that can barely be called "negotiating." (This part isn't canon in vanilla lore, but it can very easily be implied to be so, and a spinoff book mentions that the Thalmor are taking prisoners on Isle Balfiera, which means they're at minimum stepping on Clan Direnni's toes)

Cirinel sat in on one of those meetings at her dad's insistence.

Cirinel is not a diplomat.

She is impulsive, she is dramatic, she has a temper.

So, after watching her dad (whom she loves) be told to stay in line by some two-bit Justiciar, in HER manor, on HER island, Cirinel decided to commit a treason. She messed with Thalmor interrogations and organized a prison break; not out of any sense of charity towards the prisoners, PURELY out of spite. Which then placed her as an easily-identified fugitive of the Thalmor.

She fled to Skyrim to avoid the heat once her impulses had run their course, figuring that the civil war would mean the Thalmor presence here was too tied up to chase her. So she tried to go into hiding, but was caught, interrogated, and tortured.

And that's where you come in! You get a chance to break her free, and when you do, she's in your debt.

And a Direnni always repays her debts.

[centrally-unplanned]

Assassination tier list request I forgot about until this second - killing of Ii Naosuke by imperial loyalist samurai in 1860

Oh man, they are a complicated one I think, its all tied up in the Sonno Joi/"Revere the Emperor, Expel the Barbarians" Movement and evaluating its goals and legacy.

So the context is that Li Naosuke was the Chief Minister of the Shogunate and the real leader - the shogun at the time was the 14-year old Tokugawa Iemochi that Naosuke had appointed in a power struggle that resulted in what is called the Ansei Purge, when over a 100 high daimyo (the fuedal clans of Japan under the shogunate) officials were arrested or killed for their opposition to Japan's opening up to the west and treaties with the foreign powers. Naosuke led this effort, which he had to - not like Japan had much of a choice in signing the treaties. He was trying to walk a line; appease the west while opening up Japan to strengthen the nation, and purging the government of anti-shogunate forces to keep the government strong enough to do that.

His assasination (the Sakurada-mon Incident) in 1860 was led by a band of samurai from the Mito daimiyo, one of the victims of the purge, and it was both part of and ushered in a wave of terrorism and civil violence in Japan that fatally undermined the shogunate and its relationships with the Imperial Court and the daimiyo lords. I think this is one of those *extremely* impactful acts of terrorism. Naosuke was striking a bargain with Japan's elite; you work with me, and we will weather this storm the west is inflicting on us, and if you don't I will destroy you. This was absolutely working at the elite levels, there were not large overt actions being conducted to undermine the Shogunate at the time and real reforms were being made. In return, the lower-ranking samurai, educated, priviledged, but relatively powerless, were furious at the level of appeasement, engaging in terrorism and violence. The violence wasn't getting elite buy-in though; the shogunate was the default for the ruling Daimiyo and they had been threatened into toeing the line.

There is a japanese term Gekokujō, "the low rules the high", which is very fitting here. Killing Naosuke opened the floodgates; not only did his death cause the shogunate to flail around rudderless for a long stretch, but it empowered the Sonno Joi samurai to run riot, not only attacking the government but also pressuring the daimiyo elite themselves into treason. Naive portrayals of Japan at the time pit "shogunate vs daimiyo" as the primary conflict, and its a conflict for sure, but just as important is the conflict between the elite vs the radicals. After Naosuke's death Gekokujo ruled, the elite feared the radicals *more* than they feared the shogunate. They began to work against the shogunate in order to appease the factions in their own court that now, embolded, might assasinate them if they didn't. And man were there assasinations in the Bakumatsu period - so many that attacks on westerners eventually inspired a military invasion of the Shimonoseki treaty port in 1864, which hugely weakened the shogunate. You can trace a direct line between those actions and the Sakurada-mon incident; it was the "propaganda of the deed" that showed every angry disempowered saumrai that they too could make a difference via extreme violence, while pushing daimyo over the edge into the anti-shogunate faction by breaking the spell the Ansei Purges cast.

(This does bring up the topic that due to technology of weapons & information + outdated legacy governing systems, the Long 19th Century was the ideal time for assasinations to make a difference. Thread for another time though)

So A+ or S easy, right? It set the stage for the collapse of the shogunate as much as one assasination could, right? Well, not so fast. We are lucky for this one - the assasins left a manifesto! We know excatly why they did it:

"While fully aware of the necessity for some change in policy since the coming of the Americans at Uraga, it is entirely against the interest of the country and a stain on the national honour to open up commercial relations with foreigners, to admit foreigners into the Castle, to conclude treaties with them, to abolish the established practice of trampling on the picture of Christ, to allow foreigners to build places of worship for the evil religion, and to allow the three Foreign Ministers to reside in the land ... Therefore, we have consecrated ourselves to be the instruments of Heaven to punish this wicked man, and we have taken on ourselves the duty of ending a serious evil, by killing this atrocious autocrat"

Peak Sonno Joi vibes, its all here - expel the foreigners, cut trade, purge the body-politic, RETVRN. To achieve this goal, they allied with the emperor, formed an anti-shogunate faction, overthrew the government, and ushered in the Meiji Restoration to return Japan to the old ways.

How did, uh, that work out?

...yeah. The Meiji Restoration is one of those things where the dissident samurai intellectuals blamed the shogunate for the entirety of Japan's problems, when virtually none of them were the shogunate’s inherent fault - the new government inherited all of those problems and no new solutions. But, with more centralized control and cooled tempers (and dead bodies) once the Boshin War let everyone scapegoat the shogunate, the new Meiji government proceeded to go ULTIMATE WESTERNIZATION and crash course into modernizing the country in a way the shogunate could only dream of.

Samurai? Gone. Feudalism? Gone. Western Clothes? Check. Parliament? Check. Christianity? Legally permitted in 1871, ushering in a boom of churches and schools. Hell they even switched over to the western time system in 1872, you wouldn't even know *when* to ~retvrn~ to at that point. These changes isolated so many of these former samurai they launched the Satsuma Rebellion in 1877, led by ur-samurai Saigo Takamori and possibly Tom Cruise (and who, by the way, absolutely used guns & artillery). They were crushed, and westernization continued. The new Japanese government did fight back to restore its soveriegnty in regards to the West at least, but not in the way the Sonno Joi samurai wanted.

On the near-term goal of destabilizing the shogunate and inspiring their dissident reactionary comrades, the Sakurada-mon Incident was a rousing success. On the far-term goal of its actual political agenda, it empowered a faction that betrayed its agenda on every level. They achieved nothing they truly wanted but the deaths.

Still, as harsh as that all sounds, you can't go *that* far into history, this is a long stretch of time. From the vantage point of 1860 few in Japan knew how irreversible modernity was going to be. The Meiji government certainly didn't - they did not at all set out to End Feudalism, instead finding they simply had no choice if they wanted to compete. The assasins were definitely in the foolish side of the conflict, real leaders knew something had to change, but its too much to put the Meiji Restoration on the shoulders of this one act. They did change Japan in a way that pursued their goals, even if they turned out to be impossible, and things like the immortalization of the emperor in the new Meiji system have to count for some reactionary points.

So for their impact, the inspiration they provided to countless violent samurai reactionaries, and the inherent uncontrollability of Japan's modernization, I will give them an A-/B+, right on the threshold. Definitely a complicated case.

Also this whole exercise as really highlighted Japan's long, deep history of effective terrorism, if we did a country/terrorism ranking they might be near the top.

[backjustforberena]

If Rhaenys had been Queen and Laenor her heir and Laenor and Rhaenyra are still matched, I can guarantee that Queen Rhaenys would put the fear of the Seven into Rhaenyra about any notions of illegitimate children. Any notion of an affair or pursuing personal pleasures before an heir and a spare are born healthy. Even if Laenor consented. Rhaenys would not stand for even the thought or possibility. She'd nip it in the bud before vows were even spoken.

Rhaenys would threaten a teenager if it secured her son's happiness and the future of her line. She wouldn't care if it took years before a trueborn heir was made. She wouldn't prioritise Rhaenyra's happiness, she'd tell her that if she steps a toe out of line, she's committing treason. So be very, very careful and understand your role.

[fetchmearum420]

1776 lines I quote daily:

“It’s simple mr chase. Increase and multiply.”

“New York abstains, COURTEOUSLY.”

“WHAT IN HELL GOES ON IN NEW YORK?!?!”

“CHRIST ITS HOT!!”

“MCNAIR FETCH ME A RUM”

“Well where’d you go for it man JAMAICA?”

“When did you first notice they were missing sir?”

“I second the motion.”

“SIT DOWN YOU SCURVY DOG OR I’LL KNOCK YOU DOWN!”

“Whore? 🤔”

“And an epidemic, of the French disease 😬”

“There must be some mistake I have an aunt who lives in New Brunswick”

“You must tell her to keep up the good work”

“WHO’S STINKETH? THE MOOOOOOSSSSSTTTTTT!”

“YOU FRIVVLE!”

“Oh my god…”

“JUDGE WILSON!!!”

“PEETAH!!!”

“The inventor of the stove.”

“PIDDLE TWIDDLE AND RESOLVE.”

“And therefore I must decline. Respectful-LEE 😁”

“He’s obnoxious and disliked did you know that?”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Social LEE political LEE financial LEE natural LEE internal LEE external LES fraternal LEE eternal LEE”

“DONE?! Why certainLEE!”

“Good morning all 😄”

“Oh Stephen i only wish King George felt like my big toe all over”

“I Stand with the general ☺️”

“OHHH SWEET JESUS.”

“Mr. Adams, leave me ALLLOOOONNNEEEE!”

“You’re obnoxious and disliked that cannot be denied”

“But I burn Mr. A!”

“So do I Mr. J!”

“MOVED AND SECONDED ANY OBJECTIONNNSSS?!?!”

“MCNAIR DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT DAMN DOG!”

“Like hell I am what for?”

“The whoring and the drinking.”

“A bit gouty in the leg.”

“Your obedient, G. Washington.”

“Playing midwives to, an egg.”

“On this humid Monday morning in this congressional incubator.”

“Not every man’s a talker John.”

“Don’t worry John the history books will clean it up.”

“SOMEONE OUTTA OPEN UP A WINDOW!”

“Good god!”

“Incredible…”

“Disgusting 😒”

“Spoken ModestLEE god help us.”

“Treason is a charge, invented by winners, as an excuse for hanging the losers.”

“John why don’t you give it up? Nobody listens to you you’re obnoxious and disliked.”

“QUIETTTT!!!”

“Oh shut up, Franklin.”

“I have a new dispatch 😜”

“To the right, ever to the right, never to the left, forever to the right.”

[idcwhattheblogisbutmynameiscandy]

October Wind:

Chapter One; The Strange Client

⚠️Content Warning 16+!!⚠️

There will be some violence and mature themes, so if you don't like that leave. -NOT PROOFREAD-

October 7th, 1991

Lady Justice; a symbol of hope, an inspiration of many and the downfall of others. He saw her every day he was cooped up in the courthouse but could never fathom how such a noble figure became so sickening working day in and day out by her statue. She was supposed to be good; why do all good things turn sour?

Tom tried to wrap his head around it before but always came up empty. Today was no exception.

It was a brisk morning, much like any other for Tom Wallbrooke as he paddled down the street, cardboard coffee cup in hand, pondering life's questions as he avoided a puddle, stepping over a curb to straddle his lean, black motorbike.

Upon first glance; Tom is rugged, chestnut curls rustled carelessly about as he rides upon his 'Black Majesty,' as he calls it, leather gloves and jacket in toe. He seems wreckless, possibly even foolish to an outsider. One might be surprised when they hear that he's an inmate's rights defender, working in the criminal justice system. He revs the engine, pressing onward through the city as he turns on some music, making his trip bearable.

Guilty as charged, but damnit it ain't right! There's someone else controlling me!

He pushes onwards through the damp streets, increasing in speed as he overtakes another driver, taking a sharp turn as he inhales a deep breath. It's going to be a long day, he decides. Hearing some street squabble he turns up his music louder, attempting to drown out whatever petty conflict the streets of Crown Point, deciding that's an Indiana problem.

Flash before my eyes, now it's time to die! Burning in my brain, I can feel strain!

He parks his motorcycle outside of the courthouse, pulling up his leather sleeves to expose the tattoos lining his arms as he walks inside, tapping his rings on the front desk.

"Late again, Wallbrooke," the front desk lady, Araya scolds, her lips pressed into a thin line, showing her displeasure. Tom grins at her, exposing his dimples,

"A wizard is never late; nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to," he jests, to Arya's discontent.

"Whatever, dweeb, you have a new case in paranormal affairs," she says flatly and Tom's face falls. This was the one caveat to the job. Paranormal affairs. He could handle cruel prisons, long paperwork and even clients that got short with him- what he wasn't prepared for was the devastation in the treatment of 'the hybrids,' as they call them. They're not exactly human, but they're also not a demon or an angel, they're something in between. The freaks. Tom wouldn't say that, but many do. Tom decided that he'd immediately get to work, rushing to his desk to read the file left on his desk. This one's thick; thicker than normal.

Willow Corey; inmate 420. Tom looked at the name and froze. This can't be right, he thought. Willow Corey is... well, she's a lot of things, a hybrid is one of them, her mom is a high ranking official in hell, deciding upon the punishments and tortures of the sinners, and her father is an angel, known for designing various plants and animals. In the paranormal districts she was practically royalty... that was until 1974, when she was 160, she decided to affiliate herself with some demon rebels, ultimately landing her with charges of treason. Given the sentencing, she shouldn't even be in the prison anymore; she was charged with a lower sentence with a plea deal, conspiracy, which in hell is only fifteen years. He grumbles under his breath and pulled on his jacket, walking to the back room.

As he enters the dark room he looks around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light until he spots his friend. Tall and lanky, he stands gaurd of a portal red and fierce, his baby face a clear sign of his youth. He was only nineteen, a singular year younger than Tom, but you'd never be able to guess it as Tom's job aged him far more than it should have. He blames the stress.

"Tobi! How are you, you awesome son of a bitch?!" Tom exclaims, excited to be able to work in his friend's sector, Tobi however, doesn't share that sentiment as he scoffs and rolls his eyes.

"Not great, Man, the sitch in hell is bad... Let me guess, you need access?" He asks and Tom nods grimly.

"Yeah man... Another hybrid mis case... This one's high profile," he grumbles and Tobi nods, opening the gate.

"She's all yours," he says grufly, pulling his dark colored bangs out of his eyes and Tom tilts his head in acknowledgement before entering. This is going to be a long day.

[vengefvlx]

CHARACTER BASICS

Faceclaim: Jennifer Connelly

Name: Josette "Josie" Myers

Age: 50

Gender: Cis Woman

Home: District 7

Role: Former Lumbar Worker, Current District 13 Refugee

Personality: Compliant, Co-operative, Hardworking, worrisome, cynical

Song: Unwritten – Natasha Bedingfield

CHARACTER BIOGRAPHY

Death TW

Life in District 7 was hard. Life was difficult in all the districts really. But Josette was unaware of this. The Capitol disliked the districts communicating. So apart from a little in history class, where she'd learnt that the districts were bad and the Capitol was great, she knew barely anything about the other districts. If she had been curious she probably would have wanted to find out more. But she wasn't curious. Or well, her father had told her not to be curious. Josie was to not be curious, to stay in line, and do what she was told.

Those orders came from personal tragedy. Though the Capitol wouldn't call it a Tragedy. They'd call it treason. Her father wanted them to stay in line because of the past. The past where her great uncle had not wanted to toe the line. Josette doesn't know what had actually happened. Her family didn't talk about it. It was almost like they were ashamed of what had happened. But since then her family had been good citiizens. Whatever that meant.

As was not unusual in 7, once she was done in school Josette joined the lumbar industry. It was physical work, involving long days. She went to bed most days exhausted. So even if she had been curious, she probably would have been too exhausted to do anything. Reflecting upon this, she wonders if this is what the Capitol had wanted all along. Tired citizens made compliant citizens since they were too tired to do anything. It was a good plan.

Josette still doesn't really know how she ended up in 13. She hadn't really been watching the games that closely. They still had to sort out all the lumbar after all. And she was used to District 7 never doing well anyway. They were just a District that did not do very well. And so, Josette didn't want to waste her time on watching her fellow district people die. Of course, it was the evening on that fateful day, but for once she wasn't actually at home.

Maybe if she hadn't been at home, she might not have made it onto the hover. She still doesn't really know how she ended up on the Hover. She just did. And the rest of her family did not. They didn't really live in the most central location of 7. If she had been at home she wouldn't have been on the so called rescue.

But she was. And now she is in 13.

Josie is still processing the whole rebellion thing. Her father wasn't here. She couldn't talk to him. But she's been thinking more of her Great Uncle, and his death. Was that due to believing in a rebellion? And if so, maybe that was why her family had never talked about it. But the rebellion was in full force now. And Josie needed to find her place in it.

She just didn't know where to even start.

[portraitoftheoddity]

🖊️ for someone in the age of sail project!

Ok, we're gonna talk about Lieutenant Pellingham!

As the first Lieutenant, he is the senior commissioned officer under the captain, and often gets stuck babysitting the younger midshipmen when they aren't at their studies or in their berths.

Pellingham is the most insufferably Lawful-Good-Aligned guy on the ship. He isn't a bad guy by any means -- but he is a by-the-book stickler for the rules and chain of command; he is fastidious, disciplined, and has the social charisma of a loaf of white bread. His main loophole for not following the rules is if Captain Corbyn orders him to do so, since his loyalty to Corbyn is about the only thing that trumps his near slavish loyalty to Admiralty Law.

But he's like that for a reason.

So, Pellingham comes from a noble family. As a younger son of a younger son, he was quite low on the family ladder of relative titles and inheritance, hence being sent to sea as a boy, but coming from a family with that much clout, it was expected he might achieve his first command by his mid-20s.

As it turns out, being sent to sea did not promise him fame and fortune -- but it did save his life.

His family got involved with an attempted coup against the king; the conspiracy was discovered two days after Pellingham sat and passed his Lieutenant Examinations, and overnight, his world was turned upside down as many of his relatives were executed for treason, and the rest either had their lands seized, or were simply disgraced. Pellingham himself managed to avoid being grouped in with the conspirators owing to the fact he'd just returned from several months at sea and knew absolutely fuck all about any of this.

However, despite now having his commission, Pellingham was basically considered toxic by every commander in the fleet due to his familial connections. No one wanted someone whose name reeked of treason under their command.

Until Corbyn came along. And Pellingham has no small amount of adoration and admiration for the man who gave him a chance and a post (even if Corbyn's reasoning was mostly 'Sounds like a fun way to piss off my superiors'). But he knows that there are eyes on him, waiting for him to put one toe out of line to prove that treachery runs in his blood. So he follows the rules with near religiosity, seeing his adherence to the law as his salvation.

[razieltwelve]

Revenge (Final Effect)

“You bit me!” Her Imperial Highness Averia VII stared at her beloved hedgehog in outrage. “You actually bit me!”

Claire sighed. “You did tell him to bite you if you were about to do something stupid.” She paused meaningfully. “Trying to beat Jahne in a staring contest is the definition of stupid.”

The crown princess rubbed her big toe. Although Lord Hedgeborough hadn’t bitten hard enough to draw blood, it had not been very pleasant at all. “I’ll have you know that I was simply out of practice the last time. This time, I am prepared.”

“Averia, Jahne doesn’t even have to blink, breathe, or sleep. There is precisely zero chance of you beating her.”

“Is that -”

“Yes, that is what Saviour thinks too.”

Averia scowled. “I’m sure the chances aren’t exactly zero. There must be -”

“As far as my version of Saviour can see, across all possible timelines and dimensions, if you challenge Jahne to a staring contest, you will lose.”

“...”

Averia huffed petulantly. “Lord Hedgeborough, can you at least bite Jahne too?”

The hedgehog perked up at the thought of biting his nemesis.

“You know,” Jahne pointed out. “Setting your hedgehog on innocent people could be considered a form of tyranny.”

“Innocent?” Averia glared imperiously at the other girl. “More like insolent! What sort of loyal subject challenges their future sovereign to a staring contest?”

“One who knows she’ll win.” Jahne shrugged. “Because I always win our staring contests.”

“You wouldn’t be so confident if I had eye beams.”

“I can give myself eye beams.”

Averia’s eyes narrowed.

“No matter how hard you stare, you can’t actually give yourself eyes beams, Averia.”

Averia stared harder.

“No, really. You can’t control your own biology like I can. It’s not going to work.”

Averia’s staring took on truly herculean proportions.

Lord Hedgeborought bit her.

“Ouch!” Averia glared. “What was that for?”

Her hedgehog rolled his eyes and gave his reply.

“He’s right,” Claire said. “It is entirely possible to stare so hard you knock yourself out.”

“...”

“Look.” Claire said. “Why don’t you challenge Jahne at something else, something you might actually have a chance of winning.”

“Well...”

Jahne’s grin was smug. “Claire, we all know that no matter what she picks, I’m going to win.”

Averia stood up. “Stand up.”

Jahne frowned. “What?”

“Stand up.” Averia’s smirk was very, very smug. “A height contest. That’s what I’m challenging you to.”

Jahne got up. Like all of the bearers of Ragnarok before her, the girl was a scruffy, ragamuffin of a child. She was also noticeably shorter than both of her friends. “Seriously?”

“Yes.” Averia looked down her nose at Jahne. “I’m taller than you... so there.”

Jahne’s eye twitched. “You do realise that’s not going to last. I’m going to shoot up like a weed when we’re older, and you’re probably going to end up the shortest out of the three of us.”

“That is -”

“97.9% probability,” Claire supplied, oh so helpfully. “There are a few timelines where you end up a smidge taller than me.”

“And do I ever end up taller than Jahne?”

Claire’s snickered said it all.

“Can’t you at least lie?” Averia wailed. “You could at least let me believe I'll be taller than her until she actually starts growing.”

“I once told you that I’d never lie to you,” Claire drawled. “And I meant it. Sorry to say, but in every timeline I can see, Jahne ends up taller than you.”

“This has to be a form of treachery,” Averia muttered. “Lord Hedgeborough, is there any legal precedent for this being a form of treachery?”

As much as the hedgehog wanted to say there was, there was not. He shook his head.

“I’ll just have to pass a law when I become empress then,” Averia said. “Something alone the lines of: any bearers of Ragnarok named Jahne who are taller than me are guilty of treason.”

“Wow,” Jahne said. “You’re not even trying to hide your tyranny.”

“I’ll just get the Dia-Farron to change the meaning of tyranny in the dictionary to not relate to anything I do.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Jahne replied.

“Well, that’s how I’ll make it work.” Averia nodded to herself. “When I’m empress, Jahne, you better watch out.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely terrified,” Jahne said. “Help, Claire. The big, bad princess is threatening me.” She laughed. “Stop trying to act tough, Averia. We both know you’d be sad if something ever happened to me.”

“Lord Hedgeborough,” Averia growled. “Bite Jahne.”