#unjust belt

[finglefungle]

the rust belt? what's next, the dust belt? the gust belt? the crust belt? the disgust belt? the must belt? the fust belt? the adjust belt? the discussed belt? the fussed belt? the trust belt? the just belt? the robust belt? the combust belt? the unjust belt? THE BELT??

[dynamitekansai]

📸 kQYa7orLnn3yKIH

[secretmellowblog]

The thing is, Jean Valjean’s “nineteen year prison sentence for stealing a loaf of bread” from Les Mis isn’t actually unusual….not even today! I see people talking about it as if it’s strange or unimaginable when it happens every day.

In modern America — often as a result of pointlessly cruel (and racist) habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws— people are routinely sentenced to life in prison for minor crimes like shoplifting or possession of drugs.

The ACLU did a report in 2013 detailing the lives of various people who were sentenced to life in prison without parole for nonviolent property crimes like:

•attempting to cash a stolen check

•a junk-dealer’s possession of stolen junk

metal (10 valves and one elbow pipe)

•possession of stolen wrenches

•siphoning gasoline from a truck

•stealing tools from a tool shed and a welding machine from a yard

•shoplifting three belts from a department store

•shoplifting several digital cameras

•shoplifting two jerseys from an athletic store

• taking a television, circular saw, and a power converter from a vacant house

• breaking into a closed liquor store in the middle of the night

And of course, so so so many people sentenced to life without parole for the possession of a few grams of drugs.

And we could go on and on!

Gregory Taylor was a homeless man in Los Angeles who, in 1997, was sentenced to “25 years to life” for attempting to steal food from a food kitchen. He was released after 13 years. The lawyers helping to release him even cited Les Miserables in their appeal, comparing Taylor’s sentence to Jean Valjean’s.

And there’s another specific bit of social commentary Hugo was making about Valjean’s trial that’s still depressingly relevant. He writes that Valjean was sentenced for the theft of loaf of bread, but also that the court managed to make that sentence stick by bringing up some of his past misdemeanors. For example, Valjean owned a gun and was known to occasionally poach wildlife (presumably for his starving family to eat.) . So the court exaggerates how harmful the bread theft was—he had to smash a windowpane to get the bread, which is basically Violence— then insist the fact that he owns a gun and occasionally poaches is proof that he is habitually and innately violent. Then when Valjean obviously becomes distressed traumatized and furious as a result of his nakedly unjust sentence and begins making desperate (and very unsuccessful/impulsive/ poorly thought through) attempts to escape…. the government indifferently tacks more years onto his sentence, labels him a “dangerous” felon, and insists that its initial read of him as an innately violent person was correct.

And it’s sad how a lot of the real life stories linked earlier are similar to the commentary Hugo wrote in 1863? Someone will commit a nonviolent property crime, and then the court insists that a bunch of other miscellaneous things they’ve done in the past (whether it’s other minor thefts or being addicted to drugs or w/e) are Proof they’re inherently violent and incapable of being around other people.

A small very petty fandom side note: This is also why I dislike all those common jokes you see everywhere along the lines of “lol it’s so unrealistic for the police to want to arrest Valjean over a loaf of bread, there must have been some other reason the police were pursuing him. Because the state would never punish someone that harshly and irrationally for no reason. so maybe javert was just gay haha”. (Ex: this tiktok— please don’t harass the creator or poster though, I don’t think they were intending to mean anything like that and its just a silly common type of joke you see made about Les mis all the time so it’s not unique in any way.) because like.

As much as I don’t think Les Mis is a flawless book or that its political messaging is perfect….the only way that insanely long unjust sentences for minor crimes is “unrealistic” is if you’re operating on the assumption that prisons are here to Keep You Safe by always only punishing bad criminals who do serious crimes. And that’s just, not true at all. Like I get that these are just goofy silly shallow jokes, and I’m not angry or going to harass anyone who makes them. but it feels like there’s an assumption underlying all those goofy jokes that “this is just not how prison works!” “Prisons don’t routinely sentence people to absurd laughably unjust pointless sentences!” “Prisons give people fair sentences for logical reasons!” When like…no

Valjean being relentlessly hounded and tortured for a minor crime in a way that is utterly ridiculous and arbitrary in its cruelty is not actually a plot hole in Les mis. It’s a plot hole in …..society ajsjkdkdkf. And the only way to fix that is to fight for prison abolition or at least reform, and (in America) stand up against the vicious naked cruelty of habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws.

But yeah :(. I hate how Les Mis opens with a prologue saying the novel will be obsolete the moment the social issues it describes have been resolved— but two hundred years later, the book is still more relevant than ever because we’re dealing with so many of the exact same injustices.

[hobies-gf]

missing him (hobie brown) - nsfw

you’ve been missing hobie. fighting against the unjust government and performing every few days doesn’t really give him much time to come home to you. usually you could wait, be the perfect little angel for him and sit pretty while he’s gone. but its just been so hard lately.

before you know it your humping at his pillow, whining cuz it smells just like him. you really tried to ignore the ache between your pretty legs but once you thought about Hobie it would always spiral to the last time you were underneath him.

so you grind against his pillow, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted as faint murmurs of Hobie’s name leave your mouth. you were too focused on the way you moved your hips to hear the heavy footsteps pounding out in the hallway. too focused on your approaching orgasm to hear the metal of a belt hit the ground. as you approach your high, thighs tensing and back arched, only then did you see Hobie in front of you.

he was smirking, of course. because his angel was really just the dirtiest little thing when he was away. he doesnt pay attention to the fact that you continued to gyrate your hips against the pillow despite his presence. instead he sits across from you and beckons you over with two of his fingers.

“c’mere pretty. I’ll treat you better than that damned pillow.”

[yanderenightmare]

poly kiribaku with a small captive darling!! badcap/goodcop dynamic where kiri's the really cruel one, and baku cant help but enjoy watching him break little darling over his knee despite feeling a little guilty about not doing anything????

Bakugou Katsuki & Kirishima Eijirou

TW: NSFW, dubcon/noncon, yandere, good cop/bad cop manipulation, size-difference, poly, abuse i.e. slapping, hair-pulling, etc

The slap to her face sent her to the ground, and Katsuki cringed – face flinching as the redhead towered with unfair height over the small girl at his feet. His large hands, rough like stone, hoisted her up by the arm she raised to shield herself – only to shove her down on the bed – looming and pushing himself onto her where she fought so uselessly, so desperately to protect herself – despite knowing it only motivated the brawny male to get even rougher.

A fist latched tight around her throat kept her down with disorienting strength – spluttering on strangled air while her head thumped hot and blinding, only barely lucid enough to catch the sharp sounds of his belt unbuckling. 

The other cruel fist twisted her dress until tearing it off, leaving her even more vulnerable to his harsh handlings – ripping her panties down to her legs while she kicked in distress, caught beneath the unjust muscle mass with no ounce of hope to escape him.

Sobbing, she fervently tried stopping him – winding her thighs shut with a pair of small hands pushing at his chest to keep him distanced. But it was all just silly of her, as it took little more than an effortless push to have her completely flattened beneath him – knees spread wide open on each side of his hips.

Katsuki stood and watched – rigidly – listening to the pitiful sounds of her whimpering cries overrun by Kirishima’s much domineering groans. 

It happened fast, and soon it was already over with – and he’d done nothing but stand there all the while without a word – and still simply stood there speechless even now – as she knelt on the floor by the redhead's feet, cowering as he fisted her hair tightly in a mean grip – asking her in loud growls if she had anything to say for herself.

“I'm sorry- I'm sorry, Eijiro-” She spluttered out, eyes squeezed tight with hands thrown up in surrender – failing to shield herself from even the loud rashness of his voice where thick tears mercilessly streamed in streaks down her stinging raw cheeks.

“And your other master.” He added, yanking her head back with another hand gripping her jaw to face the silent blond.

“I'm sorry, Katsuki- I'm sorry- I'm sorry-”

It took him a second too long to shake free of the stiffness that had taken its toll on him – as though he had somehow forgotten he wasn’t just a spectator. Feeling ill at the sight of how meaty and big Kirishima’s hands were in comparison to her head, where the massive male held her tight like a football while she hiccupped and hitched on uneven breaths, all riddled with terror and hurt.

“There you go~ We learn, don't we, sweetie?” Kirishima continued his brutalities, fucking his coarse fingers into her mouth – making her choke and wretch – though still scared in place, obediently kneeling beneath the male with her hands held steady on the hard muscles of his thighs.

“Kiri, take it easy….” Bakugou finally managed to voice – taking a cautious step towards the two of them.

“What? Oh, look- now you’re making him worry.” Kirishima scolded, pulling her up by her hair, with her wincing at the sting before she was shoved onto her other large captor. 

“I’m sorry- please don't-” She begged, knees quaking as she sagged against him weakly – face twisted in plead with a pitiful furrow of mercy wrinkled between her brows and eyes impossibly large with tears and fear – hopelessly searching for any ounce of kindness he had to spare.

“Show him then.” Kirishima voiced brashly. “Show him how sorry you are.”

She shook and obeyed, taking the ever-so-silent blond by his big hands – hoping he wouldn’t use his strength on her like the other one – while guiding him back to the bed.

“I’m sorry, Katsuki- please don’t worry~” She tried soothing – gently pushing him back on the bed so she could crawl over him and offer some comfort like how Kirishima had taught her he liked.

“You hear that?” The redhead spoke. “Go on, Tsuki~ touch her.” He encouraged him while a rough hand came to make her flinch despite it only gently stroking her ass where she hovered over Bakugou’s clothed bump – painfully stretching out the fabric keeping it trapped.

He barely wanted to look down – afraid to admit to himself why he was so fucking hard – knowing it had everything to do with the fact that Kirishima’s so cruel and she’s so cute it’s cruel in and of itself – feeling so reluctant to acknowledge it as it would mean he could no longer deny the fact that he’s something really very sick for enjoying it.

“Please. It’s fine- touch me.” She sweet-talked, kissing with wet lips and tongue against his neck – making his heart pound harder with tremoring hands subconsciously lifting to card guilt-ridden yet greedy fingers into the plush softness of the thighs cradling him.

About to groan when pushing her hips down to grind on him – stopped short when the redhead raked his hand back in the girl’s hair and yanked her back – ripping her from lathering his neck with sweet spit and pleasurable little whimpers.

He watched her crane, arching back to look up into Kirishima’s face – a collection of ferally pointy teeth smiling down at her with a gleam nothing short of sadistic.

“What gives, buttercup? You’re never this sweet with me?” He accused, fist only tightening to make her wince.

She lifted her hand and stroked his cheek, encouraging him to lean in. “I’m sorry, Eijirou~ I’m still learning~” She tried, and successfully – he humored her – kissing her lips with tongue and teeth while tangling his hand softer into her hair, soothing fingertips brushing reassuringly against her scalp rather than twisting it from their roots.

His other hand rounded her and flicked her budding nipple, making her yelp into his receiving mouth – where he bore a toothy smirk – rumbling out a low chuckle in response while continuing to rub the nub between coarse fingers.

“Have you already forgotten about someone?” He asked after a while, hot against her lips – and Bakugou realized a second too late that it meant another punishment was due – watching her struggle with yet another cry as Kirishima ensnared her neck in a harsh chokehold.

Her smaller hand clawed on the paw without merit while he continued kissing her breathless mouth, desperately gulping for air he wouldn’t allow.

“Kiri-” Bakugou interjected once again, and the redhead let up, making her suck in harshly – slumping forward against the blond’s chest in a coughing spur until she ended up simply crying into his collar with fingers clutching tightly onto the cotton of his shirt.

He felt her shiver all the way down to her toes – his stomach brewing with stirs in return – bubbly and boiling as he watched the continued cruelty before him where the redhead played with her like something inanimate.

“Oh- you can handle it, right? Can’t you, sweetie?” He feigned tenderness, softly stroking the top of her head where she had it buried in Bakugou’s neck, gripping him for safety he was sorry to say he wouldn’t give her.

He thought he heard her whisper out the teeniest tiniest plea where she clutched him even tighter – molding her body flat against him – as close as she could while goosebumps shock-rose all across her exposed skin.

“I’m just teaching you to appreciate us, buttercup.” Kirishima defended, his stiff lips pressed against her shoulder, leaving a wet trail of sloppy kisses up her neck as he positioned himself behind her.

Rough hands lifted her by the fat of her ass – and soon she felt the stiff structure of his thick member brush against the raw puff of her sore cunt.

“If I don’t, who will?” He whispered, stroking her hair over to the other side to get a clean shot at her ear – whispering upon it. “It’s not like Mr. Perfect here is gonna get his hands dirty.”

[ghentry02]

I saw Anora recently. And while I can't say people's interpretations of the themes are wrong, because I don't believe any one interpretation can be entirely wrong, I do think the analyses are missing one element: power.

Ani struggles for control throughout the entire second act of the film. While she puts up a good fight against the men working for Ivan's family, they eventually forcefully subdue her, binding her with a telephone cord and a scarf (remember the scarf). She's being told she'll divorce Ivan, despite what she wants. She's carted around New York, and when they finally find Ivan, Ani is forced in front a judge to procure an annulment she doesn't want.

Eventually, Ivan's parents are brought into play, with the most important interaction playing out between his mother and Ani, outside of the plane. Ani is refusing to go on, threatening an old fashioned American divorce. Ivan's mother gets very close, threatening to take away everything Ani has ever loved.

The difference between the two of them could not be more clear: Ani is a sex worker living in a shared apartment and Ivan's mother is a wealthy beyond belief Russian oligarch. There is no fair fight to be had - the latter holds all the cards.

In the beaurocratic room the annulment takes place in, Ani throws the scarf in the mother's face as a final act of defiance against the unjust situation she's been thrust into. Ani has this item, only because Igor brought it with him when they were out looking for Ivan. Igor offers it to Ani, who is visibly cold, and she has a harsh reaction - it's a symbol of his forceful subduing of her earlier in the movie. Eventually, however, she gives in and accepts the scarf. A symbol of someone else's power over her has been accepted.

The final scene is often characterized as Anora being unable to connect with Igor on a real level, thus not wanting to kiss him, and her break down being a reflection of that. I'd say it's him again using his power to coerce her into something she doesn't want. Ani is the initiator of the sex between them. She turns on her charm, something we saw her use again and again with men at the club, and climbs atop him. She brings the seat down. She undoes his belt.

Then, we see him forcefully trying to bring her into a kiss - he thinks this is more intimate than it is. While Ani is looking for power over her life and decisions, Igor is looking for connection. Is she still in control? When she recognizes her strength and power in the situation is now null and void, she finally breaks down over the repeated assaults to her autonomy over the last day, and even weeks.

I'm reminded of the conversation Ani and Igor have during their final night at the Zakharov mansion. Ani posits that Igor wouldn't rape her, not because he is above it, but because he is a "pussy ass bitch".

While not rape, the scene between them in the car is most definitely a boundary being crossed. Ani could not make it more clear in her body language and response that she does not want to kiss him, but this does not stop him from pushing the envelope. He shows his true hand here: while he may not see himself as someone willing to cross a sexual boundary, his actions prove he most definitely is.

This is why Ani has her final breakdown - not because she is incapable of genuine connection, but because despite all she's been through, she is still unable to gain control of the situation.

[polutrope]

For Day 1 of @arafinwean-week, some Angrod and Galadriel pre-Darkening. G, 900 words. On AO3.

“You are too agitated,” Artanis said, without judgement. She combed her fingers through her brother’s hairtail, shaking free a shower of white sand. “You will never make the leap with a heart weighed down by cares.” 

“Stop fussing, sister,” Angaráto yanked his head free, “I am fine. I am only out of practice.” He bounced in place a moment, visualising his leap. Or at least trying to. His distraction was transparent to Artanis: his head stayed squared over his shoulders, but his eyes darted here and there; he pulled his lips too tight, forgetting to breathe, so his in-breath hissed before he took off: one, two, three, and his feet came down far short of the mark. He slid and crashed onto the sand.

With a graceless flail and groaning, he rolled onto his back, limbs splayed in surrender, then heaved a great sigh.

Artanis came to stand beside him, looking down. She poked at his ribs with her toes. “Are you all right?”

Angaráto chuckled. “Oh, little sister. You always know, don’t you?” She shrugged, leaving space for him to continue. Everyone always talked, eventually, if you waited. “Would you like to know what it was this time? I am ashamed to admit it. I cannot abide that elf! He has only to look my way with his ruddy little cheeks and his sneering little lips and I…” Angaráto grabbed fistfuls of sand and tossed them at his feet. “Well: we saw Morifinwë in the marketplace, and he was giving the fishmonger – you know the one, Mother’s friend – a horrible time, complaining that she had purposely given him the smaller catch, accusing her of doing so because she was a supporter of Nolofinwë. She answered, with commendable humour, that she did not care at all who was king so long as there were people who wanted fish. That coloured Morifinwë perfectly crimson, and he began railing about lineage and honour and the memory of Míriel Therindë — Can you imagine! The poor woman is trying to sell her fish, and this haughty son of Fëanáro strides up to accuse her — because his fish was too small! — of callousness and treason!” 

Angaráto was himself becoming rather flush recounting the tale. Artanis crouched to sit cross-legged beside him on the ground. His lips were pursed and his mouth shifted from side to side, as if he was trying very hard not to speak until he had fully considered what he wanted to say. Angaráto was not typically good at this. 

“Well,” he sighed at last, “it will do no good trying to hide the whole of it, I suppose, certainly not from you. Besides, the whole marketplace saw it, everyone will hear of it eventually… I couldn’t just let it be, Artanis. It was unjust! So I… I pulled off his belt and smacked him with it,” he said in a rush, then cried, “Augh!” and covered his eyes in shame.

Artanis burst into laughter. “Ango! You child! That is worse that I imagined.”

“Not hard! Just to teach him a lesson in humility. And I did let him have it back.”

“You are a grown man, brother.” 

“What would you have done?” His head lolled to the side so he could properly look at her.

Artanis considered. “Snuff out Carnistir’s temper first, I suppose.”

“Ah, so you’d have doused Prince Morifinwë in a bucket of salty, fishy water? Yes, that would have been clever.”

“No!” She smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “No, I’d have pretended I had business with the fishmonger.”

“And interrupted him? Oh, he’d not have taken well to that.”

“At first not, I am sure. But once I got a pleasant conversation going with the woman, he’d have no audience for his anger, and would quickly begin to feel a fool, barking about nothing for no one. Eventually, he’d sulk off like a sad dog with his tail between his legs.”

“Pfft! I should like to see that.” Angaráto propped himself up on one elbow. “But, I will grant it would have been better than what I chose to do. Few things would have been worse.”

Artanis smiled. She loved her brothers, dearly – but sometimes they were awfully obtuse. As far as she was concerned, they were all tossing themselves willingly into Prince Curufinwë’s pot of discontent and letting him stir them up into a boil. 

A comfortable silence settled between them, and Artanis marked the easing of her brother’s agitation by the slow rise and fall of his chest. So she asked: “Why do you think he is like that?” 

“Who?” 

“Carnistir. Why do you think he is so quarrelsome?”

Angaráto snorted. “I don’t know. He’s always been that way. He was named for being angry.”

“Perhaps.” Artanis paused. Even she had to delve deep into her heart to find understanding for her disagreeable half-cousins. But who might she have become with a brash, implacable, hateful father like theirs? Who would strong and dauntless Angaráto have become, in a household full of bitterness and anguish? 

“Or,” she said, “perhaps he was never shown another way. Whatever the case may be,” she stood, dusting the sand from her thighs, “it will do no good to blow wind upon the flames.” She offered her hand. “Try not to mind him, if you can, dear brother?”

“Very well.” Angaráto clasped her hand in his and allowed himself to be pulled up to standing. “I will try.” 

[girlactionfigure]

THURSDAY HERO: Armin Wegner 

Armenian refugees photographed by Armin Wegner, 1915

Armin Wegner was a German soldier stationed in the Ottoman Empire during World War I who was  witness to the Armenian Genocide. Disobeying orders, he gathered extensive documentation and took hundreds of photographs of atrocities committed against Armenians. Later, Armin became a fearless peace activist who was imprisoned for standing up to Hitler.

Armin was born in 1886 to an aristocratic Prussian family in the Rhineland area of Germany. He was educated at schools in Poland and Switzerland, and was a gifted poet, publishing his first volume of poetry, “I Have Never Been Older than as a Sixteen-year-old” as a teenager. He attended law school, but had the soul of an artist and spent the next couple of years (in his own words) as a “farmer, dock-worker, student of drama (with Max Reinhardt), private tutor, editor, public speaker, lover and idler, filled with a deep desire for unraveling the mystery of things.”

When World War I broke out in 1914, Armin joined the German army, serving as a medic in Poland. He received the Iron Cross for rendering care under fire. Armin rose to rank of second lieutenant in the German Sanitary Corps and was sent to the Middle East as part of a detachment to assist the Ottoman Army.

Stationed along the Baghdad Railway in Syria and modern-day Iraq, Armin was shocked to witness thousands of emaciated Armenian refugees forced onto death marches by the Ottomans. The horrifying reality of what was happening was being hidden, and Armin was ordered to keep quiet about what he saw as Germany did not want to alienate the Ottoman Empire, an important ally. Disobeying what he felt was a deeply unjust order, Armin went to great effort to collect proof about the systematic massacre of Armenians – the first modern genocide. Armin was willing to risk his life to document what was happening, and his extensive photographic record remains the most important evidence of the atrocities that occurred.

The Ottomans eventually found out what Armin was doing, and he was arrested by the Germans and sent back to Germany. Some of his photographs were destroyed, but he was able to smuggle out many negatives hidden in his belt.

After the war, Armin became a successful journalist and prominent anti-war activist. In 1919 he published an “Open Letter to President Woodrow Wilson” urging the peace conference to create an independent Armenian state.

He wrote extensively about the Armenian Genocide and testified in court at the trial of Soghomon Tehlirian, an Armenian who killed Talat Pasha, the Ottoman leader who orchestrated the atrocity. Armin’s testimony was so powerful that the court could not convict Tehirian for the assassination, even though there were many eyewitnesses. He was found not guilty for reason of temporary insanity.

Armin was a respected writer and cultural figure who co-created the German Expressionist movement in the mid-1920’s. After visiting the Soviet Union, including the Soviet Socialist Republic of Armenia with his wife, author Lola Landau, Armin wrote a book about his trip, which became a bestseller. It was a chilling account of the political violence endemic to Soviet Communist rule. At a time when many in the West were romanticizing the Bolsheviks, Armin was one of the few who could see where the situation was headed: totalitarian Stalinism.

Meanwhile in Germany, Hitler and the Nazi power gained power and in 1933 they urged a nationwide boycott of Jewish businesses. As someone who witnessed the Armenian Genocide and had many Jewish friends, Armin could not remain silent. He wrote an open letter to Adolf Hitler identifying himself as a proud Prussian who could trace his roots in Germany back to the time of the Crusades. In clear language he told Hitler that his persecution of Germany’s Jews would destroy the country. “There is no Fatherland without justice!” he said. Armin was the only writer to speak out publicly against Hitler. Swiftly, he was arrested by the Gestapo, tortured and imprisoned in harsh conditions for a year. In 1934 Armin was released, and immediately fled to Rome, where he changed his name and lived in hiding. His wife divorced him, leading Armin to later say, “Germany took everything from me… even my wife.” He never returned to his beloved homeland. For being the only cultural figure in Germany to speak out for the Jews, Israeli Holocaust Memorial Yad Vashem honored Armin Wegner as Righteous Among the Nations in 1967.

Armin died alone in Rome in 1978, at age 92. Per his request, his gravestone contains a quote from Pope Gregory VII as he lay on his deathbed in 1085: “I loved justice and hated injustice/Therefore I die in exile.”

For bravely documenting the Armenian Genocide, and standing up to Hitler at great personal sacrifice, we honor Armin Wegner as this week’s Thursday Hero.

[corneliaavenue-ao3]

When Harry Potter was born, he knew nothing of prophecies or horcruxes. The name Tom Riddle meant absolutely nothing to him. He knew of a woman with long, copper hair and green eyes and a tall man with messy, black hair. He knew of three pairs of hands that were the hands of his uncles. He knew what snuggles were and he knew what it felt like to have a body with only one soul. 

When Harry Potter celebrated his first Halloween, he knew nothing of trolls in the dungeons or Death Day Parties. He knew nothing of petrified cats and words written in blood by a girl who has no control over her own body. Goblets of Fire meant nothing to him at this time and what the consequences could be if his name were to ever come out of one. Instead, he only knew of the orange costume his mum put him in that made him look like a pumpkin, and the painted face of his dad that made him look like a skeleton.

When Harry Potter celebrated his first Christmas, he knew nothing of coal in stockings and shoelaces as presents. He didn’t know what it felt like to watch his cousin open up his 25th present while he cooked Holiday brunch in the kitchen. He didn’t know what a belt was or how it could be used as a punishment if the bacon came out a little too crispy for his uncle’s liking. He only knew of stockings filled with toys, and 25 kisses from each one of his parents. He only knew of his mum’s (off key) singing of muggle Christmas carols as she helped his dad cook Christmas brunch. 

When Harry Potter played with the big black dog, he knew nothing of the grim. He did not know the scared feeling of being chased by bulldogs owned by his uncle’s sister. He knew nothing of magical prisons and unjust criminal systems nor was he aware of The Ministry of Magic and the secrets that lie within its walls. He didn’t know how thin the dog could become after being starved for 12 years. He knew only of piggyback rides and wet, slobbery kisses. 

When Harry Potter celebrated his first birthday, he knew nothing of letters addressed to a boy who lived in a cupboard under the stairs. He was not friendly with spiders and their cobwebs littering his bedroom. He did not know about drawing birthday cakes in the dirt with eleven candles on them. He only knew of toddler sized broomsticks that he could chase the family cat around the living room with. He knew of a big cake baked by “Ma” that ended more on the floor and his face than it did his own mouth. 

When Harry Potter woke up on his second Halloween, he knew nothing of death. The name Tom Riddle still meant nothing to him, and he did not know that green flashing lights were a sign of evil. He did not know how devastating a betrayal from a best friend could be. Most importantly, he did not know the sound of his own mother’s screams. Instead he only knew the bright colors his dad would shine above his crib as his mum told him a bedtime story. He only knew “Pea” as a surrogate uncle, just like “Serus” and “Reem.” Most importantly, he only knew the sound of his mother’s laugh.

When Harry Potter was left on the doorstep of his aunt and uncle’s house, he knew nothing of abuse. He knew nothing of his cousin’s fists or the silly, little game called “Harry Hunting.” He knew nothing of negligent teachers who ignored the obvious signs of mistreatment. Instead he only knew the stars that twinkled like the bearded man’s eyes and the flying motorcycle in the night sky. He only knew the faint cheers from wizards and witches all across Great Britain celebrating the death of the man he now shared a soul with.

He knew nothing yet of what was to come.

[theink-stainedfolk]

The General's Bride

---

The grand hall was brimming with tension as nobles and officials gathered under the gilded ceiling. The emperor sat atop his throne, his expression a mask of feigned indifference, though his sharp gaze darted between his court like a predator watching prey. Jian sat at the far end of the table, his delicate features serene, hands resting lightly on his lap. No one paid him much attention—just the forgotten "daughter" of the emperor, after all.

Luo Xingchen stood by the side, his imposing presence commanding respect, though his eyes flicked toward Jian every so often, warily watching his supposed spouse. He knew better than anyone that there was more to Jian than met the eye.

The council was in an uproar, bickering over the impending grain crisis. A drought in the south had left villages on the brink of starvation, and the emperor's advisors squabbled over who should bear the cost of relief. The wealthiest dukes argued to deflect the burden onto the poorer provinces, while others suggested raising taxes across the board.

Jian remained quiet, his expression calm but distant, as if the matter didn’t concern him. Yet, beneath the surface, his mind worked like a finely tuned machine, analyzing every word, every gesture, and every opportunity.

"Your Majesty," Duke Wen said, his voice heavy with feigned loyalty, "surely the southern provinces can tighten their belts. They’ve survived worse. Why should the burden fall upon those who have earned their wealth through diligence?"

"Earned," Jian murmured under his breath, barely audible. Xingchen, standing nearby, caught the word and smirked faintly, though he didn’t betray his thoughts.

Another official, a staunch supporter of Duke Wen, chimed in. "Precisely! It would be unjust to punish the prosperous for the failures of the weak. Let them endure; it will teach resilience."

The emperor nodded slightly, seemingly swayed by their arguments. Jian could see the cracks forming in the court’s unity, and it was the perfect moment to strike.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice soft yet cutting through the noise like a blade. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but if I may offer a humble observation?"

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him in surprise. Jian rarely spoke during council meetings. The emperor’s gaze narrowed, suspicion flickering in his eyes.

"Speak," the emperor said, his tone clipped.

Jian rose gracefully, his movements deliberate, as though every step was calculated to draw attention. "It strikes me as peculiar that those who claim to have 'earned' their wealth would so eagerly shirk their duties to the empire. Are we not all bound to serve our people, regardless of our station?"

A murmur rippled through the room, and Duke Wen’s expression darkened. "What are you implying?" he demanded.

Jian tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Merely that the empire's strength lies in its unity. If the wealthiest among us cannot bear to part with a fraction of their riches for the greater good, what message does that send to our soldiers, who risk their lives daily for the safety of our borders? Should they, too, withhold their service in times of need?"

The nobles bristled, but Jian wasn’t finished. He stepped closer to the map spread across the table, his slender fingers tracing the southern provinces. "Furthermore, consider this: the south may be impoverished now, but it is also the empire's breadbasket. If we allow its people to starve, who will sow the fields next season? Who will fill the granaries that feed our armies? Short-sightedness today will cost us dearly tomorrow."

Xingchen watched silently, a flicker of admiration in his eyes as Jian’s words turned the tide of the discussion.

The emperor’s gaze hardened. "And what do you propose, Jian?"

Jian’s smile widened, though his eyes remained cold and calculating. "A compromise, Your Majesty. Let the wealthiest provinces provide an initial relief fund to stabilize the south. In return, they will be granted tax incentives for the next harvest season, ensuring their contributions are repaid with interest. This way, the burden is shared, and the empire remains united."

The room erupted into murmurs once more, but this time, the tone had shifted. Jian’s proposal was difficult to argue against—it appealed to both morality and self-interest, leaving his opponents with little ground to stand on.

Duke Wen scowled, but before he could protest, another noble spoke up. "It’s... a reasonable solution. Fair to all parties."

The emperor tapped his fingers on the armrest of his throne, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. Let it be as Jian suggests."

Jian bowed his head, his smile never wavering. "Thank you, Your Majesty. Your wisdom is unparalleled."

As the council dispersed, Xingchen approached him, his expression guarded. "That was impressive," he admitted grudgingly.

Jian glanced at him, his smile turning faintly smug. "Impressive, or necessary?"

"Both," Xingchen replied, his voice low. "But don’t think for a second that I didn’t notice what you were really doing."

Jian arched a brow, feigning innocence. "Oh? Do enlighten me, dear husband."

"You’ve just painted a target on Duke Wen’s back," Xingchen said, his tone sharp. "And you made it look like the emperor’s decision. If he retaliates, it’ll be against him, not you."

Jian’s smile widened, his dark humor glinting in his eyes. "Well, it wouldn’t be very intelligent to let my enemies see the knife coming, would it?"

Xingchen shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration in his gaze. "You’re playing a dangerous game, Jian."

"Life is a dangerous game," Jian replied smoothly, brushing past him. "I merely play it better than most."

---

My ♡s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue @frostedlemonwriter-deactivated2

[notasapleasure]

Saga AU, before the beginning for Cass maybe?

Askbox writing meme

ooof ooh boy, you asked for it!

This 'before the beginning' is how saga AU Cassian was taken from his home during the wars between the Nonoalca and the Chichimecha in Toltec Mexico (mid-tenth century). In canon I suppose it's equivalent to the mining/ecological disaster on Kenari we don't see, that leaves the scar on the land and the children without any adults.

It's not seeking to make any judgement on the way the societies vary in their attitude to human sacrifice, more just following the (pre-)historic record that the Chichimecha came out on top. Also exploring the idea of Cassian's journey from someone who feels angry that unjust things happen to him into someone who feels angry that injustice happens to anyone at all.

I called him Cahuan here, thinking the pronunciation could shift enough via interactions with speakers of other languages to sound more like 'Cassian' by the time he finally reaches Maine/Norse Vínland. Kerri is Quauhtli.

Apologies for any egregious inaccuracies - I'm grateful to Kay for help with the research into this setting, but any mistakes or misunderstandings are my own!

CW for children caught up in a slave raid.

Notes at the end

Before the beginning

When the jaguars descended on them they were with their mother in the fields of amaranth. Cahuan heard her scream his name - she told him to protect his sister. Quauhtli was a few rows over, barely tall enough to be seen behind the weeping plumes of golden-red seed. She wailed for her mother, and Cahuan told her to be quiet.

He was meant to go to her, to protect her, but he froze, trying to count the figures prowling through the crop: big, broad-shouldered warriors with obsidian blades on th edges of their macuahuitl, glinting green-gold under the sun. Cahuan couldn't see their faces with the bright blue sky behind them. They were just dark monoliths circling the women and children in the field, a net closing in with arms extended, stretching like evening shadows made solid.

"Cahuan! Take your sister! Run!" his mother called again, and he made a confused scrabble for the blade his father had given him. It was only as long as his small hand, black and smooth as lakewater, and so far he'd only used it for killing chickens and skinning game. He understood now that he had to be the one to protect his family though, he had lived through fourteen rounds of the tzolkin and his father had trusted him with this knife.

Cahuan set his thin lips into a grimace and spoke a prayer to the feathered serpent. He squeezed the leather grip of his knife and dropped into a crouch. His little sister called for him and he told her to stay put, ignoring his mother's plea for them to run. A jaguar was approaching her and Cahuan saw a glint of teeth, saw the loops of rope at its belt.

The slave raids had grown more frequent as the war heated up, but they'd never expected the Chichimecha to raid so close to the boundaries of Tollan.

Cahuan ran at the jaguar, head down, his childish bellow of rage mingling with the shrieks and cries of the other Nonoalca who'd been working the field. As he approached, trampling the dry stalks of the amaranth, scattering its grain and cutting across the neat rows, the ocelotl seemed to grow taller. It seemed to Cahuan that the jaguar's great head moved in front of the sun to block his warmth, and the warrior's bare, muscled arms with their paint and tattoos swung wide as a snare to catch Cahuan.

He jabbed with his knife and the warrior deflected his blow easily. The strength of his parry appalled Cahuan, but he couldn't back down now. He felt the hilt of his knife dig sharply into his palm and he changed his grip to stab at the ocelotl's forearm as it swung after him.

This time he connected, and the warrior snarled in fury. The sound of his voice made Cahuan's hair stand on end, it made his heart quake and his ribs ache. The ocelotl struck him in the jaw with one empty paw, then kicked Cahuan in the chest so that he fell back on the hard ground.

The sky was so very high above his face and the ground was hard, rain-thirsty, the dry crop of amaranth whispering crisply beneath his shoulders. Cahuan tried to draw a breath but his ribcage spasmed in pain; he tried to raise the hand holding the knife but the jaguar put a foot over his wrist. He didn't press down with all his weight, just enough for Cahuan to know he would do so if there was a struggle.

He couldn't unclench his fist though. The knife was held tightly in it, so tight its stone hilt cut his palm through the leather and reed grip. Cahuan whimpered as the ocelotl moved his sandalled foot off his wrist and brought it down on the knife his father had given him.

The obsidian blade crunched like bone beneath the ocelotl's weight and then the warrior crouched down, his own knife pointing at Cahuan's throat. The face of the jaguar he wore was moulded into a fierce snarl. Polished white fangs framed his eagle-beaked nose and black paint around his eyes made them seem sunken into his face: clear water sparkling a threat from deep in a well.

"You are brave, boy," he snarled. "Are you brave enough for Tezcatlipoca?"

Cahuan felt his heart thump against his breastbone, responding to this call from the gods. But he was afraid - he wasn't ready to give that up yet. Didn't he deserve to enjoy the gifts of the gods first, before he gave back to them?

The ocelotl took a fistful of his hair and pulled him to his feet, and Cahuan screamed as his scalp burned. He clawed at the jaguar's paw but the grip didn't loosen, and the warrior wrenched his head back so Cahuan had to look up into his monstrous twin snarls.

"The rope. Take it and tie her well," the ocelotl nodded at Cahuan's mother. Her face was wet with tears and her teeth shone white as the grimaced. She held her hands to her neck and shook her head and Cahuan tried to shake his head too. He tried to kick at his captor, but the claws in his hair tightened and the ocelotl shook him by his scalp.

"You'll get your reward, boy! Now do as I tell you!"

To his other side, Cahuan heard his sister screaming. Another warrior strode over to them with Quauhtli gripped under one arm and a second child bundled under the other, like turkeys ready for market.

Quauhtli's face was red from crying and she squirmed and wriggled. She called for her mother and she called for her brother, and in the tone of her desperate shrieks, all Cahuan's bravery evaporated. The stream of pain in his head and his chest met the stream of pain from his family's cries and as they mingled, Cahuan burst into furious, terrified tears.

The ocelotl holding him laughed a booming laugh. "Only fit for the rains. Here boy," he swiped the thumb of the hand holding his macuahuitl across Cahuan's cheek and tasted the tears he'd collected. "Take responsibility for your women!"

He released Cahuan and took the rope from his belt, handing it to the sobbing boy. "Tie her well!"

Cahuan's hands shook and so did his mother's as he wound the rope around her wrists, the obsidian bladed macuahuitl of the ocelotl held to his mother's neck. When he was made to do the same to his desperate little sister, who sat in the dirt and howled at the sky as he approached her, one warrior spoke to the other: "He hasn't the pride to go for Tezcatlipoca. Keep him with these two, though, and you'll have a strong and obedient slave."

--

Notes:

ocelotl/jaguar - the Chichimecha warriors wearing jaguar skin, followers of Tezcatlipoca, big fans of the old human sacrifice.

Nonoalca - followers of Quetzalcoatl. Under the rule of priest-king Ce Atl Topiltzil (mid-tenth century) human sacrifice was reduced, as it was believed not to please Quetzalcoatl. These guys lost the religious war, after lots of slave raids and guerilla attacks from the Chichimecha.

macuahuitl - hand held weapon with barbs of obsidian set into the wood (like a small baseball bat with razor blades in it...)

Tzolkin - 260 day basic calendar (from Mayan sources). So Cahuan isn't fourteen, he's ten (14 × 260).

Tlaloc - god of the rains. Tears, especially children's tears, featured in sacrifices to him to encourage the rains.

[greatbritishsimchallenge]

"Father, may we talk?"

Cassian didn't respond but took a seat at his desk and looked up at Henry expectantly. Cassian could feel his son's discomfort and immediately tell what was coming.

"I believe Edith and I have found you a good match for marriage. Her name is Lady Catherine. She is incredibly wealthy - the sole heir to the Newcrest estate - she still has sufficient child-bearing years, and she is said to be very beautiful."

Cassian frowned, "If she's so perfect then why the fuck would she marry me?"

Henry cleared his throat, "Like you, she has a... complicated... past. Unlike you, her past was revealed and she has been summarily shunned from polite society."

"What did she do?" Cassian enquired, intrigued.

Henry immediately became flustered, "I'm not sure that matters. She has since undergone a great transformation - Edith and I know her from our circles at church. She is now a respectable, God-fearing woman..."

"And yet you say no one else will marry her because of her reputation. If I'm going to be the one to give her chance, I should at least know what I'm giving a chance to."

Henry sighed, "Did you ever hear the nickname.... the Princess of Newcrest?"

Cassian frowned as he thought back, "I think I remember hearing about her around the time I was married to Regina... didn't she have an affair with the King, Queen and their adult children simultaneously?"

Henry cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Umm... something like that. Anyway, it is quite unjust that most in society fail to recognise how she has changed and learned. She is most worthy of a second chance."

"And I'm willing to give it, am I?" asked Cassian grumpily.

"Yes - you are," Henry replied firmly. "For you have done far, far worse. Indeed, if I may say father, she believes she is being given the second chance when we both know that it is you who is the fortunate one here."

Cassian said nothing but tightened his lips.

"There are also some... caveats... to the marriage to which you must agree before she too will agree to marriage," continued Henry.

"Very well. What are they?"

"First, she feels that, as the sole heir of the Newcrest estate, she must remain in her titled homelands. Upon marriage, you would move to Newcrest."

"You want me to leave the place I've called home for most of my life?" asked Cassian, a low tone of anger clear in his voice.

"The second," continued Henry, raising his voice a little as if to speak up over his father. "Has regards to faithfulness, a very important quality to Lady Catherine. She would require that... you wear a chastity belt."

"You fucking what?"

"To which she would hold the sole key... to ensure your loyalty and faithfulness solely to her. In return, she too would wear a chastity belt to which you would hold the sole key."

Cassian said nothing, but Henry could feel his father's anger building.

"Third, she would like a legal agreement drawn up that would specify some key behaviours of the marriage, such as how much time you are required to spend together, and the frequency of relations required in order to produce an heir. I have read all the stipulations myself and had them checked by our lawyers, and it all seems very conventional. She simply wishes to ensure the marriage is destined for success."

"And will I get to read these stipulations?"

"Of course. You are required to sign your agreement."

Cassian stood up and went to pour himself a drink.

"Father, this marriage will do a great deal to restore our family's financial status; as the sole heir to the Newcrest estate, she is one of the wealthiest women in all England. Finding someone willing to even consider marrying you has not been easy and, while this may be a very different relationship to the type you are used to, I do also believe it will be good for you."

Cassian downed his drink and poured himself another.

"In all her requirements - is meeting me one of them?" he asked.

"Oh, erm..." Henry was surprised by Cassian's question and took a moment to reflect back over his meetings with Lady Catherine. "No, actually. That didn't come up. I suppose she must have been satisfied with the information we provided. But I can suggest it, if you'd like?"

"No. I think I'd rather meet this one at the aisle, when it is too late for me to walk away," Cassian poured himself another drink then added, "I have one request of my own, before I go ahead with all of this."

"Yes, father?"

"I want to see Isabeau. I want her brought here, to Brindleton."

"Father, Aunt Isabeau has her own very busy life in Champ les Sims and -"

Cassian turned to shoot his son a warning look.

"As you wish," Henry replied, immediately backing down. "I will write to Aunt Isabeau immediately."

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[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @somethingclevermahogony!

OC Interaction Tag

C's OC: Penetinos is a Korithian Sage and a former priest of the goddess Fokisa. He is afflicted by a neurological disease, the exact nature of which is not entirely known to the people of the Green Sea. Penetinos's sickness and his sagecraft have caused him to age prematurely. His back is bent, his once light brown hair is now grey and silver. In his youth, Penetinos was noted for his handsome and youthful appearance, tall and thin. Now unfortunately, though he is just under 60, it would be quite easy to mistake him for a man in his eighties. He is a reasonably powerful sage, though he has been limited by his sickness and age. In his youth he could summon bolts of lightning, clouds of fire, even fly for very short periods of time. Now, he can do little more than summoning small lights or move small objects. His attitude can be best described as professorial, stern at times, quiet, though ultimately kind. Penetinos is a gentle person, averse to violence, and easily enthused when it comes to learning new things. From a very young age, Penetinos was tutored in the language and scripts of three languages, those being Korithian, Kishic, and Apunic and in matters of literature and the natural sciences.He has come to accept his mortality, and will readily discuss the subject of death with just about anyone, though he isn't necessarily happy about it.

My OC: Sepo Kaiacynthus is an aroace siren man in his late twenties/early thirties with a tall stature, gaunt face, dark eyes, and long hair he usually keeps braided. He is mute and has been ever since the Silver Sovereign, divine empress of the sirens, cut out his tongue as punishment for murdering her daughter, which he did by way of setting the royal palace on fire as retribution for his brother's unjust execution. Occasionally, he walks with a cane due to dizziness from a lingering brain injury he gets at the end of the first book. He is a remarkably cunning, paranoid man, with a brutally pragmatic streak. He also tends to be very grumpy, though he does have good manners and a sense of propriety instilled from being raised in a temple. He enjoys complaining about every little thing, though he'll deny it if you ask. He tends to get very worked up over issues, which, combined with his hair-trigger temper, can result in some stunning acts of violence. This violence is never directed at his friends though. Sepo loves just as deeply as he hates, and if someone manages to worm their way into his heart, he'll protect them to his last breath. Other than that, as a siren, he has Opinions on music, and also enjoys learning about surface magic too. His own vocal magic was rendered unusable when his tongue was cut out, and his relationship with the god that grants that magic is also quite touchy. He's not a big fan of religion in general.

How they'd interact: I think Sepo would be eager to learn from Penetinos, and Penetinos would likely be eager to learn from him. Normally, Sepo is untrusting of any new person, however, he respects anyone with proper manners and spine enough to stand up to him, so I think Penetinos would make a good enough impression for Sepo to stick around. They could trade secrets of the Voice and sagecraft, and I imagine Penetinos would be eager to learn Sepo’s form of sign language as a man with so many languages under his belt already. After warming up to each other, I think they'd find a lot to bond over. They're both former priests, have lessened magical abilities, and some form of disability. Eventually, Sepo’s brusque nature might wear on Penetinos, and though Sepo knows how to tone it down somewhat when he wants to learn from someone, this probably would result in a purely academic bond. If Penetinos shows him patience, and especially if he can dish out some snark as well as take it, I think they could get along very well. I imagine they would disagree on matters of violence and combat, but I think Sepo would respect Penetinos enough to, if not change his ways, then to at least not prod the older man on the topic.

Yeah I think these two would be an interesting pair! I'll tag @mk-writes-stuff @halfbakedspuds @elsie-writes @kaylinalexanderbooks @willtheweaver and anyone else who wants to play :)

[rohanneofcoldmoat]

Thinking about Brienne and idealism and despair, I feel like George has sown some seeds in the last couple glimpses we get of her that hint at a crisis of faith she'll have in twow. There's this deep-set sense of futility, of helplessness, in Brienne's last chapter, one that extends beyond the fact that she's a prisoner.

"He turned back at the river, m'lady. He's gone back to his forge, to Willow and the little ones, to keep them safe." No one can keep them safe. She began to cough again. "Ah, let her choke. Save us a rope." One of the shadow men shoved the girl aside. He was clad in rusted rings and a studded belt. At his hip hung longsword and dirk. A yellow greatcloak was plastered to his shoulders, sodden and filthy. From his shoulders rose a steel dog's head, its teeth bared in a snarl. "No," Brienne moaned. "No, you're dead, I killed you."

Those kids at the inn that Brienne was willing to die to protect, the kids that she was literally eaten to protect, well now, in her mind, no one can keep them safe. Of course, Brienne feeling like the odds are against her is not something that will make her fold on its own. "No chance and no choice" after all, but here, you can feel her wondering, is there ever really a chance? And as if to confirm this, the monster haunting the Riverlands, the same one that Brienne killed at to crossroads to protect the children, is seemingly back again and right in front of her.

And then, the last time we see actually see Brienne, her appearance startles Jaime.

Jaime scrambled to his feet. "My lady. I had not thought to see you again so soon." Gods be good, she looks ten years older than when I saw her last. And what's happened to her face? "That bandage … you've been wounded …"

Obviously, her injuries and the fever she suffered are likely contributing to the fact that she seems to have aged ten years, but if we take this more metaphorically, what else is associated with youth? Resilience, innocence, idealism. In Winds we may see a Brienne who has lost some of these things. Being confronted with the rotting husk of your liege lady who commands you to do something you deem unjust lest she kill you and and an innocent child will do that I guess. Jaime says "You've been wounded," when he sees her, and he's right, and not just physically. Brienne's in a lose-lose situation, where any decision she makes requires her to compromise her own morality, a part of the too many vows dilemma that led Jaime to lose his faith in the institution of knighthood that Brienne still holds sacred. I think there are some dark places she could go internally, and the fact that she's going to get slammed with the fact that Tarth has been invaded and has possibly fallen is certainly not going to help. How far things will go, and what morally grey actions Brienne may take I don't know. In my mind there's a certain something to Brienne killing Catelyn, with Oathkeeper no less, but considering all the foreshadowing that Arya will meet her mother again before her final death, I don't know that that will be the case. What this faltering idealism will look like in Brienne's story I'm not sure, I just know that I am ready for George to tear my heart out in twow (one of these days).

"There are a lot of dark chapters right now in the book that I'm writing. You know, it is called The Winds of Winter, and I've been telling you for 20 years that winter was coming. And winter's the time when things die, and you know, cold, and ice, and darkness fills the world, so this is not going to be the happy feel-good book that people may be hoping for, and some of the characters are in very dark places." - GRRM x

[theskeletonprior]

Write Time: Day Twenty-One

This month, my goal is a cool 30 000 words written. I’ll be carrying on with more RAVENOT. If you’re curious, you can take a look at my WIP intro right here. And if you’re really keen, you can read the first chapter (sort of a pilot as I toil) right here! Now onto the daily ramble.

I got my vaccinations today and did a bunch of car maintenance. I'm exhausted, but I'm still going to get some words out. Also if you aren't, you should be following my beloved husband @alexanderflowerbird who has already reached his count for the week! Their current WIP, Blood Sun Territory is incredible and follows Malachi, an ex-con trying to make things right with his estranged family. Unfortunately, he first has to find them, and the way is perilous and full of monsters. It's turning out really beautifully, and is about cool things like the healing power of community, what it takes to earn redemption, and boys kissing. Please do check it out. And now, my excerpt for the day.

“I will depart swiftly,” said Ravenot. “If our fortunes are good, the Dead One’s road will bear me from these lands.” “And if they are ill?” “Then my feet shall do’t.” The Summer Lord found it in him to be merry again, even as he rose to his feet, the dead fey nestled in the boughs of his arms. Again the fiery attention of the greater fey alighted upon Ravenot. “Find this hunter,” the Summer Lord commanded, even knowing as he did that Ravenot would do so even without his grandiose demand. “I will take this one to rest, and will not let him stray. Cut out this rot for me.”’ “I will do it, for it is my purpose,” said Ravenot, ever wary of a promise, but knowing the fate of one who had wrought such unjust necromancy. “This is where I leave you, O Lord of Summer. If we meet again, let us hope I need not pause longer than to pay proper respects.” The Summer Lord’s radiance softened, and at last he drifted away, and the trees seemed to part, to shift their leaves to let him go. His light faded, and soon only the distant cries of the cicadas echoed as evidence that he had visited himself upon this place. Already, in the cavern where the catalyst had been found, bright young blossoms began to push through the earth, and deep red lichen grew where once that scarlet ichor had been. There was nothing more to be done here, save to find a crossroads, where the Dead One might be reached. Ravenot hung his thurible upon his belt, and left the cavern behind. 

Until next time! Taglist: @alexanderflowerbird @void-botanist @carmillasboywife @ceph-the-ghost-writer @wintherlywords @cream-and-tea As always, let me know if you’d like to join or leave the taglist, and I’ll act accordingly. You can reply right on this post, if you’d like. Divider by @/strangergraphics, from this set: here. Thank you!

[hoeneymilktea]

deciphered ✧ tooru oikawa chapter 13 | only time can tell

Your cousin, Hajime Iwaizumi—whom you haven't seen in a long time, invited you to support him at the largest street racing event in Tokyo. He told you he was a part of the Seijoh Brawlers, one of the notorious top five gangs affiliated with the underground street racing scene. Once he introduced you to his leader, Tooru Oikawa, a.k.a. Cypher—your interest piqued, curiously wanting to understand the true meaning behind his alleged nickname.

✧ pairing — tooru oikawa / afab reader ✧ genre — erotica/smut, action romance, crime romance, dark romance (absolutely no dv/sa), psychological thriller, crime/detective mystery ✧ rating — very explicit, 18+ mdni ✧ chapter word count — 4.5k ✧ content warnings — violence, street racing, references to drugs, explicit sexual content, heavy angst. see below break for chapter specific warnings ↴

author's note — This fanfic is inspired by the beautiful and amazing fanart of Street Racer AU Tooru Oikawa. Artist is @aikk00. disclaimer — I do not condone the romanticization of the yakuza or the reality of gang life as I intended not to portray that kind of interpretation, nor promote the activity of illegal street racing. Do not seek out these types of experiences as this work is just a piece of fiction. Please remember to read at your own risk.

finding the truth ⇠ only time can tell ⇢ under the red ink

✧ chapter specific content warnings: familial fluff

“Who are you…?”

Iwaizumi could not properly feel any stable sensation in his body—his throat was dry, his vision was blurry, and his head was spinning. He tried his best to focus on the clock across the room, but there were several human-shaped figures standing along the edge of his hospital bed. It almost frightened him; he thought they were demons haunting part of his sleep paralysis.

Iwaizumi didn’t even realize he was awake. For so long, he was stuck reliving the same nightmare for months on end, replaying the accident at the Daikokufuto race. He remembered the moment his car flipped over and the way his body froze while it was up in the air. His hands were searching to unbuckle his belt, hoping to jump out before the crash; but it was too late. His body collided with the asphalt, feeling himself ricochet and tumble against the hard road divider.

He remembered the taste of blood filling his mouth, choking on his own fluids. He remembered the metal from his car tearing through his clothes and the shards of glass slicing through his skin. He remembered smashing his head against the road, knocking him fully unconscious. He remembered his life flashing through his eyes, recalling all the memories he kept close to him.

He reminisced his life passing through his mind—the first time he fell in love with cars, the day he was initiated into the Seijoh Brawlers, and the moment he finally reunited with you again after all these years—in fear of passing away, he deemed those moments close to his heart, and was frightened of forgetting them in the afterlife.

Despite all of that, the one person he kept seeing in his ongoing nightmare was the man who caused all of this in the first place—Thrasher of the Inarizaki Bois, Atsumu Miya. Iwaizumi kept reliving the scene where it first started; his car flipping over from Atsumu thrashing against the side of his.

He remembered the menacing smirk on his face, watching him lick his lips twice before shoving his steering wheel to the left. He remembered the maniacal laughter erupting from his mouth, the sense of fear overwhelming his body the minute he realized what was going to happen. He remembered watching Atsumu drive away, untouched and unjust, never receiving the consequences of his actions.

It drove him insane to the point he could describe detail by detail of what he felt, the emotions he was going through, and his desperate attempt to flee from the memories haunting him. Until the thousandth time, reliving the same treacherous memory over and over again—he felt something physically pull him out of the deep waters.

The first thing he sensed was a soft-feeling hand caressing the inside of his palm, tickling his skin. It reminded him of his mother’s touch, gentle and embracing. Despite not feeling the rest of his body, he was somehow able to only move his fingers, slightly flexing them in place before fully wrapping them around the hand that was on his. 

Next, he regained the ability to hear again, but only ever so slight. Faint sounds began to surround him, yet it was muffled like he was placed under water. He was aware people were speaking in front of him, but he was incapable of joining their conversation. Sooner or later, the chatter became clear to his mind, picking up words here and there.

Finally, Iwaizumi finally felt the ability to open his eyes, slowly lifting his eyelids up. His vision was blurry as expected, only seeing the faint shape of people surrounding his bed. One person in particular was holding his hand and petting his head, whispering out soothing words that almost sounded like a lullaby.

“Hey, Hajime,” the figure spoke softly, all while their touch helped him regain complete consciousness. “Hey, are you with us?”

Iwaizumi was wondering how this particular person knew his name as he was unable to fully recognize who she was. He was able to hear loud and clear, recognize objects within the room, and acknowledge the doctors and nurses surrounding his bed. Of the details of his surroundings, all but the identity of the woman before him was crystal clear. His eyes trailed up to her face, seeing a sparkle of hope within her eyes.

“…Who are you?” Iwaizumi mustered out, his voice croaking with each word.

He couldn’t say much else as he didn’t have the vocabulary to do so, but he was unaware of how much those three words affected the person holding his hand. Her bright and hopeful smile diminished into a lack thereof, removing what once used to be there. The grip she had on his hand began to loosen before she fully dropped it on the side of his body, plopping it against the hospital bed.

She backed away from him, shocked and confused. Iwaizumi could not remember anything past the minute he woke up, dazed from his coma. He looked straight at the doctor on his right and the handful of nurses surrounding his bed, blinking twice before gazing into the man’s eyes.

“…Who are you?” He repeated, directing it to Dr. Takeda this time. His words were barely comprehendible, his voice raspy and incoherent.

Although his body felt weak, he began to press his hands on the hospital bed and prop himself up, to which the nurses around him took notice and began to frantically help him stay upright. He soon felt winded from moving too much, forgetting he was in a comatose state for six months. Waves of pain shot up his body, almost unbearable to endure. It was like all the trauma he felt during the accident came crashing back, physically pulling him back down to square one.

“Woah, woah,” Dr. Takeda caught Iwaizumi, holding him up from under his arms. Nurse Yachi grabbed him on the other side, holding his head up before he went limp again. You tried reaching out to help, but Dr. Takeda assured him and the nurses had him stable.

“This is the first time I’ve seen a comatose patient immediately respond after gaining back consciousness!” Dr. Takeda started shaking, not sure if he was nervous or excited. “I need to immediately write down this observation!”

“Could you take Dr. Takeda’s place really quickly?” Nurse Yachi asked you, smiling while cradling Iwaizumi’s head in her right hand. Once you came up to the right side of his bed, Dr. Takeda let you gently hold his body up as he ran over to the other side of the room and quickly scribbled down observations on a clipboard before walking over.

You looked down at Iwaizumi’s face, noticing his eyes were half open and his jaw slightly hanging. His body needed lots of rest to mentally and physically recover from the comatose, and the last thing any of the hospital staff wanted to do was to force it. You slowly placed his head back down on his pillow, letting the nurses tend to his needs.

“Don’t worry, when comatose patients first wake up, they’re always disoriented. Amnesia is a very common side effect.” Dr. Takeda reassured while he came up next to you, scribbling down last minute observations on his clipboard before placing it underneath his arm.

“Are you saying his memory loss isn’t permanent?” You asked with a concerned expression, hearing the beeps of his vitals go off while the nurses hook him back on.

“It’s too early to say, but it’s very common for patients to regain their memory when exposed to certain stimuli present in their life, like people they love, hobbies they treasured, pets, etcetera,” Dr. Takeda explained as you both looked directly at Iwaizumi. “Maybe it would be best if you are able to bring in some memorabilia from his life.”

The nurses held Iwaizumi’s body and gently lowered him back down, slipping his blanket over his bare legs again. His face looked dazed, almost stuck in place with the same inanimate expression. Although his vitals showed he was perfectly fine, it did not reassure he would go back to normalcy in the future.

“We’re still going to do his daily exercises and hopefully get him into physical therapy soon. He’s definitely going to have a long recovery from months without proper movement.” Nurse Yachi commented while neatly tucking his blanket around Iwaizumi’s figure, giving him a quick pat on his knees after she was done.

“In the meantime, let him adjust to his surroundings. If he still has trouble remembering, then we’ll do an MRI scan on his brain.” Dr Takeda reassured as he placed his hand on your shoulder; his eyes just barely opened with how wide of a smile he gave you.

He was nice enough to give you reassurance on Iwaizumi’s situation, but you were still worried about the state of his well-being. He still doesn’t know that Oikawa and Kuroo went to jail, nor the fact Leia was half way through her pregnancy. In the mean of six months with him in a coma and Oikawa in prison, the Seijoh Brawlers as a racing gang went on hiatus.

In fact, with the news spreading throughout the underground racing scene, not a single car meet had been scheduled, leading many to assume they have stopped all together. The Nekoma Crew was being led by Kenma, but out of respect for Kuroo, he placed the gang on hiatus as well.

The days went by with his body slowly recovering, but the memories remain dim or lost. His mind persisted in an amnesiac state, forgetting almost all of the people once close to him. In Iwaizumi’s mind, you were just a woman who visited him often—bringing loads of foods he found tasty and watching whatever random game show was playing on the hospital TV.

You never seemed to leave his side, almost making Iwaizumi think you might have been his girlfriend before the coma. Rest assured, Dr. Takeda and the nurses made sure to reiterate that you were in fact his family, albeit he couldn’t remember the relation.

A few weeks into October had passed, and Iwaizumi’s recovery began to accelerate, noticing huge differences in his overall health. Therapists of all kinds helped him regain his ability to walk comfortably and speak in full coherent sentences, widening the chances of a full recovery.

As another Saturday morning approached, the sun began to rise later in the day, letting its yellow sun rays grow above the horizon just as you arrived at the hospital. A bundle of red and orange leaves raked at the side of the pathway fluttered in the air, crossing your walk through the hospital’s front lawn.

You could see the tire tracks left from Oikawa’s RX-7 defiling the pristine beige sidewalk and the smeared blood stain left from the flies of punches marked across Kita’s face. Perhaps it was too much of a hassle to wash it completely off. A shudder ran down your body, forcing yourself to resist the urge to think about that unfortunate night. 

The routine of walking through the doors, greeting the front desk clerk, and obtaining your visitor’s pass was all too familiar. With a smile on your face, you waved goodbye to the same woman behind the desk and pressed the elevator button, placing the lanyard around your neck.

Fifth floor, down the hall, past the restrooms—three doors down and through another hallway to the right, first door on the left labeled “Iwaizumi Hajime” in Kanji. There you found the same old Dr. Takeda, Nurse Yachi, and a few other nurses laughing along with Iwaizumi sitting upright in his bed, drinking a bottle of apple juice.

“Hey!” Dr. Takeda called out right at the moment he saw you walk in. “I have some good news and some bad news!”

“Oh is that so?” Your eyes widened in curiosity, taking off your jacket and placing it on a chair in the corner of the room.

“Yes! Good news is Hajime’s MRI scan showed up completely normal.” He walked over to you with the same clipboard in his hand, taking out prints of Iwaizumi’s brain and handing them to you.

“That’s great!” You exclaimed while looking at multiple pictures of brain scans, pretending you know what any of the differences mean. While placing them back on his clipboard, you made eye contact with Dr. Takeda, urging him to continue on. “And the bad news?”

He didn’t respond immediately; instead securing the scans back into the clipboard and tucking it underneath his arm. His body turned to Iwaizumi, who was chatting nonchalantly with several of the nurses, including Nurse Yachi.

“He’s still experiencing memory loss, which is a complete mystery to us in terms of his scans showing up as nothing wrong.” Dr. Takeda’s smile diminished and his tone flattened. “His progress in recovery is exceptional, all but his memory. He said he could only remember up to his initial consciousness, nothing prior.”

Another eruption of laughter came from the direction of Iwaizumi’s bed, noting the giggling nurses surrounding him. Throughout the weeks since waking up, he received a haircut and a facial trim, recognizing him like what he was back before the accident. He fashioned a smug on his face, flashing his teeth out with his big smile. It brought a sense of calm, seeing him in his normal state again.

“I guess it’s time for me to let you have some alone time with Hajime.” Dr. Takeda nodded before placing his hands in his pockets and clearing his throat. He turned his body to face the nurses, and called them all over to give you both some space. “Alright, nurses! Back to triage!” 

A choir of groans from the nurses echoed the room, but in a matter of seconds, a wave of farewells from the nurses replaced it. One by one, the nurses exclaimed “Goodbye, Hajime!” before exiting the room with Dr. Takeda closing the door.

The room stayed silent for a brief moment as you and Iwaizumi made eye contact. He still had the same smile on his face as before, and the same blue hospital gown he had been wearing for the last six months. A bottle of apple juice and a half-eaten sandwich rested at the side of his bed, sitting on one of the hospital trays. He was no longer hooked up to the monitors, which indicated his progression in health. 

In all honesty, Iwaizumi was fully capable of being discharged if he hadn’t developed amnesia. Physically, he was healthy—his weight was normal, he was able to walk all on his own, and he was able to speak coherently and have full conversations—but up in his mind, all he could remember from the past was his own name.

“Hey, Hajime. How are you feeling?” You asked with a soft smile on your face, pulling up a chair right next to his bed.

“Hey! …Er, I forgot your name, but I’m doing fine! The nurses are really cute here.” Iwaizumi scratched the back of his head, sheepishly smiling. “I’m glad you’re here again!”

You winced when he forgot your name, even though you knew he had been constantly forgetting it every week due to his amnesia. Every time, you’d have to remind him, and then he would snap his fingers and exclaim “it was on the tip of my tongue”. Nonetheless, you introduced yourself once again, and reminded him you were his cousin on his mom’s side. 

“Damn!” Iwaizumi snapped his fingers and crossed his arms over his chest. “It was on the tip of my tongue.”

You chuckled, knowing his actions were predictable. Iwaizumi reclined back against his hospital bed, placing both of his hands behind his head while you simultaneously reached around your chair and grabbed your tote bag, digging your hand deep into the large pocket.

“Did you bring any snacks?” He piped up, raising his eyebrows while directing his attention towards the inside of your bag.

“No snacks today, but I did bring a photo album,” you replied, taking out a small black leather book with gold accents on the spine. “I made it just for you.”

“For me? Why?” Iwaizumi sat up from his bed again, leaning over the side railing to take a closer look. You ended up handing him the book by placing it on his lap before he opened the cover to the first page.

“It’s to help you remember your past,” you pointed at a printed picture of Iwaizumi when he was younger, giving a thumbs up in front of a cake for his 7th birthday. “This was your life before the accident.”

He didn’t respond as he was too busy flipping through the pages lined with pictures, all ranging from when he was younger to present day, where he’s posing in photos with people and places he doesn’t remember. 

“That’s you and me,” you leaned over the hospital bed railing to get a better look at the photo album in Iwaizumi’s hands, pointing to a younger version of you and him playing in a field of grass. “You were about seven and I was about five, your mom yelled at us that day because we got the new shoes grandma gave us all covered in mud.”

He chuckled a bit, dragging his finger along the edge of the thick scrapbook pages. Gracefully, he turned it over to show a picture of him with Oikawa, their arms wrapped around each other’s necks in a side hug. They were both wearing coveralls loose on their torso, the buttons open down to show their chests covered in oil.

“That’s you and Tooru,” you pointed to Oikawa, whose smile was big and bright. Looking at reminders of him saddened you, the feeling of tears almost forming at the corner of your eyes. “He’s the leader of the racing gang you’re in, the Seijoh Brawlers.”

“He looks familiar,” Iwaizumi commented, lifting up his right eyebrow. “But why does he look… stupid?”

You tried to hold in your laughter, not knowing what he meant by his statement, or what constituted a person looking “stupid”. Iwaizumi turned the page in the small scrapbook to see a group picture with him, Oikawa, and the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers all in front of white cars in a garage shop labeled “SEIJOH TUNE SHOP”. 

“These are all your teammates.” Iwaizumi’s eyes scanned the large horizontal picture, trying his hardest to recognize the people around him. “You guys tune cars and race them.”

“I do like cars,” he mentions without looking away from the scrapbook. “But I just don’t remember any of these guys.”

“It’s okay, that’s why I’m showing you these photos,” you placed your right hand on his shoulder behind his back, giving him a soft smile. “To help you remember the people in your life.”

Gradually, you began to show pictures of Kuroo, Kita, Leia and the rest of the racers within the underground street racing scene, hoping the exposure of people he last had interactions with before the accident might help his memory. Unfortunately, he could not recall any of their names or faces, instead met with a shadow of forgotten memories.

Your attempt at helping him remember anyone in his life started to fail, bringing doubt to any chance he would recover from his amnesia via traumatic brain injury. Your hope for his memory coming back began to diminish; your heart aching every time he struggled to remember who was in the pictures.

“…I don’t know who that is.” Iwaizumi commented after seeing a picture of him with Kenma working on a red car together, both of them being mechanics whilst their captains being the main racers.

A deep heavy sigh exhaled from your lips, closing your eyes in the process. You were saddened and disappointed that he failed to recall anyone and everybody up to that point—from his friends from university, the racers within the underground street racing scene, all the way to his own family, you. The photos in the album were the only physical prints you had, all developed from disposable film cameras you carried around.

“Are you my only family?” Iwaizumi perked up after turning the last photo in the scrapbook, only to be met with a blank page.

Your eyes widened, surprised he even retained the information that you were his family. From the past few weeks, he kept forgetting what your name was, nonetheless who you even were.

“No, you have a mom and a dad,” you mentioned, disappointed by the fact he already forgot who his parents were when you showed him a picture from the scrapbook that contained a man and woman holding a younger Iwaizumi. “I’ve already shown you your parents.”

“Do you have parents?” He inquired, sounding almost like a curious child asking their parents about what the world is like for the first time.

“I do, I have a mom and a dad, just like you.” You smiled, forgetting that his progression takes patience and that a glimmer of hope is all that it takes. Even just a little bit of faith in him goes a long way for his recovery. “Here, let me show you them.”

You took out your phone from your back pocket, unlocking your screen before swiping through your camera roll to find old photos of you and your dad. After some time, you found one of you and Iwaizumi, ages five and seven, posing with a thumbs up in front of your dad fixing his car. It was taken by his mom while they visited your house for the summer, the same time he found his love for cars.

You zoomed in on the photo so he was able to see a clear picture of your father, smiling big into the camera with oil on his hands. Iwaizumi had on a green Godzilla tank top and blue crocs, grinning wide with a loose tooth. You were tucked shyly behind him, wearing a yellow dress with pink flip flops. Looking at the photos evoked a sense of nostalgia for you, hoping it would do the same to Iwaizumi.

Without saying a word, you turned your phone around and showed him the photo, first pointing at Iwaizumi and then at yourself. “Look, that’s you and me again when we were younger with my dad.”

In an instant, Iwaizumi’s eyes lit up with a glisten in his pupils. His mouth hung open with a shocked expression resting on his face, almost like a spark went off in his mind. He instantly grabbed the phone from your hands, cradling it like it was a fragile piece of glass. Iwaizumi did not speak a word as the silence ended up speaking for itself, his astonishment describing everything you needed to know.

Suddenly, tears began to form in his eyes, dripping down in streams that stained the sheets of his hospital bed. He wept in silence; only the sounds of his repressed whimpers and the droplets of tears hitting the white fabric could be heard from him. His hands began to tremble as he held your phone with both palms, breaking down in full tears.

Iwaizumi’s eyes became flooded with hope, all the memories coming back to him in one large wave. He soon opened his mouth, only to utter one word that changed the course of his recovery from there on.

“…Uncle?”

Your eyes widened in shock, quickly jumping out of the chair next to Iwaizumi’s hospital bed and grabbing him by the shoulders.

“Hajime?”

He soon repeated your name softly, remembering it on his own for the first time since waking up.

You both gazed into each other’s eyes, the sense of hope growing stronger within the bond. The amnesiac dam blocking his recovery finally decided to burst open, letting in a whirlwind flow of memories come crashing in. Suddenly, Iwaizumi began to remember everyone important to him, the names and faces of all the individuals he had ever cared for in his life finally coming back to him.

Not just memories, but the emotions coupled with them came rushing in as well; sparking a sense of intensity to his psyche. Iwaizumi’s body trembled as he pulled you in for a tight hug, his weeping becoming louder and louder. Tears began to fall from your own eyes, staining the shoulder of his hospital gown.

“I missed you so much,” Iwaizumi whispered through his sobs, holding you tighter in his hug.

“I missed you too, Hajime.”

Within a matter of weeks approaching the end of November, Iwaizumi was able to be fully discharged from the hospital, marking a total eight months since the accident. The cold winter was soon approaching, ending the season’s cycle, but a new beginning was headed his way, giving him a second chance at appreciating life.

You rolled him out on a wheelchair from the hospital’s front entrance on a rare sunny afternoon, not a cloud in the sky. A prescription from Dr. Takeda stated he could not operate a vehicle for six to twelve months, requiring him to put his racing career on hold until further notice. It pained Iwaizumi to know he could not continue being behind the wheel, but it didn’t prevent him from still fixing and tuning the cars.

“…So, what happened while I was asleep?” Iwaizumi questioned as you passed by the hospital garden, over a scenic bridge that overlooked the rest of the Kanagawa district. “What happened to everybody?” 

You laughed, knowing he was in for one hell of a catch up.

“Well, what had happened was…”

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