#we have lost the thread as a society

[a-flickering-soul]

people cannot be openly asking for other peoples' mushrooming spots like this. have we no dignity? no respect? you cannot come into my house and disrespect me to my face like this. i have to laugh.

[longagoitwastuesday]

ngl it sort of pisses me off the way adults regard Gojo in Jujutsu Kaisen at times. Which could be a very interesting and poignant point in a good way if well written, but as it is it becomes mainly just frustrating and sad in a negative way.

Nanami saying Gojo never cared about anything or anyone other than himself crashes interestingly with Kusakabe saying the whole situation was just all his fault because he refused to kill Itadori. The students are very aware of those aspects of Gojo's personality, but overall they seem to regard him with way more kindness and fondness even when at their rudest, not truly coinciding with either Nanami's or Kusakabe's views.

[a-wild-things-rambles]

hometown hypocrisy

and the bloods beating down in the city tonight and no-one will ever sympathize with our plight try to get up, but we just fall down trying to escape this damn hometown

and we got fires burning in our souls and the scars to prove it, what do you know but the rains putting us out drowning our sparks and our shouts

and the fogs setting in rain against my skin and the sky's beating me down wandering my hometown and the roads gotten twisted the old life's gone, i missed it guess it is true, you can never go home again

and the bloods beating down in the city tonight and no-one will ever sympathize with our plight try to get up, but we just fall down trying to escape this damn hometown

and blood seeping through our clothes violence begets violence, don't ya know but these fists are my hometown pride gritted teeth and bloodshot eyes

and the fogs setting in rain against my skin and the sky's beating me down wandering my hometown and the roads gotten twisted the old life's gone, i missed it guess it is true, you can never go home again

'and the bloods beating down' is the 2nd chorus/prechorus [look i changed the structure but im not editing my analysis i dont want it to get longer]

'and the fogs setting in' is the [main]chorus [planned to use a diffrent tone to musicaly distinguish it from teh verses and pre/2nd chorus][is in italics]

and 'we got fires' is teh 1st verse and 'blood seeping thru our clothes' is the second

NOTE: should be spoken or sung for optimal beat with contractions, but for readability has been mostly uncontracted. also idk how to spell what do you know contracted right.

the chorus is much later in the singers life than the pre chorus & the two verses, the hypocrisy is that the singer wants to both escape and go back to his hometown.

the younger singer always uses plural, to symbolize community, until 'these fists are my hometown pride' almost at the end. he refutes the cycle of violence by owning his violence as part of himself- his link to his hometown.

in addition, he has become the active perpetrator of violence, [previous references were 'we all fall down' [something else to him] and 'we got the scars to prove it' which is implied to be violence perpetrated unknowingly to each other because of 'fires burning in our souls'- when they get close, they hurt each other unintentionally] he now links his sense of self to violence, and thus when he loses his ability to do violence, he loses his self, and his link to his hometown, becoming the older singer

but by doing this he also will inevitably refute his hometown, by linking it intrinsically to violence, becoming the older singer who sings the chorus when he can no longer have that link to his self or his hometown because he can no longer do violence [his inability shown by him being 'beaten down' by the rain/oppressive atmosphere], i did want to expand on this, writing more verses to show the fall and how he ended up as the chorus person but it didnt work. heres the scrapped third verse

but soon those fists turned weak what do you know? you aint at your peak stress and violence aint good for your heart and you find that your bodys now falling apart

it can also be seen as by growing up to become a perpetrator and someone with power, he is now distant from his people and community, the solidarity is formed from their shared victimhood so when he steps out of that/rejects it, he loses the community [also becoming part of the violent cycle means getting rejected] [also the chorus says 'twisted road' we dont know what happened to make him fall, thats up to the readers interpretation] [transmasc journey of realizing your masculinity then becoming ostracised][or disability]

"guess its true, you can never go home again" is the only exception to the rhyming scheme, and it gives it emphasis, it was more noticeable before the chorus was squished together [previously each half line was its own line until 'guess its true'] fuck it it can take up space on yalls dashboards its getting split again

'bloodshot eyes' can be interpreted many different ways, from crying to injury to rage, each suggesting different meanings and affecting the text in diffrent ways

[teaandspite]

The Great Goodreads Diss List (Part 1)

Context: For many years now, I have been collecting funny lines from Goodreads reviews to share with my coworkers. (I do collection development, reader's advisory, and weeding at a public library, so I read a LOT of reviews)

Are some of these, perhaps, rather mean? Yes, but they are also very funny, and come from a place of honest frustration. In the tradition of Bargepole threads and lists everywhere, names and titles have been censored.

"First, I want to say that I understand how hard it is to write a book and how amazing it is when it is actually published. Congrats to the author for that accomplishment. That said--"

"Warning: This review will be lengthy due to pure hatred."

"I found myself feeling really, really annoyed with the world that this book is allowed to exist. We live in a universe where the passenger pigeon is extinct but this book goes along merrily being read by unsuspecting lovers of words and ideas and stories? It just seems like too much, you know?"

"Don't do it. Don't spring the cash for the hardcover. Instead, eat an entire bag of Twizzlers, spend some money you don't have at a high-end department store, look up on Facebook the shady college boyfriend that made you cry, research the current value of your home or 401K and then read all about how the big hedge fund managers are faring during the economic crisis. You'll feel about the same stomach pain if you waste your time reading this book."

"This wretched novel begins with the mugging of an old lady and it appears I may be in the process of repeating that loathsome crime as [author] was 78 when she wrote it. It is not nice to put the boot into such a poor defenseless old creature lying there with only a damehood, a Booker Prize and a few million quid. It’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it."

"I think this is the way dead people would write, if they could."

"I am considering setting up SPABB: Society for the Protection of Accurate Book Blurb. This blurb appears to have been written by someone from the publishers who met [the author] the night before, got very drunk, lost his notes and then constructed something in a fug of hangover the next morning."

"I congratulate [the author] on the early half of his book, which was thoroughly fun and made me laugh and think. I congratulate [the author] on the second half of his book, for finishing it. It reads like that was difficult."

"…a woman whose taste in contemporary literature has roughly the same batting average as a pitcher in the National League."

"The author is a pompous windbag."

"Recommends it for: No one. Recommended to me by: A friend who apparently wished to cause me great suffering."

"Makes me wonder: is it possible to obtain similes at a volume discount?"

"The repeated phrases made me want to mail a thesaurus to the author."

"I'm disappointed in myself for finishing this book."

"if the author described [character's] eyes as "obsidian" one more time I was tempted to write her and ask if her thesaurus broke."

"They say that an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters would, if given infinite time, eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. [This book], on the other hand, would probably take the average monkey just under two hours."

"I can't imagine what the author had to do to get this nadir of Western literature printed on innocent trees, but he does seem to know a LOT about being well-connected in New York."

"This book is so bad it is almost worth reading just to make you appreciate the other books you are reading."

"Reads like it was written by a brilliant author, the night before it was due."

"raises interesting questions, like: can a book be so bad as to constitute an act of terrorism"

"has this author ever spoken to a human woman"

"This acorn has fallen so far from the tree that it can’t even see the forest."

"I’m guessing they are touted as ‘beach reads’ because no one will care if they get dropped into the ocean."

"This book begins with all the energy of a hand vacuum near the end of its battery life, and the pace doesn't quicken much from there."

"At least everybody’s eyes stayed the same color this time around.”

Part 2

Part 3

[orlesianhennin]

I really feel like so many people who hate Vivienne for being power hungry do not fully grasp and appreciate the desperation that Vivienne feels because she conceals it so well… as little content as she got, she honestly is expertly written and presented and it’s why it disappoints me so much when people hate her for surface level reasons… her writer deserves so much more appreciation.

I think it is subtle because she hides it and you really have to care about the character to seek out these threads and understand her motivations… she is in danger of total irrelevance, being cast aside by society (and history), and she is forced to ride the coattails of some upstart organization because all of the institutions she is invested in have either totally failed her or cast her aside.

She is clearly a prideful person who does not readily admit this… but her true talent is how clearly she can evaluate this and understand her own position. She suffers no delusions. She knows the Circle’s standing in society is diminished to nothing if it doesn’t house and account for the majority of mages, and she is left with just meek Chantry loyalists and sycophants who are lost without her guiding hand, as even otherwise pro-Circle mages with any sense have abandoned ship and left both rebels and loyalists at this point to see where the chips fall (Ellandra) - and the Chantry itself has been all but decimated in terms of military and political power. The one lifeline she has is the Imperial Court, and the fickle nobility have moved on from her - the mages are now a threat that she cannot control or offer any meaningful opposition to, and Celene’s favor has turned to Morrigan, and Vivienne does not know if she will ever have it again. She knows Bastien is dying, and that all that she has left at court will be those who hold kind feelings towards her such as his family, and that is a position she can never accept - being at the mercy of others.

We meet Vivienne, this impressive, powerful mage, who has made a life for herself by maneuvering brilliantly, all to improve her own standing, at a point where she is in danger of losing everything she has. And she doesn’t let on, at least not explicitly, but she joins the Inquisition out of desperation - it’s obvious she sees it as an opportunity, but the gravity of the situation for her isn’t clear from the start. She refuses to lay down and fade away. Vivienne would never had joined this fledgling upstart organization if she was in a better position at Court or there wasn’t a vacuum of power. She is very close to having nothing left, and starting over - and so she does. Before the rug can be pulled from under her, she gets out and sets off for herself again.

Vivienne, often accused of pride, privilege, and self importance, comes to the Inquisitor out of pure humility. She knows she is reduced. And her gamble ultimately pays off, and the Inquisition becomes the political juggernaut that it does, and she becomes more powerful and important than ever just by association. And I like to think, especially with an Inquisitor who respects and befriends her, that she plays no small part in shaping the organization.

I think this is also why, potentially, she plays it so cool at the Winter Palace. She doesn’t get involved… she doesn’t need to. Simply being present is a statement to the court, and she truly doesn’t care about who wins; it’s not just the Game, it’s personal, despite what she claims. That they cast her aside, and now they are interested again… not necessarily in her, but still, she sees the paradigm shifting again. She is now a part of the organization who gets to change Orlais, and favor with the Inquisition is quickly becoming just as important as favor with Celene.

The whole arc is a subtle one as she really doesn’t get much attention, but if you pay close attention, it shows how expertly Vivienne plays politics. We already know she came from nothing and maneuvered into a powerful position. But I think not everyone realizes she is nearly back to nothing when we first meet her… and through the course of the game’s events, by allying with the right people, she plays the game well enough to become an advisor to the most influential person in southern Thedas… and potentially even Divine. But her initial plea to the Inquisitor, for all the great lengths she goes to keep up the appearance of strength and invulnerability, comes from a place of utter desperation.

[lucybellwood]

Jewish Maker Rachel D. Mark is crafting miniature Yahrzeit Memorial Candles as a fundraiser for Palestinian families. For those unfamiliar with the tradition, Jewish mourners light one of these long-burning candles on the anniversary of a loved one's death. Rachel's candles are 1:12 scale, measuring just 1/2"H x 1/4"D. Made with real glass dollhouse cups, Yehuda Yahrzeit Memorial Candle wax, and cotton thread wick. You can purchase one for $36 here.

In her own words:

This past March, I purchased an extra yahrzeit memorial candle when I was celebrating the life of my late brother, Daniel. At that time, I began making 32 miniature candles of grief to honor the 32,000 Palestinians slaughtered in the ongoing genocide. The project has since expanded and I will continue to make these little candles as an expression of the deep grief we feel for those lost to such terror and violence. Anti-Zionism is not the same as anti-Semitic. We, as a people, have always been and will continue to be nomadic tribes. It is not anti-Semitic to question the Israeli government's apartheid-turned-genocide of the Palestinian people. Nor is it anti-Patriotic for an American to question the US government's continued funding of this mass genocide. I am using my art and faith to raise money for organizations actively lobbying US Congress for a ceasefire and organizations directly supporting Palestinians on the ground. All proceeds from sales will be documented and shared transparently.

Her goal is to raise $1,000 through candle sales. All proceeds will be donated to Jewish Voice for Peace (JVP, JewishVoiceForPeace.org), United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA.org), and Palestine Red Crescent Society (PRCS, palestinercs.org).

Again, the link to buy a candle is here.

[haggishlyhagging]

Medieval Europeans regarded embroidery as an art, much as we today consider painting. It was considered a female task, and even chambermaids were expected to be competent in it. Yet it was a coveted line of work, as one early Irish law tract stated that "the woman who embroiders earns more profit even than queens." Embroiderers could find employment with professional clothing makers or in tapestry workshops.

By the thirteenth century, given that embroidery was held in high esteem and could bring in money, the field contained plenty of men as well. In England, over time women come up less frequently on the lists of embroiderers than men and more often in conjunction with a husband, even when their work was exceptional. In May 1317 "Rose, the wife of John de Bureford, citizen and merchant of London," sold "an embroidered cope for the choir" to the French queen Isabella (ca. 1295-1358), who gave it as a gift "to the Lord High Pontiff." Rose was clearly a very skilled artist, since she was commissioned by the queen, but was not skilled enough to be named as an artist in her own right. We don't know how many other working embroiderers were subsumed into their husbands' workshops with even their first names lost to us. Once a field became truly profitable, men nudged women out of it. It was all well and good to let ladies have fun with a needle and thread. But if there was cash to be made, men suddenly showed up front and center and excluded women from the role.

-Eleanor Janega, The Once and Future Sex: Going Medieval on Women’s Roles in Society

[outofconcheol]

bloodline (JWW x F!Reader) - Teaser

pairing: vampire professor!wonwoo x TA!reader

genres/aus/rating: romance, angst, smut, fantasy au, 18+

summary: Cursed to a solitary existence, Wonwoo seeks a cure for his condition - enlisting the help of his diligent teacher's assistant. However, you refuse to let Professor Jeon go through with the cure without first teaching him the wonders of having something worth living for. When your tired souls find solace in your shared loneliness, friendship (and something more) blooms. But what happens when that isn’t enough? When the secrets that both you and Wonwoo have been harboring finally catch up to you? Will you and Wonwoo make the most of every moment, or will the aftermath of his quest leave you both even lonelier than before?

warnings (to be updated with final fic): tw: this fic deals with Wonwoo being tired of his vampirism and essentially wanting to end his life as a vampire (whatever that may entail - stay tuned), mentions blood, Wonwoo has dark and depressing thoughts, that's all for now but just know we are in for a ride :)

word count: 619 for the teaser, TBD for final fic

a/n: I've been thinking about this for a long time, and with me wanting to write more for SVT, I decided it was finally time to take the plunge! Please note that this is going to be an angsty journey, with lots of inspiration from pieces such as Thirst (2009), Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), and the Vampire Tapestry by Suzie McKee Charnas. As always, if these themes are not for you, please take care of yourself (your wellbeing comes first always). Also, thank you to the lovely sèvn (@aaagustd/@xscoupsx) for the banner. I hope you enjoy!

The bust sits in the corner of the office, nestled away in an alcove by the window. On sunnier days, when the light would hit it, the marble would reflect brilliantly, its ivory tones taking the appearance of an angel, a silent guardian watching over Wonwoo while he worked. Most of the time, it loomed in the shadows, its unsettling presence doing nothing more than to serve as a reminder that despite his physical appearance, Wonwoo was closer to the cold, unfeeling marble than he was to any of the human peers he’d encountered through the centuries.

Wonwoo can’t recall when in his travels he’d come across the statue, eight hundred years blurring together into a muddle, countless memories fading into oblivion, delicate threads disappearing in the intricate fabric of his mind. Maybe at one point it’d been a gift from a dear friend, or maybe even a lover, but Wonwoo simply couldn’t remember any of it at all. A lifetime of indulgence and hedonism meant that seeking pleasure had long lost its charm.

What more was there to study when Wonwoo had studied it all? From stepping into battle during the middle ages, joining the height of enlightenment during the Renaissance, and witnessing the advent of modern technology in the past century or so, Wonwoo had lingered in the background, slipping easily into the folds of human society. And it all lead him here, to this room that felt more like a box than an office, sifting through countless essays from a batch of college students who were as disinterested in learning about anthropology as Wonwoo had become with his own life.

Even now, he casts his gaze over to his faint reflection in the window, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, lean and lonely-looking. To the untrained eye, professor Jeon Wonwoo was the picture of innocence, milking the image of a solitary bachelor devoted to pursuing a lifetime of knowledge, much to the chagrin of many of his pupils. But Wonwoo saw what no one else did - the faint tinge of red in his eyes, a sign that he’d gone hungry for too long, the needle-like barb under his tongue that had known the taste of blood too many times. All signs of the monster that layed within. 

The efforts of concealing his true nature had finally caught up to him - the mask that he’d put on, feigning interest in human art, science, and culture finally slipping from his face. Simply put, Wonwoo was tired - restless from years of fighting the hunger, pretending that he cared for this life he’d crafted for himself. In reality, it was all a farce. Wonwoo had given up human blood long ago, but feasting on animals wasn’t enough to quell the burning inside him. 

In the end, he craved. Wonwoo was a thief, because he craved the one thing that was a lifesource for humans - their anima, their joie de vivre. He craved it because he didn’t have one of his own, nothing that drove him, that fueled him to keep going. Humans felt things - they felt happiness, sadness, anger and love. Emotions were so intertwined into the mesh of their lives that they craved any experiences that would give them more - from weddings and parties for families and friends, to random hook-ups, to even the thrill of dangerous situations. 

He’d read the essays his students had written - some of them talking about how humanity loved the society they’d crafted so much, that science was constantly coming up with new ways to prolong life, to keep on living. And yet, it didn’t move him. Wonwoo was tired of living just to live. Which is why he’d chosen to die.

a/n pt. 2: if you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! I work a pretty busy job, so I'm not sure when the anticipated release date, will be, but I'm going to try to work on this as much as I can. As always, any comments or feedback are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi <3

[dottores]

HELIOTROPES

pairing: dottore x fem!reader & segments

summary: the gods were sick and twisted. for five hundred years, he believed he was fated to be alone. he had long accepted it—embraced it, even. that is, until a midwinter night when that elusive red thread finally appeared on his finger. but as much as he wants to ignore it, the pull of a soulmate simply cannot be ignored.

genre: soulmate au, canon compliant for the most part

warnings: fem!reader, worldbuilding for snezhnaya & fatui & fontaine

notes: finally reader's pov! and YES, theta segment IS webttore! i started making the segment sheet, ill post it at some point sunday or monday so if u want to see it, keep an eye out for it!

THE COLOR PURPLE

“If anyone is to ask, your soulmark has gone black, your thread is severed, and your soulmate is lost to the world. Should anyone find out that your thread leads to the north, all of us will be under suspicion and Her Excellency is not merciful.”

You stood tall, hands clasped behind your back as you stood between your mother and your half-brother, listening to the Hydro Archon’s announcement. It was an abrupt assembly, as they typically had been lately. You had been preparing for bed when the bell rang throughout the massive palace that housed all of the nation’s aristocrats in the center of Fontaine’s capital city.

If you looked up, you would see the moon high in the sky, the stars glittering against the darkness, but you didn’t dare look away from the Hydro Archon or her court officials.

“... for months, we have allowed ourselves to be lenient with the heretics plaguing our capital. We allowed ourselves to be patient, but the time for leniency and patience is over, we must…”

It was an honor to be welcomed into the Hydro Archon’s abode, the chief justice had claimed, but you knew better. It was no honor for the nobles to be forced out of their countryside estates and into the city--it was a means for surveillance, to make sure that the most influential members of Fontaine’s society were not sympathizers to the growing dissent throughout the capital. 

The people were unhappy. The Hydro Archon was becoming more and more severe with her sentencing, more and more strict with her laws. Fontaine prided itself on being the center of culture and arts, but the nation was declining, their energy apparatuses were failing, and their judicial system was becoming corrupt, though no one dared to say it.

The Hydro Archon’s descent had to do with rebellion stirring in the north. You weren’t sure what it was, exactly, you didn’t think anyone really did, but you had heard your grandfather whispering about it vaguely with some of the other court officials--an uprising against the gods, one that she believed would draw the wrath of Celestia down upon all of Teyvat. You thought this might have begun as a noble cause, the Hydro Archon desperate to protect her people and keep Fontaine absolved of conspiring with Snezhnaya, but it was going to become a witch hunt where anyone with any affiliation to Snezhnaya would be found guilty of collusion. 

You felt acutely aware of the thread tied neatly around your thumb, of the soulmark branded in between your shoulder blades--the ones that connected you to a citizen of Snezhnaya and would make your whole family a target should anyone ever learn. 

You thought it was unfair. It was unfair that you had to hide the fact that you had a soulmate. It was unfair that you and your family would be under suspicion if it got out that your soulmate lived in the north. It was unfair that you had to deal with people gossiping about you because of it--because nothing good ever came along with someone that never received their mark. There were a lot of things unfair, you thought to yourself, and while you didn’t have it as bad as some of the civilians living in Fontaine City who had to deal with the Hydro Archon’s forces constantly prowling the streets looking for dissidents, you thought it was rather ironic that everything unfair about your life stemmed from Celestia’s decision to give people soulmates. 

You frowned as your gaze tracked to the side instinctively, looking at where your mother was standing next to you. Behind your mother, your stepfather lingered. You could feel him hovering directly behind her, you could see him out of the corner of your eye, and you couldn’t help the resentment that pooled in your stomach.

Your stepfather. Your mother’s soulmate. The man who had all but turned your life upside down when you were three years old after his arrival in Fontaine.

“... this organization is a blight upon our esteemed nation and court of law, staining the purity of our ideals, defiling our magnificence in the eyes of the divine…”

You tuned the Hydro Archon out as your gaze drifted back down to your own thread. Your soulmate was annoyed with something--you could feel the emotion deep in your gut, muted enough to know that it was not your own. Your soulmate never really felt anything strongly--not sadness, not fear, not anxiety, and certainly not happiness. You weren’t sure you had ever felt them actually happy before. 

They were angry sometimes, though, and annoyed occasionally. It was never overwhelming like you had overheard some of your peers talk about. They said sometimes it felt as if they could feel their soulmate’s emotions more intensely than their own--when they were angry, a burst of joy or excitement from their soulmate could ease their anger, or worse, when they were in a good mood, a surge of anger could have them lashing out at their friends and family for no reason. 

You never experienced any of that, for better or for worse. In fact, for nearly a year after your tenth birthday, the only proof you had that your soulmate was alive was that your mark was still brightly tattooed between your shoulder blades. They did not tug the string back in response to your own goodnight tugs--though you tried not to let it bother you--and you never really felt anything from them, pain nor emotions.

It wasn’t until you learned how to separate their tiny inflections from your own emotions that you had a way of knowing whether or not your soulmate was alive besides the shared mark and thread, but even then it was just… underwhelming. You didn’t know what to expect from your soulmate, which was unfortunate because by your age, most people at least had an idea of their soulmate’s personality through their shared emotions.

“Perhaps, it just means they’re calm,” your nanny, Miss Elyna, had tried to soothe you while you were making yourself upset over it one night. 

“Not feeling anything strongly is not a bad thing,” your father had agreed quietly, “it makes it easier to hide that you have one.”

But you didn’t want to hide, you were sick of hiding--you wanted to go looking for them, you wanted to travel to the frozen wastelands of Snezhnaya, you wanted to wear open-back dresses to show off your mark in hopes that someone had seen the match, you wanted to find them, and you wanted to be with them.

But if you wanted to be with them, it would mean leaving your country behind, leaving your family behind. So much as you might resent your stepfather, you couldn’t bear the thought of leaving your father, your mother, Miss Elyna, or even your half-siblings. Unless the Hydro Archon changed her stance on Snezhnaya, you would be forced into an impossible decision: your blood or your soulmate.

You let out a quiet breath, shaking your head. From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of your stepfather, again. Donned in a lavender dress shirt with a fancy watch that once belonged to your mother’s late father, he looked like the image of Fontaine aristocracy despite hailing from the City of Freedom. 

Purple was your favorite color, it was your family’s color, but you hated how it looked draped against your stepfather’s skin. You felt irked again, unable to draw your gaze from the older man. You hated him--you hated how he treated your father, you hated how he treated you, and you hated how he was trying to pit your half-siblings against you. You knew you couldn’t fault your mother for wanting to be with her soulmate, but if this was her soulmate, you couldn’t help but wonder what that might mean about her.

Your throat felt tight as you forced yourself to look away, eyes instead falling on your grandfather standing at the Hydro Archon’s side as she spoke. He was Warden of the Black Cells, the highest security level of Fontaine’s prison--he was one of the Hydro Archon’s most trusted confidants, the one she counted on to make sure her enemies stayed locked deep beneath the lakes of the city. His eyes were sharp as he stared down at the aristocrats standing before him, reminiscent of a predator hunting its prey, waiting for someone to slip up and place themselves under suspicion. He paid particular attention to your stepfather, you couldn’t help but notice, and it made you almost want to giggle. 

The assembly was finally near its end, you could tell from the Hydro Archon’s tone: “... a curfew will be instated to preserve our-”

And then your arm burned--so intense that it took all your self-control to not cry out, somehow both hot and cold at the same time. It was dragging against your skin in even strokes as if branding letters onto you. You bit down hard on your lower lip, hand flying to clutch your forearm and trying not to make a scene. You could feel several pairs of eyes on you, including your mother, half-brother and stepfather… and your grandfather. 

Branding words. 

You felt light-headed as realization began to hit you. 

It was past midnight. 

It was your birthday, and you were fifteen. 

It was the start of the third phase, and the first time that words were shared between soulmates, the pain was excruciating. 

What terrible timing, you thought to yourself as your eyes teared up and your half-brother shifted in front of you once he noticed something was wrong, looking at you with a questioning look that you couldn’t even respond to.

Just as your vision began to go spotty, you caught sight of the words being seared into your skin--the same shade as the soulmark stamped between your shoulder blades, but only visible to you:

Deactivate. 

“Do you think I won’t have you deactivated, Theta?” Dottore asked, voice calm but internally, his anger was rising as he looked down at the report in front of him detailing the near destruction of one of his labs down in southern Mondstadt and along with it, most of the progress that they had made the past six years in stabilizing delusions.

The Theta Segment looked unbothered, staring at Dottore emptily. “You won’t have me deactivated because you don’t have the resources to create a new segment right now. Otherwise you would have replaced Beta already, and you haven’t. Either way, deactivating me wouldn’t have prevented the situation unless you’ve figured out a way to endow segments with prophetic abilities,” Theta said, voice dry and mocking. 

Beta, Dottore inhaled, trying to reign in his temper as it spiked at the reminder of the Beta segment. His head was pounding--he had been dealing with setbacks in his own research, and the Balladeer was being less than forthcoming regarding information about the Abyss and Irminsul. He was losing his patience with it because the only reason Scaramouche was even capable of withstanding the hostile energy in the Abyss was because Dottore had unlocked his latent powers as an Archon’s creation.

He could by all means deactivate Theta, but Theta was right in that he didn’t have the resources to create another segment to replace him. He had all of the physical materials, despite how hard they were to come by, but he lost the connection to Irminsul he had in Snezhaya, drained the sprout of all of its energy, and he needed the connection to Irminsul to create the segments in the mindsets of his past self. There were rumors of other withered sprouts in the ruins of Vindagnyr--he had the Rho and Gamma segments searching through the bitter cold to try to find ways to revitalize the sprouts, but their efforts had been fruitless thus far. 

“Careful,” he warned quietly, looking up from the report to finally look at the Theta Segment, who stiffened a bit at Dottore’s tone. “You’re testing my patience.”

“There was nothing I could’ve done,” Theta’s voice was still sharp, defensive, which Dottore expected of the segment. Theta was the segment created right after his expulsion from the Akademiya--volatile, uncontrollable, always angry and always on edge. He never took well to being told that he did something wrong, Dottore was surprised it had taken him this long to snap.

“If it were Rho or Delta, they would have made the necessary preparation to deal with such a situation,” Dottore countered, reading through all of the reported damages and lost research. He pressed his lips together tightly as he realized that all of their research had been lost. It would set them back over a year, maybe two or three. “Instead, we-”

“Don’t compare me to them,” Theta bristled, hands fisting at his side, teeth clenched so tight that Dottore could practically hear them grinding. “Not to Delta.”

Dottore smiled thinly, “Then do not do things that make me compare you to them,” he said coldly. He leaned back in his seat, placing the papers down. “This was easily preventable, Theta.”

“How was I supposed to know about a stray wyvern nesting in the Mondstadt countryside?” Theta said, aggressive and loud. 

Dottore stared at him, “You research, Theta,” he responded, tone a bit more sharp. “You research the area where you plan to waste hundreds of thousands of mora building one of our labs to make sure that it’s a location conducive to our research. All of the older segments would have known to look into the property and the surrounding land before throwing away our limited mora. If you can’t even bother to make an effort to show a little bit of responsibility, you will be stripped of your independence and sent to the Fontaine border to assist Delta permanently, do you understand?”

“You can’t do that,” Theta hissed. “I’m not a child-”

“No, you’re not. You are a tool,” Dottore interrupted, “and tools do what they were created for and when they are no longer useful, they are disposed of.”

Theta turned to leave, fists balled tight at his side, Dottore spoke up again before he could walk away, “Did I dismiss you?” he asked. Theta stopped but did not turn to face Dottore. “You will go to Sumeru with Lambda. The two of you will work on replacing all of the lost research. You will explain to him the situation and why he is being forced to halt his part of the residue project. You have half a year to replace all of the lost research.”

“Or what?” Theta spit out. 

Dottore did not respond, he figured that was enough of an answer. 

You will be deactivated. 

Theta scoffed, shaking his head—and just like that, Dottore’s temper snapped. His hand shot forward quickly, iron-grip latching around Theta’s wrist as he yanked the segment closer to him, tone low and laced with poison as he leaned forward over the desk, “You have wasted far more resources than you are worth. Time and time again you have proven yourself to be the most useless segment that I’ve created. Tread carefully because your next mistake will be your last, I don’t care enough to replace you.”

Theta ripped his arm out of Dottore’s grasp, taking a step away. His lips were twisted, and his eyes were ablaze with rage, but he didn’t respond this time. 

Dottore looked back down at the desk, shuffling through the papers and looking for the one that he had been trying to get through before Theta had arrived to disrupt his peace.

“Leave,” he ordered, void of emotion as he relaxed back into his chair. “Now, and don’t ever bring up the Beta segment again.”

Theta didn’t say another word as he left the room, closing the door harshly behind him. Dottore let out a sharp exhale, squeezing the bridge of his nose as he tried to calm himself down so he could refocus. Instinctually, his gaze drew to his other hand, where the thread was tied snugly around his thumb. 

His soulmate hadn’t tugged the thread tonight. He looked back to the window on the far end of the room, where the sky was dark and the stars shone brightly against the black canvas. He wondered if they had finally given up or if they just hadn’t fallen asleep yet--he wasn’t sure which he would prefer. Usually, he could tell when they fell asleep, but this time he had been distracted by Theta and wasn’t paying attention. 

Tonight would be the start of the third phase. 

He looked over to the side, in the direction of the chart that he had set up. He wouldn’t know the exact time, but it was soon, and he was glad he got Theta out of the room before it began. His thread had shown up in the dead of night ten years ago--he remembered the day very well--and he had dreaded this day ever since it had shown up. The third phase was a violation, a breach of his privacy. He did not want his thoughts being transcribed onto a random person at all, much less when he couldn’t even control what words were being sent to them.

This was when the concept of a soulmate really became an issue. They had already been a personal issue, but now it extended beyond just him. It was an issue for the whole organization because if one wrong word got transferred to them and they mentioned it around the wrong people, it could spell a lot of trouble for the Fatui and their goals. 

He should have gone to the Jester by now. He should have gone to him and told him the situation so they could work to track down his soulmate before it got to this point before it put the Fatui at risk. He didn’t know why he hadn’t yet. Something odd and unfamiliar tugged at his gut, an emotion he couldn’t recognize. It wasn’t from his soulmate, he could feel that much, but he convinced himself it was. 

You haven’t gone to the Jester because you’re going to sever the bond, he reminded himself, and then this would become a nonissue. But it was not as easy as he thought it would be. There was no previous research done into severing a bond between soulmates, there were old folktales but no legit information to back the validity of them. Dottore had a feeling that Irminsul would have answers for him and he found it ironic that the tree seemed to be the root of all of his most recent issues--he had half a mind to burn the thing to the ground when he finally got to it. 

Just as he was going to finally force himself to focus back on the report, he felt it--a searing pain in his left forearm, nothing compared to what he had dealt with before but he hadn’t expected it to be as intense as it was. 

He paused only for a second before rolling up his sleeve.

Purple, the word said, and Dottore couldn’t help but shake his head. He wasn’t sure what he had been anticipating from them, but he supposed that a color was about as predictable as it could get. 

He wondered what they might have gotten from him--it could’ve been anything from his argument with Theta to his thoughts on Irminsul. He hoped that it wasn’t the latter. He felt stressed suddenly, rubbing his temples and letting his eyes slide shut as he tried to figure out what he could do, if there was a way that he could control his thoughts and filter out what they could be receiving from him. 

He didn’t think there was, realistically. He had done a lot of research trying to prepare for this day, and he had come up empty-handed. The only way to prevent his soulmate from receiving words he didn’t want them to receive was to stop thinking about them, and that wasn’t an option. He had work to do, research to complete, and he refused to let them interfere more than they already had. 

Hesitating for a second, he reached for a notebook laid out on the desk next to him, jotting down the word he had received before pushing the notebook out of sight and pushing his soulmate out of mind, returning to the heaps of papers he had to get through before the night was up.

You lounged in the garden, relaxing to the soft scent of lilies beneath the gentle glow of the sunset over the horizon. You could hear a songbird chirping in the distance, people chattering in the streets as they made their way back to their homes before curfew, the quiet hum of the apparatuses set up throughout the garden to keep the flora rich and healthy. It wasn’t raining, for once. You swore that the past two weeks had been nothing but torrential downpour, you’d been trapped inside the library of the palace, spending your time reading old tales of forbidden love and the old gods.  

You didn’t like being in Fontaine City. It was always muggy and ugly outside, it was usually raining, and even when the skies were clear, there was a strange, intense mechanical scent that made your head hurt--the only place free of it was the garden on the roof of the palace, but even then, sometimes the sweetness of the flowers was sickly. You wanted to return to the countryside, to your mother’s family estate near the Snezhnayan border where the air was brisk and fresh, and the grass was lush and green, the thick scent of the wild and the subtle scent of smoke from the estate’s fireplace being the ones most familiar and dear to your heart.

You sighed as you rested your head against the cool stone of the statue you were sitting against, pen tapping steadily against your notebook as your eyes grazed over the past few words that you had received from your soulmate: sever, residue, research, failure. 

You couldn’t make much sense of it, you had thought two years ago that maybe you would finally get to know more about your soulmate now that you were sharing thoughts, but you found yourself at even more of a loss than you were at before. They were a complete mystery to you. They thought words in the old tongue rather often--Theta, Iota, Lambda, and Delta, most frequently but there were others that appeared less often: Kappa, Rho, Gamma, Epsilon, Zeta—and no one really knew the old tongue unless they were an academic or some sort of priest of the dead gods. 

And even the thoughts you received in the common tongue were just strange, and you didn’t even understand half of them. Ever since the start of the third phase, you seemed to spend the majority of your days in the palace’s libraries trying to understand them by looking up the random words that were showing up on your forearm, but somehow, it only left you more confused.

You thought that maybe they were a scholar at Sumeru’s Akademiya who had traveled north for research. Fontaine had its own institute, but it focused on engineering and mechanics, not languages, and students who graduated from the institute typically remained in Fontaine unless they were granted leave to introduce and promote their invention to other nations… and even then, they would never be granted leave to Snezhnaya, but as far as you were aware, the Akademiya did not have such restrictions. 

It would be better for you if that were the case--that way, your soulmate wasn’t a citizen of Snezhnaya, and you didn’t have to worry about being prosecuted by the Hydro Archon for treason.

You hummed to yourself, doodling on the corner of your notebook as you eyed the word that was currently branded against your forearm: dead. It followed the string of words you had received earlier in the day--normally, you only received one word from them a day, two if you were lucky, but since you woke up this morning, you’d gone through five words.

You bit down on your bottom lip, hesitating before you finally noted the word down beneath failure, adding it to the grouping you had made for today. Sever, residue, research, failure, dead. Not foreboding at all, you thought to yourself, trying to put together what it all might mean. You weren’t sure how the first word fit in with the rest, but you figured the other four were all related.

Research into some sort of residue? What residue? Failed in whatever they were doing, something or someone ended up dead.

They didn’t seem distressed about it, so you supposed that no one important to them got hurt or died… or if they did, your soulmate simply did not care… and it kind of worried you that you genuinely did not know them well enough to know which was the case. You sighed, a pout tugging at your lips as you looked away from your notebook and up to the sky. 

There was another storm already rolling in, you could see the dark clouds in the distance. You didn’t know what to think about your soulmate. You got strange words from them, you never felt anything from them sans the occasional annoyance or anger, and they never responded to your tugs when you tried to tell them goodnight. 

You supposed it hurt a bit. Your whole life, you had watched kids your age babbling on, excited about their soulmate. You watched them have invisible flicking competitions that only the two of them could follow--seeing who could flick the thread the most before the other person gave up. You watched the way they reacted to feeling waves of emotions from them. You watched the way they would all giggle and talk about the words they received--figuring out their favorite colors, their favorite foods, what they liked to do and maybe even narrow down to where they might be living. You watched as they blushed and got flustered when it became apparent that their soulmate was thinking of them.

You couldn’t do any of that--not only because your soulmate was from, or lived in, Snezhnaya, so you couldn’t even talk to anyone your age about them but also because you weren’t experiencing any of that with your soulmate anyway. Every time you tried to get them to flick the thread back, you were ignored, and your soulmate never thought about you, the most frequent words you received from them were deactivate, failure, and sever. You didn’t know what deactivate meant, you assumed failure was in regards to whatever research they kept thinking about, and you had no idea what they were trying to sever. 

It was frustrating and upsetting. You just wanted a soulmate that you could be with like your peers, someone to be excited about and look forward to. And you were excited, and you did look forward to eventually meeting them, but you couldn’t help but be a bit bummed and anxious over it all.

Three years. 

You were seventeen now. There were three years left until you and your soulmate entered the fourth and final stage--being able to communicate through the shared thoughts and then you would finally get some answers from them.

“There you are.”

You slammed your notebook shut, eyes wide as your head snapped to the side, gaze falling upon your half-siblings, Elliot and Sylvie, approaching you from behind. You smiled as best as you could, trying to glance around to make sure that their father wasn’t following them.

“He’s busy with mother at a meeting,” Sylvie said quietly, eyes lit up with a sort of mischief that you hadn’t seen in her for quite a bit. “We snuck out.”

She spoke hushed, as if the flowers around them might tell her father what she was saying. You supposed it was possible--you wouldn’t put it past the Hydro Archon and the court officials to install listening devices throughout the city to make sure that no one was conspiring against them. 

“How did you sneak past Miss Elyna?” you asked her as the two of them came to sit cross-legged with you on the ground next to a bed of pretty pink flowers. 

They were almost fourteen years old now. Both of them had been born with their marks, so they and their soulmates would be entering the third phase soon too. They were excited, constantly whispering about what they thought their soulmate would be like. You remembered when you had been like that, bouncing around in bed as you rattled off possibilities to Miss Elyna because you had no one else to talk to about it. 

Now, you only felt a dull sense of disappointment.

“She wasn’t looking, so we snuck out the door and ran,” Elliot told you, a bright smile on his face. You doubted that was the case—Miss Elyna had the senses of a hawk, it was more likely she let them leave because it’s their only chance to spend time with you without their father hovering and dragging them away.

You hated their father. At one point, you had been hopeful. You thought that your mother meeting her soulmate would change little in the way your family worked. Your father was more than happy to step aside and let your mother find solace with her fated, but it wasn’t enough for your stepfather. He wanted your father gone and he wanted your brother to replace you as your mother’s heir, but you had no way of proving it. He hid the rotting carcass he called a personality behind a kind smile and empty eyes that your mother refused to look past.

“Can you tell us what it’s like?” Sylvie whispered, drawing you from your thoughts. Your brow furrowed in confusion, shooting her a questioning look, but Sylvie only looked pointedly down at your notebook.

Your eyes widened, instinctively tucking the notebook closer to your chest. Your lips and mouth felt dry as you stared at your half-siblings, trying to figure out if Sylvie was implying that she knew that you had a soulmate. No one should know—no one besides your father and mother and Miss Elyna. You had worried the day you received your first word from your soulmate would draw suspicion, but your father had brushed any unwanted eyes off by telling them you had been ill.

No one should know, you felt sick and anxious, unsure of how to respond to Sylvie--both of them were looking at you expectantly, excited for an answer. 

“It’s okay,” Elliot said, once he realized how upset you suddenly looked. “We’ve known for a while, we won’t-”

“Elliot! Sylvie, have you seen-” 

It was Miss Elyna, out of breath and on the verge of tears--she cut herself off as soon as she saw you hidden behind the statue. You rose to your feet, concerned, “Miss Ely-”

“It’s your father,” Miss Elyna said, voice choked and wobbly. At once, the world around you shattered. “Come, we must hurry.”

“I suppose I owe you thanks,” a familiar voice murmured, approaching Dottore from behind. He tilted his head to the side, glancing over his shoulder to where his old recruit, now promoted to the Ninth seat as the Fatui’s Regrator, came to a stop next to the column that Dottore was leaning against, waiting for his chance to slip away from the celebrations. 

“Thank me with funding,” Dottore said. “I’ve exhausted all of my resources. I’ll need a significant amount of mora and test subjects to begin research into Archon residue if we want to find a safer alternative to delusions any time soon… which I’m sure you’d be personally vested in and I am not cutting the funding from my own personal projects.”

Pantalone let out a huff of laughter, Dottore was not sure what exactly the new Harbinger found amusing about what he said so he turned to face him, lips flat and eyes void of emotion behind the mask he wore.

“Relax, doctor,” Pantalone said quietly. “I have not forgotten about our original deal. Have you not already seen an increase since my induction into the Fatui?” 

“Not a large enough increase in comparison to the risks I took advocating for you,” Dottore said coldly, looking away from him up to where the Jester was preparing with the Captain for the official inauguration of Pantalone as one of the Eleven Harbingers. “Go, this event has lasted long enough. As soon as all of the official business is over with, I can leave.”

Pantalone did not look pleased, lips pressed together tight as his gaze swept across the large room. All of the higher-ranked members of the Fatui based in Snezhnaya were attending the event--agents trained by Arlecchino, vanguard captains trained by Capitano, even some mages and Mirror Maidens that had gone through La Signora’s strict training regiments lingered around where the Eighth Harbinger was lounging back at one of the tables. She looked just as ready for the night to be over as Dottore was. 

Pantalone looked anxious, only thinly concealed behind an otherwise blank expression, and Dottore supposed he couldn’t blame him. All of the people in this room were the people that had been considered and rejected for the Ninth Seat in favor of him. The Fatui were united, yes, but their loyalty only went so far when the prospect of a promotion was dangled in front of their face. Not a single person in this room would forego the chance of taking out the new Harbinger if it gave them a shot at being one of the Eleven. 

They had tried it with him centuries ago, when Dottore had initially been promoted to Harbinger. The Fatui was a younger organization then, less structured and far more anarchic, and there had been more attempts on his life than he could count. Only one had succeeded, and he had made it so that it could never happen again. 

Now that he had centuries of authority, his moniker inducing fear and respect throughout their ranks for all of his accomplishments, he didn’t have to worry much about greedy, ambitious underlings trying to take off his head and claim his position.

But the Regrator would have more trouble, he noted to himself. 

Something felt odd in his chest--a twinge of anxiety, or fear. It was not his own, and he had been blocking off his segments for the duration of the night so he was not interrupted while at an important event. He could only assume that it was coming from his soulmate. He frowned to himself, eyes darting down to his forearm but it was covered by his sleeve, and he would draw too much attention to himself should he go to check if the word had changed. 

Instead, he forced himself to focus on the situation at hand.

Pantalone was no fighter, his delusion harmed him as much as it helped him--more so than it did to the average person--it tore apart his body from the inside whenever he summoned the volatile energy, and he couldn’t even control the energy yet. He was incompetent with a sword, couldn’t pick up a claymore, and was awkward with a polearm. He was decent with aiming a bow, but that would be useless in a close combat assassination like the ones that would be attempted on him. If he were attacked, the only real defense he had would be that decorative blade strapped to his waist. 

Dottore wondered if it would be worth it to enlist Sandrone in creating a sort of projectile weapon that could be used both in close and ranged combat… but that was not something he was going to waste his own time doing, he would present the option to Pantalone only once Dottore’s funding has been increased significantly.

“Is funding the only thing you want?” Pantalone suddenly asked, voice cryptic in a way that Dottore did not like. He peered at the younger man from the corner of his eye, waiting for him to explain himself. But he didn’t, instead, violet eyes only looked down pointedly at Dottore’s right hand--the hand that his red thread was tied around his thumb. Dottore inhaled, not responding, and finally, Pantalone continued, “I’m just saying, I have other resources, connections… should you need to find something,”

Someone. 

Dottore was livid, he could feel his anger rising, and he could feel that strange anxiety begin to get worse from his soulmate’s end, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about that now--was it a taunt? A threat? Or a genuine offer of help? 

Either way, Dottore didn’t like it. No one should know about the thread tied around his thumb. No one should know that he had a soulmate. Did one of the segments let it slip? Did they mention it in public? It was possible, but Dottore doubted it--the younger segments were never around people and the older segments knew better, even Theta. They knew very well that even if they had no interest in meeting their soulmate after all of these years, that if their soulmate died, it would cause irreparable damage to all of them. 

They would not risk it. 

So then how-

“If you’re wondering how… I’m very observant, that’s all,” Pantalone interrupted his thoughts, watching him carefully. “I had to be, considering my lifestyle before you recruited me into the Fatui. Abrupt movements for no apparent reason, flinches, stiffening, sudden jerks… a gaze flickering down just a bit too often… tucking a thumb into your fist--I learned to watch for certain tells to find weak points in my enemies...”

Dottore unfisted his right hand immediately, not moving nor responding even as Pantalone stared at him expectantly, waiting for a response. He felt like a fool, and he hated feeling like a fool. He wanted to say something, make a dry comment about how yes, of course the way he held his hand meant that he had a soulmate, but his lips wouldn’t move and he wasn’t sure if responding would be more damning because Pantalone hadn’t even said the word soulmate yet anyway, only implied it.

“... but we are not enemies, so you need not worry. It’s not something I plan to use against you… just offering some extra resources. If you need them, just let me know,” Pantalone finally said, the heels of his boots clicking against the marble ground as he began to make his way past Dottore toward where Pierro and Capitano were waiting for him. “You know where to find me.”

Damn all of the subordinates looking for a quick promotion, Dottore had half a mind to kill Pantalone himself, right there in front of everybody. His rage was clouding his mind, a wicked storm about to break through the calm facade. He felt like he was young again, the years just after he was kicked out of the Akademiya when he was brewing with uncontrollable fury and a switch that could flip on or off at any given moment with no warning. 

He forced himself to leave. He would deal with the Jester and his complaints about his premature departure later, he was certain that if he remained there any longer, blood would be spilled and all of Dottore’s efforts to get himself more funding would go straight down the drain. 

He couldn’t tell anymore if the anxiety he was feeling was from himself or his soulmate. The corridor around him swayed like he was on a ship sailing through the rough, northern sea. He had been so careful to keep it hidden and the way he positioned his hand gave it away? There was no way. Pantalone had to have been throwing out a wild guess and hoping for confirmation--his only hope was that he had been able to keep his face devoid of the anger that was twisting his insides, that he hadn’t given Pantalone any reason to believe his suspicions had been correct. 

His chest felt tight--like he couldn’t breathe properly, which was ridiculous because he was breathing but it felt like he wasn’t getting enough air to his lungs. He didn’t know what this was. It was not something he had ever felt before, and that meant it had to be coming from them, his soulmate--he cursed himself for giving in to his own bout of emotion, a show of weakness that allowed their emotions to engulf his and he didn’t know how to fix it now that the spiral had begun. 

Unless it wasn’t emotions, and that was why it was so intense.

Were they getting strangled?

It didn’t make any sense, he would be able to feel the hands around their throat, the bruises forming against their skin. 

He leaned against the wall of the corridor he had escaped down, only dimly lit by a candle halfway down the hall--far enough from the event that he shouldn’t have to worry about anyone stumbling upon him while he was like this. He pulled off his mask, pressing a hand hard against his chest, right over where his heart would’ve been. 

Calm down, he wanted to spit out at them, his rage blending with his soulmate’s anxiety and fear. Calm down.

This was not the place. He could hear the Jester speaking in the distance, he could hear the crowds of people applauding dutifully at the official announcement of the Regrator’s position, he could see the shadows of people walking just a bit too close to the side hall for his own comfort. 

He was being overwhelmed, and he had never been overwhelmed by someone before, not like this. His fury was subsiding, being replaced by his soulmate’s intense surge of emotions. He had never felt anything like this before, and he wasn’t sure what it was or how to describe it. It felt as if the walls were closing in around him, as if someone was dragging jagged nails down the inside of his throat, as if his blood had turned into lead—thick and heavy, weighing his whole body down.

He couldn’t even tell what was wrong, he couldn’t tell if the pain was physical or emotional. Was his soulmate dying? Was that it? The thought made his stomach churn, wondering what that would mean for him, if he would become the husk that all widowers became after their mark went black. 

No, he told himself, you are stronger. 

The Captain was able to move on from the death of his soulmate. Dottore had seen the blackened mark himself when the man asked him to fix up his arm after a challenge had gone wrong years ago against one of the ancient gods of the far north. 

Had he moved on? Dottore questioned himself, or was he just a shell of himself, moving on autopilot to bring the divine to their knees before he could join his soulmate in the next life?

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter whether or not Capitano had been able to move on because Dottore would--he was above man, above mortal. He refused to let something as inconsequential as the death of a stranger inhibit his research, and obstruct him from his goals. He refused to let nearly five hundred years go to waste. 

But he wasn’t sure, no matter how much he insisted to himself that it didn’t matter. He wasn’t confident he would be able to brush it off, and the uncertainty was damning because the thought of his soulmate—who would be no older than sixteen or seventeen now, a year or two older than the Gamma segment—dying such a brutal and untimely death made him sick to his stomach for reasons beyond just selfish ones, reasons that he didn’t dare try to delineate.

Celestia is cruel, he thought to himself as this situation forced him to come to terms with what he had been pushing away for over a decade. Because they were not just a stranger, so much as he tried to convince himself of it. Dottore was a pragmatic man at heart, and he knew himself very well, no matter how much the past twelve years have tested his sense of identity. From the moment he had noticed that thread and felt those childish little tugs, Dottore had formed an attachment to the person on the other side. He was selfish and possessive, and he had never in his life had something that was so fundamentally meant to be his before and he didn’t want the gods to take yet another thing from him--he convinced himself it was more out of pride, out of anger toward Celestia than out of fear. 

He had known it was too good to be true from the start. He knew that the gods would dangle his soulmate in front of his face like meat to a starved dog--it was why he was so intent on finding a way to sever the thread before this could happen. He knew that they would let him get accustomed to their distant presence, they would let him get accustomed to the goodnight tugs and the frequent swells of emotion that he was not capable of feeling on his own. They would even let it get to the point where he was beginning to accept it, noting down all of the words that were transferred to him in hopes to find clues regarding where they were… in hopes of getting to learn more about them—who they were, why they were meant to be his fated. 

He knew that they would let this all happen, and he knew that they would rip it away, and he let himself fall for the trap they had laid out anyway.

Dottore was a fool. He had always been one, but the past decade or so had truly made a comedy of it in the eyes of the divine. 

His fingers fumbled for the buttons on the cuff of his dress shirt, trying to see which words would be branded on his skin for eternity--to see if it would give any sort of hint as to who they were, or where they were, or what happened to them so if the opportunity ever arose, he could deal back tenfold to the person that did this.

Father

He paused, taken aback for a second. Was their father the perpetrator? If that was the case, it might not be all too hard to find the culprit--filicide was considered taboo across all seven nations… but Dottore had a feeling that it wasn’t so simple because him being startled at the word gave him the bit of clarity he needed to compartmentalize and digest all of the stray emotions tearing through him.

It was not physical pain, he realized, trying to pinpoint what exactly it was. He had gotten better at deciphering emotions over the past seven years, but whatever this was, it was still foreign to him. The only consolation he had was that he couldn’t feel his body weakening, he couldn’t feel any physical pain. The thread was still bright and very much connected to him.

And the intensity was fading--albeit at a snail’s pace, but it was fading. It was becoming something heavier, more oppressive, as if the weight of the world was being tossed onto his shoulders.

Grief, he slowly recognized, this must be grief.

Grief. He had never experienced grief before. Not like this. He had mourned failed experiments, he had mourned the loss of his resources, he had mourned wasted time but he had never experienced an emotion like this before.  

He felt relieved knowing that his soulmate was not, in fact, dying, knowing that he didn’t have to stress about figuring out how he was going to move on when Celestia damned all those who had lost their soulmates to desolation, knowing that he would not have to deal with his segments losing their minds over this but at the same time-

“Dottore.”

He was not even able to dwell on his train of thought, forced to try to compose himself as a familiar voice met his ears. Now back in control of himself, getting ahold of the unwelcome emotions still crawling around inside of him, Dottore could focus. He tucked away the feelings deep within him as he straightened, slipping his mask back on and rolling his sleeve down as discreetly as he could. 

He looked over his shoulder to where Brighella was standing several feet away, a glass of wine in his hand, green eyes beady and curious as he spoke, “Is something wrong?”

He spoke with a sort of faux care that made Dottore irrationally annoyed because he knew very well that it was just that--faux. He wanted something. Brighella always wanted something and Dottore wasn’t particularly in the mood to humor him this time, lips twisting down as the man brought it upon himself to draw closer to Dottore. 

“No,” Dottore answered shortly. “Why are you not attending the event?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Brighella’s response was challenging and quick. Dottore raised his eyebrows beneath his mask, not that Brighella could tell, but the other Harbinger quickly grew uncomfortable in the silence, letting out a sheepish laugh, nervous gaze flicking back and forth. “Ha, sorry. I’ve had a few drinks, you know how it gets-”

“I do not,” Dottore said, voice icy as he observed the man.

Dottore had never been particularly good at reading people. He spent more time in his lab than socializing, even during his years at the Akademiya, and the only use he found for humans once he joined the Fatui was utilizing them to make advances in his research. But he could tell something was off, Brighella’s eyes were too sharp--they didn’t have the drunken glaze that they usually did when the man had been drinking.

Was he faking it?

Dottore didn’t think so. Brighella reeked of alcohol, and he seemed off-balanced, and Dottore didn’t think that he could really fake much of anything to anyone, much less to Dottore. He was always skittish and anxious around higher-ranked members of the Harbingers, but something wasn’t sitting right with him. Dottore thought-

“Oh god, I didn’t mean-”

Dottore stared down at his stained clothes, at the red wine seeping through his white dress shirt, sticky against his skin. Dottore’s lips twisted, barely restraining the resurfacing fury and Brighella was panicked, stuttering over his words as he apologized, stumbling over his own feet as he searched for something to use as a cloth or napkin to clean up the mess he had made. 

Dottore only inhaled sharply, turning on his heel and ignoring the calls after him as he made his way down the hall in the direction of his quarters for the night. 

Tonight had been a trainwreck, he thought to himself bitterly. Between Pantalone, his soulmate, and now the drunkard that called himself a Harbinger, Dottore swore he was on the verge of losing his mind. 

Ever since the red thread had appeared on his thumb twelve years ago, he had been losing control. He was losing control of his segments, he was losing control of all of the carefully calculated plans he had created, he was losing control of himself, and tonight was proof enough of that. 

He was done. 

He would figure out a way to sever the damned thread before this got any further. It was too close of a call for comfort--he didn’t know how the death of his soulmate would affect him, and it was a gamble that he wasn’t willing to take. He couldn’t afford to let something like this happen again, especially in public. It made him seem weak in front of those that would use it against him—and Dottore was not weak. He was sick of being strung around like a marionette by the emotions of a child.

And if there was not a way to sever the thread, then he would make a way. 

reblogs appreciated!

[lucysarah-c]

Sometimes I get kinda sad going rereading the manga and remembering how much of Levi’s substance they cut from from the anime in favor of his “knight in shining armor” image. I feel like that’s where a lot of the discourse always comes from. People interpret his character from so many different perspectives and if you haven’t read the manga it’s actually so hard to get get a clear look at his character because the anime is just not complete.

Like, especially the scene where Levi tells Historia to become Queen. I will forever be mad they cut it. That was such an important point to his character because if Historia had outright refused, everything Levi had done in the name of humanity, all the people he’s killed, tortured and everyone he’s lost, it would have all been for nothing. I just don’t think he would have been able to live with that.

I love the gritty parts of him. It’s what makes him so well written and probably why he’s been one of my favorite characters for 10 years.

Hi, love!

Oh, you might be referring to my post about how it's hard for me to write Levi perfectly and how I might portray him too harshly, right?

Honestly, I agree with you. I always say I write "manga Levi" and not "anime Levi." Anime Levi is like a simplified version of him, I believe. In Spanish, we would say they took all his "spice," to be honest.

Manga Levi is far from perfect as a hero, but he's hilarious. He's a sassy little man, and I adore him. In the English official translation, they didn't capture this, but in the Spanish one (or at least the one I read back in the day), when he meets Eren in jail, he says (I'm translating), "you have amnesia and your daddy goes missing, so convenient."

The idea of Levi standing next to Erwin, meeting Eren, who is his long-time fan, and saying "daddy," is hilarious to me. It was so funny that I had that panel as my phone wallpaper almost my entire high school years. Manga Levi is funnier, has way more facial expressions than just stoic ones, and he has a more pronounced personality. There are a bunch of panels of him either having great sassy moments or literally having a facial expression that shows he's thinking, "this bitch…"

Regarding the scene with Historia, I understand why some people don't like it, but I actually did. Levi is not perfect—I love him, don't get me wrong. He saw almost every single person he loves die, Erwin is about to be executed, their lives are hanging by a thread, he's fighting the only person he considered family, he tortured a man, etc. They are informing this girl, who is very young, that she will be queen, and she's like, "hell no." After everything he did, after everything he sacrificed, the only thing Historia has to do in Levi's eyes is sit her ass on a throne and live a peaceful life full of privileges… I would have gotten mad too.

This is why I say that the canon time is not our society. I try to write Levi as I believe he would truly be in the society inside the walls. He has issues that he probably won't be able to fix because it's not modern society. It's completely alright if someone likes and prefers another interpretation of Levi's character. I simply enjoy writing him the most when he's flawed and lovely at the same time.

Ugh, sorry for the ramble, I just have a very hard time summarizing ideas.

Love ya <3

[littlesparklight]

What do you think is Helens most important moment in the Iliad, characterisation wise?

Hmm!

I think it'd be her scene with Aphrodite, if it's possible to pick out a single one at all. It's got a little bit of everything, with the additional bonus of this being in front of someone Helen has no reason not to be honest/mask off with.

She pays for that, yes, but that's part of my reason to pick this scene; Helen still lashes out. This is Helen in the (end of the?) ninth year of the war, and this is Helen still full of fight (she is with Paris, too, which is a similar honesty to the one in Aphrodite's scene).

We've got; "and stirred Helen's heart in her breast;" I'm borrowing Murray's translation (on Perseus.tuft) instead of Butler's or Caroline Alexander's, because both of those insert "anger" in Helen's reaction. I am fully convinced by Kirk's argument in his commentary on the Iliad that it's not about anger; the phrase is formular, as he says, and everywhere else where it appears in full it merely incites the individual to action.

So, Helen and her [unspecified] reaction to Aphrodite's description of Paris, which is meant to be, as Helen herself says, to be "seductive". Allegory has this scene be Helen fighting against her own desires, with the desires winning. I don't like leaning into allegory so much as to remove the gods, but given Helen's initial reaction quoted up there, I feel what we have is a display of Helen's conflicted desire. She doesn't like Paris much any more, but he is still attractive to her and she wants him. (And in the end, desire wins, even if she's ashamed of that.)

"since now Menelaos has vanquished godlike Alexandros and desires that I, loathsome as I am, be taken home." (Alexander's translation) Everywhere else we see Helen self-blame or express a negative opinion of herself, it's in front of people where, even if she absolutely is earnest and honest about that self-blame, it gives her some sort of social capital; pity, sympathy, and ultimately Priam and Hektor's [continued] protection/friendship. With Aphrodite, however, there's no such advantage. Aphrodite has no reason to care - in fact, Helen debasing herself like this in front of her could probably even be counter-productive.

So, since I in general do view her self-blame and related emotions as genuine, this, to me, is the absolute proof of that. It's also a connection to her active language about how she left Sparta elsewhere (she uses "I went/walked/left/sailed"). She did something, acted, and she [now/since a while back/etc] considers that a fault of hers and something she did wrong. Another thread on Helen's past (and continued) desire for Paris.

(Also, peep the "godlike Alexandros" there - Menelaos uses this once of Paris as well when he talks about him. It's generic "godlike"; in Book 24 she uses theoeides, which focuses more on his looks specifically.)

"As for me, I will not go there - it would be shameful - to share the bed of that man. The Trojan women will all blame me afterwards;" (Alexander again) I've read an article (pretty sure it was Nancy Worman's Body As Argument), that suggests that this is a matter of "it would be shameful NOW", because this conversation is happening after Paris and Menelaos' duel, in which Menelaos (technically) won, and thus Helen (technically) now "belongs" to Menelaos again, and thus it would be shameful for her to once again go into the bed of someone not her husband. I like that interpretation, and have adopted it, but the point of this quote is the fact that Helen cares about how she's viewed.

She is so very (self-) conscious of how society, and in particular the women around her, view her. She goes to the wall, but veiled and with two attendant slave women; she here, now that Paris lost the duel, acknowledges that in this instance it would be shameful to frivolously go back - others will judge her. (Whether they actually would for this specific instance or not matters less.)

But again, for this quote and in general for this scene (as well as later, when her and Paris' scene ends; the epics can easily tell us about someone's willingness or lack of thereof, but there is no actual comment about that); Worman points out that at no point does Helen actually say she doesn't want Paris/doesn't want to go back.

It is "I will not [go back/sleep with him (now)]", which of course say something about her feelings, but which in particular? We have many options. Helen's desire/want is woven throughout this and can be separated from, maybe even contrasted against, what she feels she ought to do.

And then, in the end, Helen is cowed into going back, because Aphrodite gets angry. But is that anger because of Helen's refusal to go, or Helen's bold "you go and take care of him as a mortal woman might, until he makes you his wife or his slave"? This is such a massively insulting thing to say to a goddess, and the showcase of Helen's temper and spine is honestly breathtaking.

Helen is no meek thing. Not even in front of a goddess.

(Even if it's perfectly possible Helen is well aware of Aphrodite's favour/fondness of her, and therefore knows she can risk to lash out in this way and "merely" get threatened, not actually punished.) Helen claims as much agency and self-control/power as she can, even against herself and an actual goddess.

[cuddlytogas]

there was some Twitter madness recently where someone left a comment on someone's art to the effect of, "Ed shouldn't wear a dress, he's a man!" which I do disagree with on principle, but unfortunately, it brought out one of my least favourite trends in the fandom

so, naturally, I had to write a twitter essay about it. and I already largely argued this in a post here, but the thread is clearer and better structured, so I thought I'd cross-post for those not on the Hellsite (derogatory). edited for formatting/structure's sake, since I no longer have to keep to tweet lengths, and incorporating a couple of points other people brought up in the replies

so

I want to point out that the wedding cake toppers in OFMD s2 aren't evidence that Ed wants to wear dresses. Gender is fake, men can wear skirts, play with these dolls how you like, but it's not canon, and that scene especially Doesn't Mean That.

People cite it often: 'He put himself in a dress by painting the bride as himself! It's what he wants!' But that fundamentally misunderstands the scene, and the series' framing of weddings as a whole. I'd argue that Ed paints the figure not from desire, but from self-hatred; it's not what he wants, but what he thinks he should, and has failed to, be.

(Yes, I am slightly biased by my rampant anti-marriage opinions, but bear with me here, because it is relevant to the interpretation of the scene, and season two as a whole.)

The show is not subtle. It keeps telling us that the institution of marriage is a prison that suffocates everyone involved. Ed's parents' cycle of abuse is passed to their son in both the violence he witnesses then enacts on his father, and the self-repression his mother teaches, despite her good intentions ("It's not up to us, is it? It's up to God. ... We're just not those kind of people. We never will be."). Stede and Mary are both oppressed by their arranged marriage, with 1x04 blunty titled Discomfort in a Married State. The Barbados widows revel in their freedom ("We're alive. They're dead. Now is your time").

But even without this context, the particular wedding crashed in 2x01 is COMICALLY evil. The scene is introduced with this speech from the priest:

"The natural condition of humanity is base and vile. It is the obligation of people of standing ... to elevate the common human rabble through the sacred transaction of matrimony."

It's upper class, all-white, and religiously sanctioned. "Vile natural conditions" include queerness, sexual freedom, and family structures outside the cisheteropatriarchal capitalist unit. "The obligation of people of standing" invokes ideas like the white man's burden, innate class hierarchy, religious missions, and conversion therapy. Matrimony is presented as both "sacred" (endorsed by the ruling religious body), and a "transaction" (business performed to transfer property and people-as-property, regardless of their desires), a tool of the oppressive society that pirates escape and destroy. That is where the figurines come from.

When Ed, in a drunk, depressive spiral, paints himself onto the bride, he's not yearning for a pretty dress. He's sort of yearning for a wedding, but that's not framed as positive. What he's doing is projecting himself into an 'ideal' image of marriage because he believes that: a) that's what Stede (and everyone) wants; b) he can never live up to that ideal because he's unlovable and broken (brown, queer, lower-class, violent, abused, etc); c) that's why Stede left. He tries to make himself fit into the social ideal by painting himself onto the closest match - long-haired, partner to Stede/groom, but a demure, white woman, a frozen, porcelain miniature - because, if he could just shrink himself down and squeeze into that box, maybe Stede would love him and he'd live happily ever after. But he can't. So he won't.

The fantasy fails: Ed is morose, turns away from the figurines, then tips them into the sea, a lost cause. He knows he won't ever fulfil that bride's role, but he sees that as a failure in himself, not the role. It's not just that "Stede left, so Ed will never have a dream wedding and might as well die." Stede left when Ed was honest and vulnerable, "proving" what his trauma and depression tell him: there's one image of love (of personhood), and he'll never live up to it because he's fundamentally deficient. So he might as well die.

This hit me from my very first viewing. The scene is devastating, because Ed is wrong, and we know it! He doesn't need to change or reduce himself to fit an image and be accepted (as, eg, Izzy demanded). Stede knows and loves him exactly as he is; it's the main thread and theme of season two!

(@/everyonegetcake suggested that Ed's yearning in these scenes includes his broader desire for the vulnerability and safety Stede offered, literalised through unattainable "fine" things like the status of gentleman in s1, or the figurine's blue dress. I'd argue, though, that these scenes don't incorporate this beyond a general knowledge of Ed's character. Ed is always pining for both literal and emotional softness, but the significance of the figurines specifically, to both Ed and the audience, is poisoned by their origin and context: there is no positive fantasy in the bride figure, only Ed's perceived deficiency.

Further, assuming that a desire for vulnerability necessarily corresponds with an explicit desire for femininity, dresses, etc, kind of contradicts the major themes of the show. OFMD asserts that there is nothing wrong with men assuming femininity (through drag, self-care, nurturing, emotional vulnerability, etc), but also that many of these traits are, in fact, genderless, and should be available to men without affecting their perceived or actual masculinity. It thematically invokes the potential for cross-gender expression in Ed's desires, especially through the transgender echoes in his relieved disposal, then comfortable reincorporation, of the Blackbeard leathers/identity. It's a rich, valuable area of analysis and exploration. But it remains a suggestion, not a canon or on-screen trait.)

Importantly, the groom figure doesn't fit Stede, either. Not just in dress: it's stiff and formal, and marriage nearly killed him. He's shabbier now, yes, but also shedding his privilege and property, embracing his queerness, and trying to take responsibility for his community. In a s1 flashback, Stede hesitantly says, "I thought that, when I did marry, it could be for love," but he would never find love in marriage. Not just because he's gay, but because marriage in OFMD is an oppressive, transactional institution that precludes love altogether. All formal marriages in OFMD are loveless.

So, he becomes a pirate, where they reject society altogether and have matelotages instead. Lucius and Pete's "mateys" ceremony is shot and framed not like a wedding, but as an honest, personal bond, willingly conducted in community (in a circle; no presiding authority, procession, or transaction).

That is how Stede and Ed can find love, companionship, and happiness: by rejecting those figurines and their oppressive exchange of property, overseen by a church that enables colonialism and abuse. Ed is loved, and deserves happiness, as he is, no paint or projection required.

ALL OF THIS IS TO SAY: draw Ed in dresses! Write him getting gender euphoria in skirts! Write trans/nb Ed, draw men being feminine! Gender is fake, the show invites exploration, that's what 'transformative works' means! But please, stop citing the cake toppers as evidence it's canon. Stop citing a scene where a depressed Māori man gets drunk and projects himself onto a rich, white, silent bride because he thinks he's innately unlovable and only people like her can find happiness, shortly before deciding to kill himself, as canon evidence it's what he wants.

(Also, please don't come in here with "lmao we're just having fun," I know, I get it. Unfortunately, I'm an academiapilled researchmaxxer, and some of youse need to remember that the word "canon" has meaning. NOW GO HAVE FUN PUTTING THAT MAN IN A PRETTY DRESS!! 💖💖)

[gaysindistress]

I’m having ✨minthara brain rot✨so suffer with me

bg3 masterlist

So hear me out; Minthara doesn’t end up with Tav. In fact, Tav goes off with their first romanced, Gale and they get married. Minthara is upset for obvious reasons but she’s not going to beg Tav to stay with her or anything like that. They’re both adults and she refuses to stoop so low as to damage her dignity like that. This leads to her going to the underdark alone and doing a bunch of badass shit (we’ll get there).

The epilogue comes and goes but that’s not where we pick up.

Our story starts about 5 years after that. Tav is being asked to do some adventurer shit that requires them to go to the Underdark. Something about Spawn going missing and Astarion is worried so he asks his friend to help out. Gale isn’t happy about it but he’s not going to stop them either. He and minthara weren’t exactly friendly or even civil most of the time so he’s not thrilled about it. The problem is that Tav refuses to ignore this request and will not say no, leaving Gale in a rather unpleasant position. All he can do is go with Tav and protect them.

Minthara has successfully taken back her family house and is in the process of rebuilding society following the defeat of the Spider-Queen. During all of this, she meets her bride to be, you. Among the many of forlorn travelers and lost souls, a small band of drow find themselves stranded and desperate for a miracle. Your house had been taken during a battle with the Spider-Queen and you have yet to find another house willing to take you in. Minthara comes across your group as her army and her are surveying recent encounters.

A rather foul squelching sound, that of a blade through flesh, rings through the air as Minthara leads her people into the ruins of House Lelith. As she approaches what may have been a a once elegant home, she hears small grunts and huffs coming from just beyond the archway. She sends three soldiers forward in efforts to flank whoever may be inside before taking up the back.

“If you’ve come to finish us off, speak now and I shall grant you the mercy of a quick death,” a soft yet powerful voice murmurs from her left. A sting and a trail of warm blood seeping from it brings shock and mild surprise but nothing is able to shake Minthara to her core as the sight of you.

She spares the briefest of glances towards you and is completely ill prepared for the pandemonium that washes over her.

“Speak before I split your tongue and cleave your heart,” you demand once more and press the blade more so into her neck. She makes no show that it causes her pain aside from the slight flinch of her skin.

“I hold no loyalty to that viper of a queen if that is what you’re asking,” she casually replies while her heart beats wildly. Your armor is in disrepair; bloodied, torn, and hanging together by haphazard threads but you still wear it with pride. The rest of you is a similar state with your hair unbound and wild while spotted with viscera but your beauty is unmatched.

“If not for her, then who?”

“Do you truly not know who i am?”

She can feel your eyes narrow and scrutinize her before you remove your blade and place it in its sheath.

“Minthara of House Baenre of Menzoberranzan,” you state as you prowl around her and stop only when you’re merely inches away, “A former follower of the Absolute and Oathbreaker.”

Her nose flares at your last words, causing you to chuckle as you cross your arms and lean against the archway. “Touch a nerve did I?”

“Are you one of her little spiderlings?” she instead asks, too overcome by you to engage in any form of clever conversation.

“I should think my declaration to sever your head from your body would answer that question, my lady. Or did the tadpole eat away at your brain more than we’ve been led to believe?”

Her small smirk is what captured you and from that day on, you’ve been nearly inseparable. Your romance appeared to be a complete myth as few ever saw you interact outside of political encounters. Those close to you, however, see the small well times glances, the softest of smiles, and the secret touches between the two of you. Minthara may not be outright in her love and devotion for you but she shows it in her fierce desire to protect you. Never out of sight of you, Minthara is always aware of where you are and who is near you. It is rare that she is even out of reach of you but alas duty calls and this is not possible.

In your private quarters, it is an entirely different matter. Her head is forever resting on your shoulder or in your lap as she basks in your warmth and affection. Many nights you take on the task of doing her hair. She lounges in the bath as you gently work through whatever knots and tangles hide in her moon pale strands. By the fire, she’ll rest her head against your knee as she sits between your legs and you brush out her wet hair. Her eyes flutter closed at the care you take to not pull or tug on her scalp. Quiet moans slip out when you graze her ears and when you chuckle at them, she groans out a weak demand to be silent.

“It is you who cannot be silent, my fearsome beloved.”

She’s told you of Tav but to be truthful it is too caught up in the trauma that she suffered under Orin and the Absolute. Thinking of Tav is often too difficult to manage and with you, there is no need to dredge up old wounds as such. That’s not to say you’re unprepared for meeting Tav but let’s be honest with ourselves, anyone would be unprepared to meet the Hero of Baldurs Gate. Everything is a whirl wind upon their arrival with Astarion making his presence well known, Gale and Wyll discussing whatever it is they talk about it, Karlach and Halsin playful daring each other to lift heavy objects. All the while Shadowheart and Tav are quickly discussing something with Minthara and occasionally asking for Astarion’s input. You are standing just beside the door, waiting for your intended and leader to give a command.

Tav makes a comment about the sheer number of people in the room and not so subtly requests the room to be cleared. Minthara glances around and with a slight nod her people file out, leaving the heroic adventure party and yourself. Tav throws a confused look your way as do the others but Minthara ignores it to lead them to the map of the Underdark she has displayed.

Nearly 10 minutes pass before Tav outright asks about your presence and once more requests that you leave. Ever the observers, Shadowheart and Astarion are quick to notice something is different about you. You are not merely a soldier, a trusted advisor even. Much like the first time you met, you’re causally leaning against a pillar with your arms crossed over armor that’s identical to Minthara’s. They share a look of an epiphany before attempting to quiet Tav however their efforts are futile.

As soon as Tav asks who you are and why you’re still here, you take your opportunity to humble the leader.

“Who I am is none of your concern. we are not on the surface where you can demand things because you simply think you are owed them. You’d do well to remember that you are in the Underdark. This is not your domain and thus have no semblance of authority here. All you’re entitled to know is that Minthara, my lady and my leader, trusts me.”

Tav looks absolutely stunned to hear you speak so directly and curtly but it is Minthara who has the most shocking reaction. She calls to you drow, beckoning you closer because you’re too far from her as is and she may or may not be feeling the urge to ravish you in front of everyone. Minthara may not be one for displays of affection but her not correcting you makes it very clear that you are the single most important person to her and she values you above all else.

Tav be damned.

[stellar-skyy]

ADORNED NIGHT — Platonic Kazuha, Tomo & reader.

i. SUMMARY: You had two childhood friends; Kazuha and Tomo. Now, it's just you. ii. CONTENT WARNINGS: Inazuma Archon quest spoilers, character death, grief. iii. NOTES: Platonic, angst, childhood friends!Kazuha and Tomo, gn!reader, 1.5k words. iv. A/N: This is one of the first things I've written and has been sitting completed in my drafts for SO LONG because I didn't like how it turned out, but I can't keep re-editing it. Enjoy!

It’s easy making friends when you’re a kid. Your parents are close to other parents, and you eventually get shoved towards their kids to give you something to do. For you, that came in the form of Kaedehara Kazuha.

He was a quiet child. The kind who would cry when flowers got trampled, or bugs skittered away from his hands. But he was an easy, comfortable presence, and one that found its place by your side.

It was inevitable that you made friends with Tomo after that, with him and Kazuha practically attached at the hip, and it didn’t take long for him to declare you both his best friends.

Whether it be playing adventures in the forest, hide-and-seek around Kazuha’s estate, or just wandering the city of Inazuma, the three of you were scarcely seen without one or both others by your sides.

And you couldn’t be happier.

“Kazu, come on!” You called out after the boy trailing behind.

“Just give me… a minute,” Kazuha murmured. He continued to crouch on the edge of the river, poking at the ground with a stick.

“Are you still frog-hunting?” Tomo asked with amusement in his voice. Kazuha shook his head.

“No, I found something better,” Kazuha suddenly dove forward, scooping something up in his hands. He looked up triumphantly, holding up the animal in his hands, a large purple beetle that wriggled and crawled over his palms.

“An onikabuto!”

“Let me see!” Tomo demanded, leaning over his shoulder. The creature turned around, settling neatly in Kazuha’s hands. “That’s so cool! I wonder if I can catch one too.”

“It is cool,” You admit. “But we should hurry. We don’t have many hours of daylight left.”

Tomo gasps, looking up at the sky. “You are absolutely right. Hurry up, Kazuha! Adventure awaits us!”

“Okay, okay.” Kazuha chuckled, before letting the little onikabuto go. You held your hand forward to help him up, and he grasped it gratefully.

“Onwards!” Tomo announced, marching ahead through to the forest. His voice grew quieter as he strode further through the trees, almost out of your sight.

“We’d better go on before he gets himself lost.” Kazuha said, brushing the dirt off his clothes.

You held out your hand, and Kazuha took it in his.  

You were always told that friends don’t last forever, that these innocent childhood memories would make way for new ones. But the three of you didn’t grow apart; you grew together, like flowers that bloomed within the same patch of dirt. It was hard to imagine a life without them—the two constants in your life.

Tomo began to get bolder in his words. What started as child prone to disobedience quickly turned into a fiercely loyal man who was willing to die for his ideals. He spoke openly in criticism against whatever he found fault in (which just so happened to be the Shogunate), picking apart the frayed edges of their society until it was little more than lose thread in his hands.

But while Tomo grew louder, Kazuha grew quieter. He didn’t cry anymore; his emotions began to smooth themselves out into a perfect balance of calmness. He leaned into his love of poetry, and his already flowery vocabulary became nothing short of lyrical.

Things were changing. You didn’t mind though, because you knew that you would change together.

“Have you heard?” The whispers say. They seem to come from every direction, from the Shogun’s guards stationed around Inazuma, to the lips of shopkeepers hidden behind their hands. “They say he challenged the Shogun herself to a duel!”

“Can you imagine?” The whispers answer. Their voices grate on your ears and send shivers down your spine. Something was wrong, that much you knew for certain.

“It’s such a shame. He was such a lovely boy, too.”

You feel a spike of sympathy for whoever they were talking about. Everyone in Inazuma knew that the moment someone challenges the Shogun, their fate is already bound. It was no wonder they were speaking of him as though he was already gone.

“I feel bad for those friends of his. What will they do without him?”

Did he have friends he was close to, as well?

“Is that… them?”

Something was… most definitely wrong. As you walk across the street, you feel eyes piercing the back of your skull, like the entire city was looking at you. Your steps grow faster, trying to outrun the sounds of their voices. If only Tomo hadn’t left his house early this morning, then there would be no need to go searching for him.

“Do you see…”

“I wonder…”

“Has anyone told…”

“(Name)?” You look up at the sound of your name, to see the shopkeeper from Tsukumomono Groceries staring at you with unhidden shock. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you going to the Tenshukaku?”

“The Tenshukaku? Why?”

“Um… the duel?”

“Why would I want to watch that?” You say with disgust in your tone. “I don’t want to watch some random person’s execution.”

“I—I figured the circumstances were different.” She looked deeply uncomfortable, eyes darting between the crowds of people. “I mean… considering who it is.”

“Who it is? Do I know them?”

“You don’t know,” The shopkeeper reels back, like she had been slapped. Her nervous expression fell away to look horrified at the implication. “No one told you—you don’t know.”

Something was wrong.

A sick, twisted feeling appears in your stomach. “Who is it?”

“I—”

“Tell me!” Your voice cracks in the middle of your words, until there were tears pricking the corner of your eyes. You couldn’t imagine why; it wasn’t as if it’s—

“Tomo,” She whispers. “It’s Tomo.”

In one night, you lost both of the people you loved.

One was dead. The other vanished without a trace.

You tried to get on as normal—or as normal as you could—but everywhere was a reminder of what you had lost. The memories were scattered across Inazuma, waiting for the moment they slipped your mind to bring you reeling back into the past.

Autumn leaves fell, surrounding your head like a halo. A white cat lingered around the Tenshukaku, waiting for its owner. Signs were pinned on the noticeboards, conversations penned from hands that were unable to continue them.

There were so many relics of the past that you could almost pretend it wasn’t true; that if you waited in your old meeting spot, the two of them would appear and greet you with open arms.

You could imagine Tomo, with his wide grins and bold words, loudly explaining the true meaning of eternity while strangers gave him odd looks.

You could imagine Kazuha quietly beside you, shoulders barely touching, silence only broken by the occasional haiku he had composed in his mind.

You could imagine them both, walking in step with you as you did your daily errands, warding away the crushing loneliness that threatened to destroy you.

Everyone met you with pity, even those who would get annoyed with your antics as children. They offered nothing but condolences for Tomo, and well-wishes for Kazuha. Some offered an ear to listen to your troubles, but you politely decline.

(It wasn’t as if they would ever understand how it felt to lose two thirds of your life.)

The constant eyes were tiring, so the beach became your safe haven. It was free from people, aside from the occasional couple looking to sneak off, or soldier patrolling the perimeter.

Kazuha always loved this spot. It was, in his words, a paradise of solitude, where nature could sit down and breathe.

Tomo wasn’t too fond of it, complaining about the uneven rocks and sand getting all in his clothes. Still, he would linger there with you both, watching the sky until the sun slipped out of your vision.

When the moonlight hits the water, you can lean back with closed eyes and almost hear Kazuha musing various verses about the way the light reflects the sky, while Tomo chuckles beside you, and it almost feels like nothing changed.

That's the funny thing about loss; it isn't made up of absence. You can still feel their presence as lucidly as you used to, it has just shifted from something tangible into something limited in the confines of your mind, and the fleeting moments of joy before you realize they're not there.

And as long as the sound of their laughter still lingers in the back of your mind, maybe you can forget that they're gone.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[porphyriosao3]

Day 27 - Ancestor

Bilbo smiled across the couch at Thorin. The hobbit was lying down, his feet scandalously propped in Thorin's lap, and the magic of powerful dwarven hands was once again making itself known. "Oh that feels so nice," he sighed. They had been speaking of dwarven history over dinner, so he fought to remember the thread of what they were talking about before he was completely distracted by firm fingers pressing into his soles. "I've heard you speak of your ancestors being forced out of Mo... Khazad... Khazad-dim?" He tried.

"Dûm," Thorin corrected his pronunciation with a shy grin. "Yes." He paused, face falling a bit. "Though perhaps call it Moria with strange dwarves. They might sneer, but it won't risk offence at an outsider knowing even that much of our language." A gusty sigh accompanied this, making Bilbo arch an eyebrow. "Some of our kin are quite ridiculous, in case you hadn't noticed yet."

"I... might have done," Bilbo admitted with a wicked grin. "There doesn't seem to be much indecision in dwarf society... no matter how ridiculous the conclusion might have been." Thorin snorted, ducking his head to hide a grin.

"But enough of that," the dwarf said, beginning to card his fingertips through the hair atop Bilbo's feet in an utterly inappropriate manner. As usual with inappropriate things, it felt amazing. "Tell me of your ancestors. Have your people always lived in the Shire, there in western Eriador?"

"No," Bilbo admitted after an involuntary groan. "No we haven't." He stopped and winced as Thorin found a tangle, then sighed again when the stroking resumed. "We came from... oh, that's lovely... from somewhere else, though nobody remembers where and we weren't exactly literate at the time, I'm sad to say," he murmured. "Our oldest stories tell of a land between a river and a forest that went on forever, but whether that was real or not, who can say at this point. The Time of Troubles started. Of course, we have no way of knowing what that was, whether it was a drought or a flood or a war or what, but the three clans of the hobbits all passed west over the mountains - presumably the Misty Mountains - and settled there at the invitation of the Great King in the North. We've been there ever since."

"How long ago was this?" Thorin asked, brows raised. "Your ancestors may well have known, or at least met, my own."

"Long ago," Bilbo said with a grin. "Almost one thousand, four hundred years ago." Thorin whooped with laughter, making the hobbit eye him. "What's so funny?"

"Long ago?" Thorin choked out, still laughing. "Bilbo, the fall of Khazad-Dûm was only a thousand years ago, more or less," he replied. "That's modern history, as far as any dwarf is concerned."

"Well pardon me very much, Lord Forever-Memory," Bilbo grumped. Despite himself, he couldn't be but so angry with someone making his feet feel like that, though. "It's a far off long time to us hobbits."

"What it tells me is this," Thorin said more soberly. "Both of our peoples lost their ancestral home at roughly the same time. Both of them have prospered in their new homes, as well. I am glad that you found a good place to settle, Bilbo Baggins of the Hobbits," he whispered, pressing - oh Green Lady - pressing a kiss to Bilbo's toes. "You are precious to me, and all that you are kin to is precious as well." There wasn't much to be said in response to that but a kiss, so Bilbo made it happen, and the rest of the night was spent exchanging similar pleasantries.

[stayxlix]

off the deep end.

~series masterlist~

series pairing: rebel!felix x reader (f)

series rating: 18+ **minors do not interact**

genre: post-apocalypse/dystopian au, enemies to lovers, angst, romance, smut, suggestive content

series warnings: dark and mature themes, violence, blood and injury, death, weapon use (knives, gunfire, etc.), fighting, oppressive government, mentions of starvation/hunger, language, angst, smut (consensual, unprotected intercourse), suggestive content, chapter specific warnings will be used for those not mentioned in this list

Summary: Kept hidden for your entire life as the daughter of the most powerful man in a broken society, you had always known the world outside to be a certain way..until you found out that it wasn't anything at all like what you had been told. Chance encounters with a mysterious stranger and his band of rebels drags you into a fight to change it all. With your world suddenly turned upside down and unable to ignore your growing feelings, all you can do now is try to keep the one you love most alive. But when he just so happens to be the enemy, will you be able to trust him to the same?

~chapter list~

~(pt.1) the sun and his moon~ “maybe we were too much like the sun and the moon. deeply in love but too different to exist side by side.”

~(pt.2) the price of fate~ "being the mirror to someone's soul comes with a cost. every choice made when your fate is intertwined with another's comes at a cost."

~(pt.3) the promise of something more~ "if a star fell from the sky you might be tempted to pick it up. just remember that if you do, you'll have to give it back someday, and it will be the hardest thing you'll ever have to do."

~(pt.4) the eighth~ "you will come across many soulmates in your current lifetime. but that does not mean you will get to keep them."

~(pt.5) the weight of the world~ "time is a merciless force, more precious than anything tangible in this world. because no matter what you do once it is gone, you will never be able to win it back."

~(pt.6) the echoes of loss~ "things are sweeter after they have been lost. when I finally grasped what I'd so desperately yearned for, it was turned to dust in my hands."

~(pt.7) the last nail in a shared coffin~ "fear and love are like interwoven threads—immutable and bound together by celestial forces."