#words and phrases for talking about ambition

[mylinguaacademy]

Vocabulary for Talking about Ambition

Vocabulary for Talking about Ambition Hello English learners. Welcome to a new lesson. In today’s lesson, we will look at some essential vocabulary for talking about ambition. Achievement Aspiration Determination Drive Goal Motivation Perseverance Success Vision Achieve your goals Climb the ladder Follow your passion Never give up Overcome obstacles Pursue your dreams Reach for the stars Set…

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4 Great Motives for Writing by George Orwell

George Orwell:

From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books. Putting aside the need to earn a living, I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are:

(i) Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful business men – in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they abandon individual ambition – in many cases, indeed, they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all – and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.

(ii) Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.

(iii) Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.

(iv) Political purpose – using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other people’s idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.

It can be seen how these various impulses must war against one another, and how they must fluctuate from person to person and from time to time. By nature – taking your ‘nature’ to be the state you have attained when you are first adult – I am a person in whom the first three motives would outweigh the fourth. In a peaceful age I might have written ornate or merely descriptive books, and might have remained almost unaware of my political loyalties.

Looking back through the last page or two, I see that I have made it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly public-spirited. I don’t want to leave that as the final impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist or understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.

Published in Gangrel, No. 4, Summer 1946

More: George Orwell

[ohforficsake]

Talk Refined

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Summary: Orpheus and Eurydice. A Blacksmith and a Warrior. A Lawyer and the Lady He Meets at a Bar. Two souls fated to find each other across lifetimes. Here are just a few of those stories.

Pairing: Ezra x f!Reader. Reader is able-bodied and takes many forms. Described as having hair that can be pinned back in one instance, generally open description in others.

This is my submission for @wannab-urs Hozier Drabble Challenge! My character was Ezra, and my prompt was "Talk" off of Wasteland, Baby!. This was such a fun challenge, thank you so much for organizing it, Gin!

Word Count: ~5.8K (I blew past drabble, I'm so sorry)

Rating: Explicit 18+ / brief fingering / brief handjob / unprotected piv / language / main character death / Minors DNI

A/N: This was so incredibly fun to write and I actually had a huge smile on my face when I finished it that I'm pretty sure is still there. I'm incredibly happy with how this turned out. I've never written for Ezra before, so this was a really interesting exercise in finding the voice of a character that I found quite challenging to get to the heart of. Ezra folks, I really hope I did your boy justice.

Notes on literary references and the source of Orpheus' speech (not written by me) included at the end.

I'm also kind of just launching this super hot off the press, so please forgive any typos you may find and definitely message me about them once you're done reading.

Massive thank you to @beskarandblasters for the beautiful cover art for this story! 💚 Go hit Kel up if you're looking for a lovely header for your work!

Dividers by @cafekitsune!

Part I: The Darkness of the Night

He’s called Orpheus in this lifetime. Blessed with his mother’s tongue. 

No way of knowing he forever will be.  

A twist of phrase. A glint in the eye. 

A white patch at his hairline is the only mark of his father. As if licked there by the rays of Apollo’s creation.

And he is his mother’s boy, plucking at lyre strings and humming low, branches bending to his ambit as he harmonizes with the rush of Zephyrus’ wings through tall grasses.

But you are a rich distraction indeed.

A distraction perhaps of the West Wind’s own making, for the god has always been a soft touch. 

The breeze toys with your chiton as you drift in and out of dreams. 

Molding gossamer to your form.

A promise of something just for him.

Orpheus reaches to run his knuckles down your arm, awaiting your stirring before he takes fingers over your shoulder, up to cup your cheek.

You turn to press against the warmth of his hand. The pad of his thumb softly skimming your bottom lip.

It sends sparks racing across your skin.

He hums a laugh and fits closer to you, warmer now than the midday sun. You slant your eyes up at him, greeted with a smile before he bends to press a long kiss to your mouth.

His lyre is discarded in the grass now, wildflowers poking up through its strings.

The hand on your cheek moves to pull at his red linen handkerchief around your neck. Tied there in the morn to guard the late-hour transgressions of his lips from judgmental stares. 

Again revealed to him now.

He tucks the cloth into his zoster before his fingers dip under the gauze of your robes, cupping one breast before his lips replace fabric.

“The dryads, my darling,” you whisper a warning into the heated hollow of his mouth.

“Fret not, my love,” he chides with a whisper.

And you whimper a wanton, insincere protest as his hand adjusts to move lower still, nimble fingers inching your hemline up until your thighs are bared to him.

“Surely such creatures would sympathize. Look favorably on newlywed dalliance.”

“For they understand pleasures such as these,” he murmurs as his fingers slip over your core.

"The nymphs haven’t our flesh," you gasp against his curls as he bends to nip at the lush of your breast.

"They have our desires."

"The nymphs know fertile things in ways we never shall, my darling Eurydice," ghosts hot against your skin. 

"And surely they know what comes of something flush with want."

The press of his length against you causes your hips to tilt into his hand as your languid knees fall open.

"To deny that nature is to deny the nymphs themselves, little dove."

He tips his face to brush petal-soft lips against your frantic pulse as he shifts over you.

"For you see, they don’t care."

And the breach of him causes your back to arch, nails digging into the corded muscle of his arms.

You bend enough for your eyes to land on the grove of oak trees.

Unsure if begging forgiveness. 

Or reveling in their jealousy.

But there are other eyes on you this day. Watching the deft way your husband wrings pleasure from your form. 

The way he rolls you over on a bed of meadowsweet to press deeper still.

Holding your body to his as he pulls music from your throat.

Other eyes, indiscreet in their desire and relentless in their pursuit.

Other eyes that lead to your journey across the Styx.

Lead to Orpheus’ torment.

They say there are ways to speak with the dead.

But words will not pacify the poet when the possibility exists to feel you beneath him again.

A body that writhes under his own. Skin soft against the way his burns.

The way you welcome the thick weight of him.

All of him.

Into the warm clutch of your wet cunt.

And Orpheus, driven by his desire and blessed with his mother’s gift, marches boldly into the depths of grief.

“You powers divine of the subterranean kingdom, where all of mortal creation must one day sink to our doom, if you will give me permission to tell you the truth unvarnished by shifty pretenses…”

“I’d hoped to be able to bear my loss and confess that I tried.”

And the dance of his fingers over gut string pricks the ears of the damned as he gives verse to his flesh’s torment.

“In the name of these confines of fear, in the name of this vast abyss and your realm of infinite silence, I, Orpheus, implore you, unravel the web of my dear Eurydice’s early passing.”

A prayer for relief.

“This is the place that we all are bound for, our final dwelling, and yours is the longest reign that the human race must endure.”

Through vulpine teeth.

“Eurydice too, when her due of years has been ripely completed, shall own your sway. Till then, I beg you to let me enjoy her.”

And it moves the hound to cease its lashing. 

Moves the one eternally punished to rest upon his stone. 

Moves the dead of Winter to cave to the tender brush of Spring’s hand.

And you are called forth by a voice between what should be your ears. 

And Orpheus begins to move.

Daring to hope for your sweet clutch again as your footsteps grow louder against stone.

As you take the form he knows, more corporeal with every footfall.

The tenderness in your ankle made manifest with flesh.

And his cock throbs with the thought of you.

His wife.

His muse.

But there’s a pause in the lilting cadence of your step.

Where you’ve stopped to grab for the fallen handkerchief that slipped from his belt.

And the panic flooding his breast moves him against all hope.

And he turns.

And you reach for him.

Before disappearing for the final time.

With forgiveness swimming in your eyes.

Part II: Pilgrim, Stranger, Wanderer

He’s called Doran in this lifetime.

A name you learn upon ducking into the blacksmith’s workshop with another man’s name on your lips. 

“Callum!” You call, greeted instead by a shock of white hair where blonde should be.

Round brown eyes where you expected green.

“Apologies,” you offer, “I am looking for the smith.”

“Callum was called away to his family in the north country.”

His answering voice like honey just starting to crystalize. 

“I’m called Doran,” he bends his head in customary greeting.

And you note the broad spread of his hand against his chest.

“I apprenticed under Callum, in what feels like a lifetime ago now, I admit.” He offers a small smirk. “He asked that I mind the forge in his absence.”

And you give him your name but not your full belief in this story.

“May I help you with something, dove?”  

You straighten against the rake of his eyes. “My horse requires particular shoes. She is of a larger breed and nothing standard will suit.”

And you turn your back to him leading the way outside.

Doran whistles low at the sight of your mare, a sturdy Friesian glossed blue in the morning sun.

“She is a stunning creature,” he purrs, gently taking his fingers over her strong neck.

Pausing to thumb the iris stamped into the leather of her bridle.

“She’s no delicate thing,” you watch as he circles the horse. “Her grandsire was a draft who pulled the High King’s carriage.”

He fits one massive hoof between his knees, gently brushing away the feathers at her ankle before she starts fighting his touch. 

He adjusts her gently, inspecting her irons before she protests in earnest.

“It’s apparent,” he says, quickly dropping the horse’s foot and jumping aside before she stamps and shakes her head, “that her blood runs hot.”

“She does not favor the touch of men,” you answer, soothing a hand over her hindquarters. “I should have forewarned you.”

“A fair lady is entitled to her opinions when she is that beautiful,” Doran gives her a wide berth.

And takes his eyes over you instead. 

“You are the nobleman’s daughter.” He squints against the sun. “The warrior?” 

“I am.”

“Now,” he pulls a rag from his pocket and rubs at his hands, “I know well the dangers of feminine beauty but a warrioress is altogether new to me. You are not riding into battle soon, I pray?”

“One in my position exists in a constant state of preparation. But there is no rumble of battle on the horizon.” 

His smirk dimples one cheek now.

“I shall have the shoes for your láir within the week. And I shall pray you need not fly away before then, little dove.”

“May I make half the payment now for your services? This was the custom with the old smith.”

“The only payment for my services I can insist upon is merely the chance to sit in your presence a moment longer. Would a fair lady allow a humble blacksmith that much?”

And you see straight through him. Through to the tools on the wall. 

But the broad set of his shoulders under ash-smudged linen. The way he moves, lithe and light on his feet as he dances between his stock of iron bars and his cache of hammers. The bright wideness of his eyes that betray sincerity or something of its kin.

A humble one no. But this one, perhaps.

You drop a pouch of coins onto his anvil. “Where?”

“Meet me here. In the morrow?”

And you tell him “maybe” in the moment as you climb into your saddle.

But you arrive on foot the next morning. 

_____

You meet him three mornings in the week it takes him to forge your mare’s irons. 

On the first day he tells you of his travels through Spain and France. Of scrambling up the masts of the ship that brought him to your shore. 

On the third, he recites The Bard’s work with such nuance that you’re not entirely sure he isn’t the man himself.  

On the fifth day he leads you out to the ruins of an old monastery, up a winding staircase until you’re forced to stand so close on the crumbling parapet that you can feel the heat of him at your back.

Your head spins from something other than the height.

On the seventh day he places four horseshoes, lovingly wrapped in burlap and bound with hemp cord, into the hand he has cradled in his own. 

Warm and worn.

“Can I see you again?” He murmurs, barely a foot between you.

“Is that wise?”

“I have been mistaken for many things, little dove.” He brushes two knuckles over your cheekbone. “Nary a man has included wise among them.”

And you scoff but press into his touch all the same. 

“Forgive me my boldness,” he takes his fingers under your chin, “but I must pose the question.”

“Your mare does not favor the touch of men.”

“But,” he purrs, “do you?”

And your lips form the word “goodnight” but you don’t dare move.

Your eyes flash with a want that does not go neglected. 

“Must you take your leave?” He thumbs your bottom lip.

“I must.”

“But what of my payment,” he hums.

“As I recall you beseeched me pay with my time,” you tilt your head, reveling in the brush of warm breath against your skin, “I dare say I’ve tendered more than my share.”

“And yet I am in debt every time you take your presence from me,” he smirks. “There is something of you, little dove, that I fear has a hold on—”

You steal the words from his lips with your own.

And the unabashed delight dancing over his features when you part makes you kiss him again.

You fling your arm to rest the irons on the first surface you can find, desperate to wind your hands in his hair as his fit to your waist.

He urges your mouth open with the soft slip of his tongue. Humming when you let him inside.

“Little bird,” he pants when he tears his lips from you, forehead thumping hard against yours. “I confess if you stay past this moment I shall not be able to exercise any measure of restraint.”

“Is restraint what you desire?” You angle heavy-lidded eyes up at him. 

“Not in the slightest,” he swallows hard, fist still gripping at your hair. “But you are a gentle lady with a good name, and I—”

“I want you, Doran,” you murmur. “This.”

And his head falls back on his shoulders with a tight, pained hiss.

“I confess I have given in to the fantasy of hearing that fall from this lush mouth many nights since first we met.”

And he expects heat to rise to your cheeks at his admission. But the hand that cradles your neck finds no such warmth.

“Do you know how it works?” He hums low, running his palm down your sleeve to lace thick fingers with yours. “Pleasure?” He brings your knuckles to his lips, eyes glinting in hearthlight. 

And there is sincerity evident in his gaze.

For you are a gentle lady with a good name. 

“Mmm, have you felt this?” He takes your hand, gliding it over the rough wool of his trousers.

To the hard line of his length underneath them. 

Your breath skips.

You are no stranger to amusement of the flesh. But never before have you felt so—much. 

“Feel me, birdie,” he hums, rolling his forehead against yours, “what you do to me. I fear there isn’t any blood left for the rest of me.” He kisses you again. “Only for you. This. Just for you.”

“Your bed, Doran,” you murmur against his mouth.

The hand over yours encircles your wrist and he leads you through to his chambers.

He pulls you tight to his body again, mouths locked as his hands roam your form, unable to settle upon what features his fingers must traverse first. 

You push the braces from his shoulders and he helps you with the buttons of his shirt, your hands skating up the smooth expanse of tanned skin before tugging at your own shirttails.

Your lips find his neck as he unbuttons his trousers. You’ve already stepped out of yours.

“So eager, birdie,” he wraps you in his arms, and your skin burns with his touch. “Surely you’ve seen it with beasts, yes?” He salts your neck with kisses. “It’s quick with them, you see. It doesn’t have to be. Doesn’t have to—”

A moan cuts off his babbling from where you’ve taken him in hand. 

“Although I may yet need to beg your forgiveness,” his hips buck into your hand, “my stamina may yet waiver, upon this first time.”

His tongue slips into your mouth again and finally he finds himself enough to back you up until your thighs meet his bed. 

“It’s been so long. So long, birdie, since I have held a woman.” He leans you back with his body as your hands fly to his hair. “Longer still since I have held one as soft. Supple and pliant as you.” His lips map your collarbone, nose skimming the valley of your breasts as he takes one in hand.

“Never before is a long time indeed.”

He sucks at tender, pebbled skin, drawing an arch in your spine as he shifts to settle between your legs.

“I give you my word that I will indeed take my time with you but I offer a preemptive apology in the instance that I fail upon this first time.” His fingers slip down to toy with your folds, groaning against your ribs at the wetness that he finds there. “Perhaps we are no different than animals indeed.” 

You hear only half of his babbling. 

The static of anticipation under your skin crackles in your ears as your hips tip into his hand. His thumb slides over your clit and you cry out. 

“You see, sometimes a man just needs to bury himself deep.”

He slings your legs over his hips and sits up on his knees, stroking his length with your borrowed wetness as your hands find his thighs.

There’s a dark edge to his voice now. Heavy-lidded eyes locked on the core of you.

“This need. It’s far stronger than I ever will be.”

“Now, Doran, I need—”

He doesn’t make you wait.

And he keeps his word in the moments it matters. Slowly rocking his hips to stretch you open on his cock before your body begs him deeper.

Large palms settle around your waist as he builds in pace, alternating slow with fast. Tenderness with force that drives the bedframe to knock against the wall. When his thumb winds circles against your clit you cry into the night as pleasure rips through you. Greedy lips crash against yours as his weight blankets your reeling form. Fevered moans in his chest thrum through you as he savors the way your walls pulse around him. 

He buries his face against your neck and you feel the bite of his teeth as he snarls, drawing closer and closer to the edge.

He cants his hips just so at the last minute, pulling himself from your heat a moment before his seed streams hot over your thigh.

You soothe a hand over the nape of his neck as his hips spasm with the last of it, wide hand cradling your jaw and tipping your face to his.

Kisses softer now. 

Grateful.

“You are a rare bird indeed,” he murmurs against your ear, lips ghosting over your neck. 

He finds himself enough to rise from bed and kneel on the floor, searching for his handkerchief amongst the tangle of his clothes. 

Yours peeks from the pocket of your trousers, red against brown wool, and you lazily twirl a corner of it around your finger and draw it out.

Doran catches it from your hand, gently cleaning your thigh of his spend before pressing a kiss there. 

“I shall return this to you clean,” he holds it up briefly before craning to press a kiss to your lips. “Don’t trouble a hair on your head with moving, birdie,” he bids you before disappearing to the kitchen.

You trouble the hair on your head all the same as you pull the jostled pins from it, tousling it out of the style your nurse had so meticulously placed it in this morning. 

Doran returns with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He fills them as you prop yourself up on your side and he settles on the floor. One arm slung up on the mattress.

Adoration in his eyes as he tips his glass against yours.

“You didn’t tell me this was not your first time. Although I do find it rather a pleasant surprise,” he rubs a hand over the curve of your waist with lust-hazed eyes.

“I could scarcely utter a word amidst your chatter,” you tease with a grin as you take another sip of your whiskey.

His smile dimples his cheek. 

“Are you—”

For once he hesitates to speak.

“Are you promised to anyone?”

You catch his hand and bring it to your lips, pressing a kiss to his palm before he thumbs your cheekbone.

“None but myself. And my duty.”

He hums in acknowledgment. 

You finger the white patch at his hairline, twirling a clinging curl. 

“Angered a horse as a child and she made it known with her hooves,” he offers. “Frightened the color from that spot, I’m afraid.”

“There’s character in it. I’m quite fond.”

He turns in and rests his chin on the bed, hand back to trailing over your curves. 

“Dove?”

And you frown at the nickname.

“I am nothing so delicate, Doran.”

“A shrike then, perhaps,” he smirks, knuckles ghosting over your stomach. 

And something about it makes your heart preen.

“Has a man ever,” his fingers dip lower over your abdomen, “put his mouth on you?” 

It sends a fresh jolt of pleasure racing up your spine. You turn onto your back without thought, basking in his touch as fingers trail over your mound.

“Right here?” The pads of his middle and ring fingers wind softly against your clit.

“No,” you gasp.

“Then may I have the pleasure of being the first?”

And he is the first in a way that has you wishing for him to be the last. 

The only.

_____

Your handmaid was sympathetic to your cause, having been driven from her own house for true love. They share a small cottage on your father’s land now.

Your mother, though she did not know the intricacies of your continued dalliances with the blacksmith, knew the shift in your demeanor was a man’s doing. And she always was a soft touch for love.

Your father.

Was your mother’s concern. 

And so your nurse covers your footsteps with a tickle in her throat that needs clearing.

Ushers you back into your chambers before morning light with a knowing smile.

“I always thought you would make a pass for the stable hand,” she confesses one day as she pours heated water over your hair. “The blacksmith is a surprise.”

“An unpleasant one?”

“Not in the slightest. He’s handsome.”

You can tell there is more to the sentiment. 

“Yes, and?” You ask with a raised brow.

“Rakish.”

“Perhaps rakish is what I need,” as you rub water from your eyes. 

“No lady with sense needs rakish, my darling girl,” she chides as she rubs soap at your scalp. “But a lady with sense should indulge in it from time to time.” 

This draws a smile across your lips.

“He treats you well?”

“He treats me to pleasure the likes of which I have never known. If I offer this kingdom the breath in my breast every time I leave its gates, the least I may be permitted is the choice of a lover.” 

And so she fixes you bitter tea every morning that you return from your rakish man.

_____

The pair of you take to late night meetings at the old groundskeeper’s shack on your parents’ land. 

Where the splashing of the brook over rocks and the churn of the water wheel stifle the way he makes you cry out in pleasure.

And for one so verbose, he does excel at discretion. Raking ashes from the forge through the patch of white in his hair. Bending shadows around himself as he slips from town and into the forest at the edge of the estate. 

The pair of you carry on for months. Until summer sun yields to the darkening blanket of fall. 

A welcome change that lengthens your stolen hours.

“I’d wager that we were lovers in lives past,” he muses one night, lips pressing kisses against a scar on your shoulder. “You know me, little bird. The very depths of me.”

“Perhaps,” you roll over in a luxuriant stretch, “you are easy to know.”

“The Townsfolk would perhaps beg to differ, my darling.” He rests his hand on your cheek as you curl into him.

“Must you go in the morrow?” He asks softly.

“I’m afraid I must. For it is my duty. To ensure the safety—”

“—of the kingdom,” you both finish.

“In that case, I have made you a gift.” He reaches over your form down to the pocket of his cloak, and produces a small canvas pouch.

He sits up with you, pulling your back to his chest, arms around your middle as he watches you. 

A small silver disk threaded on a chain falls into your palm. An iris stamped into the pendant.

“Doran, it’s beautiful. You made this?”

“It is perhaps more crude than a silversmith’s work,” he helps you fasten it around your neck, “but I wanted you to have something to remember my touch in the absence of it.”

You turn towards him such that he can see you in the firelight. Ash on your jaw from where you held him to your neck, perched atop his hips while he ground deep. 

Silver pendant hanging just above the valley of your breasts. 

“Beautiful,” he smiles, pressing a kiss against your lips, thumbing at the smudge on your chin. “I have always thought there to be something undeniably sensual in the furl of iris petals,” he rumbles, “how fitting for them to be your favorite.”

“Your imagination is swift, Doran.”

“You have not beheld what I have, dearheart,” he pulls you down against the bed linens once more.

Holding you against his heart. 

And he is quiet for a long while, fingers running softly over your stomach, nose buried in your hair.

“What of my safety?” He asks. 

A plea to keep you here. 

“What shall I do?”

“I have no doubt you will find another iris that unfurls for you in the meanwhile,” you hum. Eyes slipping closed. 

“There is only one, my love. I shall wait for your return.”

_____

A grand crowd lines the streets as you and the men of your battalion ride towards the village gates the next morning. Full of cheers and blessings.

And you offer the customary wave and nod.

But your heart hammers against chainmail. 

Eyes darting through the crowd.

Willing a shock of white to appear. 

And as you near the gates he greets you.

Warm brown eyes and a grin of pride. He rushes to push through the crowd as you approach on your mare, eyes never leaving each other. 

You slip one foot from your stirrup and he jams one of his into it and stands, briefly.

Long enough to cup the base of your skull and lay a parting kiss against your lips.

You hurriedly pull your red handkerchief from behind your breastplate, pressing it into his palm as he drops away.

Crushing the cloth to his heart as you slip through the gates. 

And it will yield the ire of your father and the warm, joyous tears of your mother.

But they matter not.

For you do not return home under your own power. 

You return home under a shroud. 

Your nurse slips into the night, treading your path with your necklace in hand.

“She was found with her hand over her heart. And this underneath it.”

And the blacksmith. 

Wrought with grief.

Is never seen again.

Part III: The Helper. The Protector.

He’s called Ezra in this lifetime. 

Brought to this bar by a group of associates keen on celebrating his win in federal court this afternoon. 

And he knows it’s an excuse to drink on the firm’s dime.

He was an associate once too. 

But they helped draft the brief that saved their client $44 million. A few drinks is a small thanks. 

Ezra sticks to the corners, entertaining chatter only when approached. Kindly redirecting the advances of a first year who’s too young to realize flirting with a partner is career suicide.

He’s content tonight to sip his bourbon and observe.

“Okay, but I told you that Bismark case was horseshit and the judge was going to see that!” One associate who is two drinks too deep roars.

“That was so fucking risky, I still can’t believe you put so much weight on that,” another chides.

“Fucking WORKED though!” And the first man spreads his arms wide.

Knocking you into the sip of red wine you were about to take from your seat at the bar. 

“Jesus, fuckin’—” you start before taking a deep breath and glancing down at the patch of deep burgundy beginning to spread on your white blouse. 

Fuck.

“Boys, boys, this lovely lady didn’t consent to hearing your opinions on bullshit 4th Circuit rulings, okay?” Ezra appears, stretching an arm between you and the men. “Let’s be a little more careful, take it to a booth, yeah?”

“Miss, I apologize on their behalf,” he starts and you take another centering breath because you really are not here for some hotshot lawyer’s apologies. This is your spot, and they’re fucking with your Thursday night nightcap.

But the brown eyes you’re met with are wide and sincere.

And something at the very core of you thrums momentarily with something you can’t name. 

“Please, allow me to replace your wine and cover your tab for the night.” He’s already calling the barman over before you can assure him that’s really not necessary because they’ve fucked up your night already and you just want to go home. 

“Could you please arrange a fresh glass of wine for this lovely lady, place her tab on the card I gave you, and may I have a shot glass of white wine. I need the white wine as quickly as you can, please. Thanks very much.”

And you’re still staring at those brown eyes.

Bristling and dumbstruck at the same time. 

“Ezra,” he holds out a hand in belated introduction, and you offer a firm shake and your name in exchange.

“Sorry, a shot glass of white wine?” You quip as the bartender places it in front of Ezra.

He slips a red pocket square from his jacket and dips a corner into the shot glass.

“Apologies, may I?”

And inexplicably you turn in towards him on your bar stool as he dabs at the stain on your shirt. 

Just over your heart. 

“White wine will keep the stain from setting,” he proffers.

You crane your neck to the side, trying to settle your focus on cut glass bottles and not the stranger tending to the fine layer of cotton just above your left breast. 

He’s gentle though. Respectful in a way you perhaps didn’t anticipate. 

He smells of hinoki wood and worn leather.

“Right as rain,” he announces and takes half a step back before offering you the handkerchief. “If you want to hold that there to blot some of the excess.”

“Um, yeah, thank you. Thanks,” you hold the cloth over your heart as the bartender returns with your fresh glass of wine. 

Ezra settles on the barstool next to you.

“How…did you know that?” 

“About the wine?” He swallows a sip of bourbon. “Must’ve read it at some point and it just stuck.”

“Seems you’re a good man to have around in a crisis then,” you smile and tip your glass in his direction. He gently touches the side of his against it, before tapping the heavy base against the bar and taking another sip. 

Everything he does is briefly fascinating. 

“I apologize again for these kids,” he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing a business card which he slides over to you face-down. “You should be all good with that,” he gestures at the handkerchief, “but I insist on you sending me the dry cleaning bill. If I’ve recalled incorrectly and it does stain, I will procure a replacement for you, you have my word.”

“That’s really not necessary,” you start and yet find yourself unable to stop, “and I’m not even sure it’s possible this is vintage—”

“Alexander McQueen, I know.”

You turn all the way towards him on your barstool now. 

And his eyes glitter with your fascination as he runs his hand through the patch of white at his hairline.

“What are you reading,” he tips his head to the side as if to glimpse the cover of your book but he doesn’t break your gaze. Cheek dimpled with a half smile. 

“Ovid. Metamorphoses.”

“For fun?” There’s a hint of surprise in his voice but it’s far from belittling. 

“It’s…” you start before a smile splits your face, “yeah. For fun.”

And he echoes your grin.

“I re-read it for fun last year. I think the passage about Orpheus’ death is my favorite.”

“Fascinating,” you swallow a sip of your tempranillo. “Why that one?” 

“Well, I believe it’s a commentary on both the unbridled rage of passion and a testament to the obstinate nature of true love.”

“Obstinate?” You incline your head incredulously. “That’s quite a choice.”

“And yet it holds true, does it not? Orpheus, arguably one of the most talented figures in Greek mythology,” and he’s gesturing broadly now, “able to enchant the very souls of feral beasts and move trees to bend their limbs just to be nearer his music.”

He jabs his finger into the bartop between you, “he moved Hades, both the realm and the deity himself, let’s not forget, correct?”

And you nod, amusement playing across your features. 

“The earth and the underworld fell at his feet. And he shunned it all out of love for Eurydice.”

“And so what moral value do you place on obstinacy?” You ask.

“Obstinacy in love is the only way to experience it. To feel it so completely that you forsake everything else. Defy the world. For love. Fidelity to the wife that you betrayed by turning back.” Brown eyes are wide with his conviction.

He adds, “even Shakespeare said let it be virtuous to be obstinate.”

“Okay, in a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT context!” Your turn to erupt now, with arms thrown in the air where you’re met by his wide smile. “You cannot cherry pick that out of Coriolanus choosing to abandon his family out of sheer stubbornness, and frankly, contempt for his own people, to extol the virtues of love! Let it be virtuous to FORSAKE that love, is the whole point of that line.”

And this is the moment.

That Ezra falls in love.

And you’re not far behind.

Time slips from this point on. Patrons file in and out. More wine and whiskey is poured. Associates drunkenly clap him on the back as they make their way home, but none of it registers.

The world spins around the pair of you.

Until finally the bartender insists that he close his tab. 

And you both step out onto a city street wet with the aftermath of a brief summer downpour. 

“Thank you,” Ezra starts, “for the absolute pleasure of your company.”

He holds a tentative hand out, which you shake with a heartfelt “likewise.”

“Oh, your handkerchief,” you pull it from your pocket and hold it out to him. 

“Keep it.” He smiles. 

And you both spin on your heels. Proceeding in opposite directions.

But the warp and weft of the red cotton square that you keep rubbing between your fingers forces you to stop in your tracks. 

You turn around.

And look back. 

Meeting Ezra’s gaze from where he hasn’t moved a step.

He thumbs the corner of his lips, brown eyes locked on yours.

And you both move. 

Urgent steps pulled by Fates’ string.

Colliding as you throw your arms around his neck and he locks you against him with biceps around your ribs.

Lips crashing together with the relief of a thousand lifetimes. 

Lifetimes that you’ve known each other.

Lifetimes that you’ve lost each other. 

And this lifetime. Having found each other again.

Taglist of folks who may be interested, as always, please do let me know if you'd prefer not to be tagged, or if you'd like to be added!

@morallyinept @iamskyereads @tinytinymenace @for-a-longlongtime @legendary-pink-dot

@oliveksmoked @nerdieforpedro @julesonrecord

Subpart headings are the meaning of Ezra's name in that section.

Orpheus' monologue included herein in italics is quoted from David Raeburn's 2004 translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, published by Penguin Classics. The text of this translation just felt so Ezra that I had to include it in that form. If you'd like to hear it read by Hozier himself, head on over to his instagram circa summer 2020's Poetry Fridays for this and some other wonderful work.

This story references the version of Eurydice's death as precipitated by Aristaeus.

Láir means mare in Irish Gaelic.

"Let it be virtuous to be obstinate" is quoted from Coriolanus by William Shakespeare.

[horoscope1078]

can you do Mason Mount in romance pls?

Mason in romance 💞

-> Mason’s got that quiet confidence about him, the kind that makes you feel secure and loved. He knows who he is and stands by it, which is super attractive, but he’s also soft enough to be caring and considerate when it matters most.

-> Mason would always have your back, no questions asked. He’s the kind of guy who’s reliable and supportive; whether it’s celebrating your wins or helping you through tough times, he’s all in.

-> Mason would be all about mixing things up and keeping the relationship exciting. Random weekend getaways, surprise dates, or even just a goofy dance-off in the kitchen, he knows how to make everyday life feel like an adventure.

-> He’s got his own ambitions and goals, and he’s definitely driven, but he still makes time for you. He’d respect your independence, but make sure you know he’s always there for you when you need him.

-> Mason’s all about keeping things fun and easy-going. He’d know how to make you laugh even when things get a bit stressful, and he’d love just hanging out and enjoying the simple things together.

-> Mason would be all in when it comes to making the relationship work. He’d give his best, always putting in the effort and showing you how much he cares with his actions.

-> Mason’s got that leader quality, but he’s not all business. He’s got the strength to take charge when needed, but still knows how to be gentle and thoughtful with the people he loves, especially you.

-> Mason’s got your back 100%. Whether you’re going through a rough patch or just need someone to talk to, he’s that constant, reliable person who’ll be there through it all. His loyalty is rock solid.

Darker side of romance 😨

-> Mason could sometimes be overly controlling in relationships. He might manipulate situations to get things his way, playing on your emotions to twist things around in his favour. He’d know exactly what to say to make you feel guilty or question your decisions.

-> Him being competitive could take a darker turn in relationships, turning into jealousy and possessiveness. He might get insanely jealous if you spend time with others, constantly keeping tabs on you, questioning where you’ve been or who you’ve been with. His insecurity might make him feel entitled to control who you hang out with.

-> On the darker side of being independent, Mason could completely shut down emotionally when things get tough. Instead of confronting issues, he’d become distant, cold, and unfeeling. You’d feel like you’re always walking on eggshells, not knowing where you stand with him.

-> When things don’t go his way, Mason could lash out. He might have a volatile temper, getting aggressive in arguments and using harsh words that cut deep. In the heat of the moment, he’d be the kind of person who says things he’ll later regret, but the damage would already be done.

-> He might sometimes refuse to admit when he’s wrong. If you try to call him out on his behaviour, he might gaslight you into doubting your own reality. “You’re just being crazy” or “That never happened” would be common phrases, making you second-guess everything.

-> Mason might take on the role of a manipulative leader in the relationship, trying to control every aspect of your life. From what you wear to who you talk to, he could impose his will and try to keep you isolated from others, believing that you belong to him. He’d make you feel like you’re not capable of making your own choices without his approval.

[mediacircuspod]

AJ Crowley vs Forgiveness

I need to talk about Crowley for a minute so buckle up or move on.

"It’s not so bad once you get used to it” from Season 1 Episode 1 and an early chapter of the book is something of a throwaway joke. But being damned isn't much of a joke to Crowley, even if he makes jokes to cover it up.

The first thing to understand is that damnation doesn’t end after Crowley either saunters vaguely downwards or is dropped into a burning pile of sulfur(conflicting accounts from the demon himself). Being damned is a continuous state of being AND something that could very well happen to him again. 

He was too ambitious for heaven—too curious. Something that he now knows is distinctly not a heavenly virtue. It’s just that those traits are also not virtues in hell either. And on top of that—he’s good. 

Which in his particular role, is an extremely dangerous thing to be. So he isn’t good, and he isn’t nice and he doesn’t feel trite things like empathy or love. Except that he knows intrinsically that all of that is utter bullshit. And if anyone who isn’t Aziraphale realizes this, he doesn’t really know what falling from hell would be like, but he doesn't want to be the first. 

Another thing to remember is that Crowley doesn’t understand why he was cast out. He understands that it was the questions, that it was his ambition to try and suggest improvements, but he can’t understand why. And the shame of that being yet another question is not lost on him.

The resentment there that has festered for millennia is understandable and expected and HES RIGHT TO FEEL IT. And it’s the reason why he has such a negative reaction to the concept of “forgiveness” but has a relatively amicable relationship with apologies. And I know this is going to sound crazy after nearly 400 words, but this is the actual concept I want to dissect.

Because Aziraphale’s “I forgive you”s of the past have never gotten a good response, but they’ve also never gotten a “don’t bother”. Aziraphale uses that phrase specifically against Crowley when he needs to put distance between them. When he knows that Crowley is right. And Crowley knows that Aziraphale uses that phrase for exactly that purpose because they have being playing their parts for thousands of years. And he’s always been willing to wait in the past. The dance begins with Crowley challenging Aziraphale with something tempting. 

The Great plan is dumb. What if we just left together? You’re being dumb. (I need to link that one Tumblr post that inspired this, just look at this.) Here.

And finally, desperately, This is what you’re giving up. Because Crowley doesn’t actually think it will work. He may hope it does. But he has played his part for long enough to know exactly what Aziraphale’s next line will be. And it still devastates him. And well, it’s his decision to be done waiting for Aziraphale to catch up. Being “too fast” has been his insecurity for too long, and he’s done slowing down just so Aziraphale can try and forgive him. He still doesn’t know why what he is, is wrong. 

(He isn’t)(I mean he certainly makes some unhealthy choices, and he isn’t exactly completely in the right, but he’s NOT wrong.)(Running away together ISNT the right move, but it is the more romantic one so take that as you will.)

The part that makes my brain buzz is that this aversion to forgiveness does not apply to apologies. Specifically it does not apply to the phrase “I was wrong” or "you were right" or the little dance.

This. Is. Interesting.

He doesn’t have a problem with apologizing, and he doesn’t have a problem accepting apologies from Aziraphale if that wonderful scene is to be taken at face value. The fact that the 1941 apology dance wasn’t shown is actually a crime, and you can’t convince me otherwise. And I think this is specifically because he’s not actually averse to forgiveness on the whole. It’s the idea that he needs forgiveness for simply being who he is that actually bothers him. And well. I guess he was tired of Aziraphale pretending that the concept had merit, too. 

For four years he's had the freedom to be exactly who he is without the fear of damnation even if he still has the baggage that went along with the first time it happened to him. And even though Aziraphale doesn't realize it, he's asking Crowley to do something impossible for him. He's asking Crowley to admit that he needs forgiveness, and come back to heaven.

Aziraphale assumes that Crowley would not only want that, but that being with Aziraphale would make it even better. But what the angel has actually done, is give Crowley's deepest insecurity wings. And given him a reason to step away from their millennia long dance.

Because Crowley has finally, finally, finally, found something that he can't give up for Aziraphale. It's extremely poetic that that thing happens to be himself.

And okay now I’m done. I’m gonna go scream into a void.

[rambling-red-wizard]

Wizards: A Controversy

I acknowledge, full well, that I am going to step on some toes with this one. Some of what I'm about to say will definitely rub people the wrong way. Before I begin, I want to say that I agree wholeheartedly that my stance is uncommon, morally questionable, and faithless. I am not here to question your faith, nor your validity, however- only to express how I have coped with my own. I've said before that I self-identify as a wizard. Not a magician/magickian- ceremony isn't my tallest teacup. Not a witch- the line that determines what makes a witch can get shaky when you examine the claims of influential witchcraft figures. Not a sorcerer- my magic isn't inherently malfeasant. Not a druid- I love nature, but I fear the wild. I am a wizard, which to me, means two things: I am really good at knowing things that other people don't bother to learn; and I live in a world where idea and analogy are inherently tied to matter and action. I have a saying: "Wizards are not good con men- con men are just bad wizards." The reason I say this is because I don't believe in magick. I use the Crowleyan spelling here because for as much as I believe that I can affect the world tangentially, through symbolic words, art, and rituals- I know that's a result of interpretation. I am only using magic because that is what I have decided to acknowledge this practice as. And if I can get consistent results in that mindset, I don't need to look at it any deeper than that- most people will see the results and accept, at least, that "The Wizard Did It Somehow". And that's that. The public doesn't care how Granny Fitz makes her famous apple pie, it's still the best damn pie they've ever tasted. We magic-users all talk in a kind of advanced, unspoken-of code, I've found. Aphorism, analogy, and fable all blend to create this rich landscape of phrases that are all too easy to take literally. Running around the forest with friends to restore dopamine becomes 'a moonlit coven ritual.' An anxiety episode or a deep depression that we cannot explain becomes a 'spiritual attack.' Problem solving or brainstorming with a visual aid becomes 'divination.' Therapy is shadow work. Cleaning and airing out our homes is consecration. Doing arts and crafts to deal with a break up is cord-cutting. Stopping to acknowledge our needs for rest and a warm drink is meditation. Our hopes, ambitions, fears, and loves are gods. (Deity work primer post) It never stops. And just in case you're frothing at the mouth with rage that I would dare reduce your spirituality to this- I don't ever want it to. I don't ever think it should. We live through analogies and ideas, and they have re-enchanted our lives, uplifted our mental and physical health, and improved us as people- all because we give enough to ourselves and spaces that we are able to take back from them when we need to, in the form of comfort, and reminders, and something to do with ourselves when we have nothing else. Please know that I am making this post for the little magi, the reluctant wizards, the beautiful curious enchanters- it is so easy to fall prey to pseudoscience and cult behaviors, and equally easy to dismiss this entire thing as a LARP or a farce because "that's not how the world works." Be reasonable, with yourselves and others, I beg you. Let the magical live alongside the mundane, because the 'us and them' is exhausting for everyone involved. It is magic. It is amazing. It is real, valid, useful, moving, empowering, and beautiful. It is not a substitute for the world around you.

Blessings, with love from this long-winded madman.

[shrimpys-log]

Shrimpy's Log 001: Sleep-Talking

✎ Concept/Headcanon ✎ Characters: Azul, Ace, Rook ✎ Gender-neutral

『Mumbling in Your Sleep, but Not the Romanticized Way』

It's not unusual for you to fall asleep in impractical places around campus, such as in the common rooms or the library or during study sessions... which, really, you should be a bit more cautious about, considering you know you talk in your sleep... and judging by your dreams, you don't have anything particularly intelligent to say when unconscious.

When with your favorite person, the moment does have the potential to be cute. Too many times have you been exposed to those cute scenes in various romantic media, wherein a lover confesses their feelings in their sleep, mumbling their truest and most vulnerable words of love without fear of consequence---and unbeknownst to them, their lover is privy to it all.

...if only you were one of those people who had anything remotely romantic to say...

『Azul』

When Azul catches you sleeping, it's not nonsense you're mumbling--then again, it's nothing romantic either. Instead, you're mumbling about something that makes Azul end up loving you even more: plans.

Even when asleep, you're buzzing like a little worker bee, mumbling about due dates, time slots, objectives and priorities. It comes out in short bursts--key words that give him minuscule insights into what you're dreaming about--but he pieces it together soon enough, and it's beyond endearing.

You're truly someone after his own heart, aren't you? All ambitious and organized, even as you sleep. You'd probably forget it all by the time you wake up, but it was adorable to him nonetheless.

As far as priorities go, you're his number one--though of course, number two is chasing success, and he's glad he's found someone who shares that ambition. You two were truly made for each other.

『Ace』

Ace doesn't know what in seven's name you're even saying as you sleep, but that doesn't stop him from taking out his phone and recording a nice, long clip to tease you about later.

He's practically vibrating with excitement as he waits for you to wake up and realize you fell asleep in the middle of a study session. He's smiling at you like you'd given him the best gift in the world, and by the time you finally open your eyes, it almost seems as if you had babbled about how much you loved him in your sleep, with how delighted he is and all.

"What are you, the wizard?!" He cackles, practically rolling on the ground. "I didn't even know what you were saying! It sounded like you were chanting spells! Pfffft--your droning is worse than Trein talking about eras of magical prosperity. What's that one wizard fellow from your world you talk about... uh... jigglypuff? Rumbleroar?"

"Dumbledore?"

"That!" Ace snickers. "We got Dumbledore over here, muttering some expect-a-patrol-bus nonsense. Bahaha!"

You personally thought his complete butchery of your world's pop culture references was more embarrassing than anything you could have mumbled... but whatever. If it meant waking up to see Ace smiling so brightly, it was well worth the embarrassment.

『Rook』

You were slowly picking up some French phrases from hanging around Rook so often, and unbeknownst to you, they were slowly seeping into your spontaneous sleep-talking.

Rook was rarely caught completely off-guard, but he certainly hadn't been anticipating you to burst out with a particularly passionate 'Aujourd'hui!' in the middle of your nap. Aujourd'hui - 'today', of all things to say.

"What about today, mon amour?" He asks with an amused smile, fully aware that you were merely sleep-talking, You go silent after that, and he seems to decide that's the end of it, because he goes back to focusing on whatever he was focusing on before.

Then, you hit him with another curveball.

"Filet mignon." You say, before letting out a soft snoring sound. "Mm... mignon..."

"Tu es trop mignon(ne), ma trésor," Rook coos in response. "Cuter than any filet."

Silence, once more, and then...

"C'est bon!"

He can't help it--he starts laughing.

"I love you more than anything, mon ange," he replies--not loud enough to wake you, of course. He didn't mean to disturb your sleep; he just couldn't contain his affection for you any longer! You may have been the one sleep-talking, but in this scenario, he was the one confessing his love for you (again)--and he would happily repeat the sentiment as many times as you want, once you wake up.

[horizon-verizon]

Hate to use this phrase but media literacy it’s truly dead. People saying Rhaenyra doesn’t care about losing Daemon when Emma delivered Rhaenyra’ sadness over this possibility in a heart wrenching way…

She spent 6 years married to him and had 3 children in those years, to say she didn’t have romantic feelings for him and wasn’t happy with him it’s just deny the obvious. And clearly one of those feelings in succumb into a vulnerable and intimate position with Misarya, the only person who’s saying to her exactly what she needed and wanted to hear, she’s feels she’s losing everyone and Mysaria brings her a feeling that she’s still believed and capable. Rhaenyra sharing that moment with Mysaria doesn’t exclude her conflicted feelings with Daemon, she can love him and resent him at the same time. Right before kissing Misarya, she literally tells her that she and Daemon are “two halves of a whole.”

Wow, I just got off talking about this...

Huh...I didn't watch the episode, but my hunches are shared? Noice.

I think that the disconnect is that Rhaenyra also says she never trusted him, not "truly". Without the Dragonstone-family scenes I have said should have been included and expanded in S1, we can only rely on the picture of happiness and teamwork we got in episodes 7 & 8. And no, even episode 10 has some serious faults with how Rhaenyra calls it "Daemon's war", as if she wasn't the one who enlists him and marries him with the words (paraphrasing) "I cannot stand against the greens alone", knowing exactly what sort of dude this was. Which included knowing he still would always support her, not his own nonexistent ambitions for the throne. There is a diff b/t one's ambitions to become king, and one's willingness to be largely obedient to one's orders or anticipate their desires well, as what I think the writers were trying to convey in that argument but failed utterly and made it more about Daemon wanting the throne for himself. None of this "those who don't want the power are the best leaders" crap...and no, Viserys did not have any points about Daemon's loyalties, the man cut open his own wife and he decided he should question Daemon's loyalties?! Ha! When have we started validating Viserys' stupidity?!

So, to some in the audience, it is jarring for Rhaenyra to doubt him or feel miserable by his actions even under the context of a war breaking out and her doubt of getting support from those outside of Dragonstone. Which still doesn't make sense bc Aemond should rather be feared and reviled for his kinslaying, but apparently Jaehaerys' death is the only death that matters and suddenly Westerosi lords care for "compassionate" payback over oaths of loyalty. It appeared as if Rhaenyra forgave Daemon for the brothel thing, and yes completely bc the show didn't give us anything to think otherwise--again, they might have if only the show had shown us life at Dragonstone before the war. The writers play a game of tug of war with the point of their scenes and pass them off as "complex" when they are just piss-poorly written as a chain of scenes linking a story/particular arcs together.

Anyway, yeah, that's the disconnect, most likely. To set up other things, the show contradicts itself even though the scene by itself is conveying a very clear plotline AND can be connected to another moment from another episode. I don't really blame people who think this way at all.

[ssunphire]

Blue by Billie Eilish and how it fits Azula perfectly

I'm sure people have talked about this already, but i just wanted to add my two cents to it. (english is not my first language so if i phrase some stuff a bit weird feel free to ask or correct me)

spoilers for the comic "Azula in the spirit temple" !!

in my opinion the lyrics of this song simply SCREAM azula, and here's why.

the first chorus:

azula tries to "live in black and white", as in pretends to know what is right and what is wrong. she believes in her father's words, the "white", and considers everyone who left her or dishonors the fire nation bad, "the black". but it doesn't feel right, even to her. even if it seemed like she thought that what her father did to zuko was right, the perfect reality that she dreamed of that was depicted in the comics shows zuko without a scar and her mother standing beside her father. even iroh is there with them despite her displaying dislike towards him throughout the whole show. additionally, they tell her things she thinks she should have achieved based on the values that her father posed on her, again: the "white". she misses them and she feels betrayed, but she tries her hardest to pretend like it's not like that, for example in the beach episode where she says her mother was right to call her a monster and that she's completely okay with that. she's in fact not over her mother. she feels "blue". stuck between believing her father and at the same time wanting ursa and zuko back.

the second chorus:

the phrase "but i'm not what you need" shows her insecurities. she saw the way ursa looked at her compared to how she looked at zuko. no matter what she did, ursa never seemed to be satisfied with her. she always got sent away or chastised. iroh never cared to consider what she might like as a gift, he just got her a doll because he probably thought it's what all girls want. but zuko got a really nice knife. she felt unneeded by ursa and iroh so she turned to her father.

now the verses.

1)

by logic, zuko and azula should be similar in ambitions and beliefs. they grew up in the same family after all and therefore also should have been treated similarly. for example they should both receive their mother's love and attention, but only zuko seemed to get it. zuko should have similar abilities to hers, but she was always ahead of him. she didn't understand what ursa saw in zuko that she didn't have and "lied".

in the comics azula states that she actually became aware of the fact that ozai used her as a "deadly fire bending weapon". she was a "bird in a cage". she didn't have anyone to rely on but the father that praised her skills, so she tried her best for him after being abandoned by her mother. she wanted to be protected too, but ultimately only zuko got that luxury.

2)

like i said before, since azula didn't have a support system like zuko, she didn't have a choice but to cling onto ozai. ozai clearly never knew what sympathy was, nor did he ever act like an actual father. he raised azula to be cold and deadly, so much so that she was even smarter with war strategy than him or iroh. she managed to take over ba sing se after all. azula herself lacked sympathy too. she had learned that trust was weakness and being feared was strength.

3)

here i can see the first part being said by zuko, he doesn't hate azula and he knows she did what she did because of their father but at the same time he was scared of her. at the point of the series he deemed her to be beyond saving and tried to avoid her together with iroh, then later chose to fight her in an agni kai without even trying to reason with her.

the other half of this part is pretty much self explanatory. she was clearly a victim who succumbed to her father's ideals due to being abandoned by her mother.

4)

unlike zuko, azula was "blameless" in the eyes of fire nation ideals. she was a prodigy and did what was expected of her. perfection was everything to her.

nonetheless they are both victims of ozai, just with different outcomes. they both grew up to be famous, just in different ways.

-----------

woooo you made it to the end!!! thank you to whoever read my little rant here, i just wanted to talk about this since i've been thinking about it every time i listen to the song. i'd love to hear other people's opinion on this so feel free to comment whether you agree or you think what i wrote up is absolute bullshit lmfao

[my-head-is-an-animal]

J Is Just A Letter

Mycroft Holmes x Reader

Chapter 1 - Bound To Me

‘Sir, it’s her again.’

Mycroft sighed, needing no other information he knew perfectly well what Anthea was talking about.

‘Where?’ Mycroft drawled. He stood up anyway and while his assistant explained the situation, he began going through every possible option he had to bring her in, knowing full well he would be unsuccessful.

They entered into the surveillance room, it was filled with screens and people and chatter and chaos, especially at times like this. They were all co-ordinating to bring up the security feed on the main screen.

J. That was the only name anyone knew her by, she was smart, quick-witted, aggravatingly ambitious and much to Mycroft’s annoyance, playful. She was very playful and often left evidence of her existence in various locations around the world. This time, it was Tokyo.

A helicopter was flying over a known – and thankfully abandoned – safehouse that the British used when transporting precious cargo. That was the seventh one in a little under two months, once a week, the exact same time, something somewhere would flag up and a message would be left from her.

First it was a robbery in a Manhattan gang den that Mycroft had been keeping his eyes on for months, with the message: “Are you ready to play with me?”

Then it was a little closer to home, a quiet storage facility in Yarmouth, Isle of White which she decided to repaint neon green and spelled out the message: “Are you paying attention?”

After that it was a safehouse in Casablanca where she had set up a rave and invited the whole of Morocco to attend and in the morning a message spelt out in champagne bottles on the roof: “Watch the movie with me?”

A car hire fronted drugs den in Rio was next, flooded somehow and a drug lord found laughing his head off repeating the same phrase over and over again: “Call me, call me and tell me I’m pretty.” The man had been driven mad by something, but that one phrase was all he was capable of saying.

Oslo was a slightly obscure one, several offices in a government building were locked down and each office had a letter spray painted inside, when Mycroft put the letters together it spelt out: “I’m not hungry, have dinner with me.” He realised that Irene Adler must have been a contact of hers, using the same flirting tactics only made him warier of her ambitions.

Then Florence happened and he knew he’d have to put an end to her antics sooner than he would have liked. It was a government ball, one that Mycroft himself was at, he’d been slipped a note by a waiter: “Do you like my dress?” He had the place locked down, no one in or out, every single person and place was searched, all he found was a memory stick with some photos on it. It was J, wearing a tight emerald green dress, with a slit that ran up to the very top of her thigh, her thick, soft dark hair pushed to one side, blood red lipstick, diamond earrings and a diamond necklace extenuating her chest, which Mycroft hated to admit had his mouth watering. She was standing inches away from him only hours earlier when he briefly spoke to the Italian Prime Minister and he never even noticed her.

Then it was Tokyo and the safehouse had blown up with J escaping through the back door, hopefully not getting caught up in the blast. Mycroft felt his heart settling when the fire began following a trail spelling out one word: “Forfeit?”

Mycroft wasn’t stupid, he knew her messages were specific to him, very few others had come to the same conclusion, but it was starting to become obvious. Mycroft checked his watch, she was right on time.

The footage showed a figure darting out of the building out the back way moments before an explosion went off. Everyone in the surveillance room barely reacted, Mycroft, however, felt his heart drop through the floor. If she had been killed by her own explosion, then this was the end of the game they were playing.

Mycroft looked at the footage a little closer, something looked off to him. He told whoever was nearest to him to keep him informed of any progress and headed back to his office to get on with some real work.

Anthea handed him an envelope as he walked past her desk, he frowned at it, but nothing seemed to be obviously wrong with it. Mycroft entered his office, closing the door behind him and noting that it was addressed to him, but it smelled familiar, like a perfume he’d inhaled once before.

He opened the envelope carefully and saw it was a collection of stunning black and white photos of J. They were classy, every curve was smooth and highlighted with gorgeous lighting and in every single one of them she was wearing no more than heels and the diamond necklace she’d worn in Florence.

Mycroft felt his mouth beginning to water again, she was exceptionally beautiful and in the six or so years he’d known her, she had only grown more so. He looked at each of the ten photographs in turn and felt himself getting warm beneath his skin. He quickly put them back into the envelope, took a soothing breath and went to put them on his desk, before changing his mind and keeping them secure in his inside jacket pocket.

‘Now, that is interesting.’

Mycroft spun around, feeling his heart racing with momentary fear. Perched on his long wooden cabinet was the woman herself. J. She looked professionally dressed in a tight black dress, one that was a square cut over her chest, nothing was entirely hidden about her beauty, but it looked more like she wasn’t trying to use it to her advantage, instead she was in his office for business not pleasure.

‘It didn’t quite seem conceivable that you would get your hands dirty in Tokyo.’ Mycroft said, gaining his breath back and shoving his hands in his pockets. ‘How did you get in here?’

‘Really? That’s the first thing you want to say to me?’ J rolled her bold green eyes and smirked. Her cheeks were defined and her jawline shapely and smooth. Her skin was lightly tanned and evident that she had in fact been abroad.

‘What should I be saying to you?’ Mycroft shot back. He sat back against his desk, if she wanted to play a game then fine, but he wasn’t going to lose.

J smiled, her eyes never leaving his. ‘Do you like my photos?’

‘Black and white tends to-‘

‘It’s a yes or no question, Mr Holmes, perhaps you could pick between the two.’

J observed his silence and a knowing look fluttered across her face. She let herself down off the cabinet in a very elegant manner, nothing was awkward, her smooth legs sliding over one another, heels delicately covering her feet as she slowly steps towards him.

‘What if the answer is infinitely more complex than that?’ Mycroft found himself saying.

J grinned. ‘I knew you’d love them.’ She said, standing barely two feet away from him. He noted the same perfume he’d smelt on the photographs and knew it was deliberate on her part. J folded her slender, tanned arms just below her chest and it only served to make Mycroft try to hide his discomfort. ‘So, do I have your attention yet?’

‘Almost exclusively.’ Mycroft said, enjoying the game somewhat. He’d reached the conclusion some time ago that J – whilst a complete nuisance and often a welcome distraction – was relatively harmless. She was having fun and that was it, no one important was getting hurt.

‘Well, don’t you know how to please a girl,’ she flirted. ‘That will come in very handy for you.’ Mycroft stared into her emerald eyes and tried hard not to get too lost in them, he knew where the line was. ‘I want to open doors, I want to misbehave and have the absolute pleasure of knowing you’re thinking about me.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly garnered my attention so far, Miss…?’ Mycroft knew it was hardly a trick, she’d never reveal her actual identity. J tilted her head, almost pleading for him to do better. ‘It seems you can already open doors and as for misbehaving, well, I have a whole file filled with messages from you written in blood and fire and champagne bottles, in turn you’ve forced me to think of you most days and how I could make plans to arrest you. Forgive me, but I can’t help but wonder why you’re asking for things you already have.’

J held his gaze for a few moments longer. She took another step towards him, her knees brushing against the inside of his and the proximity was a slightly dizzying one. He could smell vanilla shampoo and couldn’t help but find the scent a pleasing one.

‘I can’t open every door,’ her voice lowered. ‘I found those safehouses using cheap tricks, I want something more elegant than that. Mycroft Holmes, the name literally opens doors. That’s what I want. You have access to secure facilities, secret locations, lists of persons of interest. I want that too.’

‘Why? So you can destroy everything I’ve worked to build?’ Mycroft wouldn’t be beaten on this front.

J frowned. ‘Why would I want to destroy you, Mr Holmes?’

‘It’s what most people want.’

‘You’re making assumptions.’

‘If you only knew.’ Mycroft stopped, he realised what was happening, he’d been sucked into her game, he started flirting back.

J smiled, very pleased with herself, her eyes scanned his face, taking in every single part of it.

‘I promise I won’t be reckless.’

Mycroft hummed laughter. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘When have I ever broken a promise to you?’

‘You’ve never made a promise to me.’

J stepped all the way into his space, her arms dropped, her fingers traced his thighs sending warm rushes through his body, it wasn’t just her perfume he could smell, it was her. Her voice was low and Mycroft was left craving more.

‘I promise, I’ll never lie to you. How’s that?’

‘You might not lie, but you may not be completely honest with me.’ Mycroft replied, his own voice matched the depth of hers.

‘Hm, you’re a hard man to please Mr Holmes, but I’m sure I can work out what you like… and more importantly how you like it.’ The flirting had taken a new turn, one that had Mycroft seeing big red flags.

‘Why do you want to open doors? I suppose more specifically, which doors do you want to open?’ Mycroft was desperately trying to hold his focus, but her fingers had found his hips and the pressure was everything he desired.

‘You’ve spent the last two months watching me, but only because I wanted you to watch me.’ Mycroft was seeing flashes of things that were far too indulgent, he needed to remain focused. ‘I could do so much more out of sight. I could do things for you, Mr Holmes. You’ve seen what I can do on a small scale, when I’m just out to have fun, but when it’s time to get serious… or I don’t get what I want, then maybe we can rediscuss this.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t turn up at my office unannounced after setting fire to a safehouse.’

‘You don’t really think I did that, do you?’ J began to step back, taking her hands away from his thighs, he missed the contact and he knew she caught it. ‘Maybe next time you won’t be wearing the suit.’ J winked and it was everything in Mycroft’s power not to take her perfect body in his hands and worship her on his desk.

‘What makes you think there will be a next time?’

J stepped further and further back, giving him just a little more room to breathe. ‘Oh Mr Holmes, you and I are bound to each other. I’m going to make sure of it. Enjoy the photos.’

The dizziness was finally clearing, but by that time, J had already made it to the door of his office and left. He took a moment to compose himself and think on what had just happened, he routinely checked his pockets, noting she had taken nothing from him. Mycroft quickly darted towards the door and saw Anthea wandering back towards her desk.

‘How long have you been gone?’ He asked.

‘Only ten minutes.’ Anthea frowned, confused. ‘Is there something wrong Mr Holmes?’

‘I want to know the exact location of J now.’

‘Tokyo, sir. We had confirmation around three minutes ago that it was her at the safehouse.’

‘She is currently not in Tokyo.’ Mycroft could feel his frustration starting to get the better of him. ‘She’s in London, I want to know her movements, her exact location and where she is going next.’

‘Yes sir,’ Anthea picked up the phone. ‘Is there something we should be looking for?’

‘I don’t know.’ Mycroft was starting to realise what her plan may have been. ‘But I just told her “no”, I imagine she won’t take it well.’

‘Sir?’

‘Keep me informed.’ Mycroft went back into his office, closing the door behind him.

He found himself at a slight loss, not being entirely sure what made him act so out of character, what made him flirt back, she was just doing it to get a rise out of him, every move was a calculated one. Mycroft’s hand went absent-mindedly to his chest pocket where the black and white photos of J now rested. Her body was stunningly beautiful and she knew he thought that. The only question remained was how she was going to use it to her advantage.

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Main Story

Mycroft Holmes Masterlist

[calliesmemes]

TITANIC: BLOOD AND STEEL (EPISODES 1-6)

SENTENCE STARTERS PULLED FROM THE DIALOGUE IN THE PERIOD DRAMA TITANIC: BLOOD AND STEEL, a twelve-episode miniseries about the construction of the RMS Titanic in Belfast.

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed.

SPECIFY muse for multimuses.

EPISODE ONE: A CITY DIVIDED

“   I'd like to introduce someone to you. ”

“   You are venturing into the unknown, sir. ”

“   It's not arrogant if it's true. ”

“   I don't care what he is, right? You leave him alone. ”

“   I believe we have an appointment. ”

“   Could you explain precisely what you would offer, why your contribution is so necessary? ”

“   We stand at the border where our ambition shall outstrip our technology. ”

“   You are in uncharted territory. ”

“   And you — you feel yourself the right person to test our mettle, so to speak? ”

“   Where are you staying? ”

“   The high and mighty appear so only because we are on our knees. ”

“   If we stand united and indivisible, there's nothing that can't be achieved. ”

“   So I hear you've joined our merry band. ”

“   Oh, I wouldn't underestimate the Americans. ”

“   Maybe she talks too much. ”

“   Well, you shouldn't lose your job because you talk. ”

“   You should be more like your sister. ”

“   Now that they can read and write, their heads are full of all sorts of nonsense. ”

“   Science shall never replace good judgment or plain common sense. ”

“   We're a man short. Do you want to play? ”

“   Where did you say you went to school? ”

“   We can give it another half an hour before we make our final decision. ”

“   I don't know what they're all so mopey about. ”

“   I don't understand this game. ”

“   You are a funny one. ”

“   What is it that brought you here? ”

“   You speak like a man in love. ”

“   I merely look forward to working together, to furthering the excellence of your work. ”

“   We all play our part. Some parts are more interesting than others. ”

“   I don't know how much longer I can do this. ”

“   The beauty of our country is lost on these people. ”

“   I worry about my daughters. ”

“   I don't think you're a man to sit back or be proud. ”

“   Well, of course, since then it's grown in my imagination. ”

“   We are now on the threshold of a newer movement, with newer hopes! ”

“   You have no authority here. ”

“   We have to start fighting back, and making demands. ”

“   Your father is worried about you. ”

“   Your parents must have been very proud. ”

“   This generation’s gone soft, don’t you think? ”

“   Is he really as terrifying as they say? ”

“   Are you finding the work challenging? ”

“   That was completely inappropriate. ”

“   You have a lot to learn. ”

“   Are you avoiding me? ”

“   I can read you like a book. That's what I love about you. ”

“   What are you reading? ”

“   How many people are we expecting today? ”

“   Today we start building a legend that will last a thousand years. ”

“   Never had you down as a superstitious man. ”

EPISODE TWO: STAINED STEEL

“   I need someone to draw something for me. Would you be free? ”

“   I know what desperation, what needs, what false promises brought you here! ”

“   There is no prize so high that can merit the betrayal of your brothers! ”

“   There's just a lot of mayhem out there today. ”

“   We shouldn't assume it's a victory. Just the first shots fired in a long war. ”

“   I don't think anybody's talking about victory. Not yet. ”

“   We can't let fear stop us from taking a stand. ”

“   Do you mind if I sit with you? ”

“   I believe there are serious grounds for concern. ”

“   Trust I take this issue as seriously as you. ”

“   They believe what they want to. They don't hear what they don't want to or see what's in front of them. ”

“   If you want to persuade, you have to take human nature into account. ”

“   You have something of the real world about you. ”

“   You don't strike me as the timid type. ”

“   Rank does have its privileges but there's always a price to pay. ”

“   Come and speak with me. My door is open. ”

“   Would you look at who's come home! ”

“   Truly, my dear, what is troubling you? ”

“   Stick by your principles, and to your emotions. They’ve served you well before. ”

“   A consciousness of your own dignity and worth must be encouraged. ”

“   Get away from the wrong ideals and false standards of womanhood. ”

“   Be as free as your dream of the future would have you. ”

“   I think of her and it makes the thought of living in this miserable little town bearable. ”

“   I would like you to become my wife. ”

“   I will decide who I marry and when, if I want to get married at all! ”

“   You have disgraced me! ”

EPISODE THREE: GOOD MAN DOWN

“   My father wants me to change my mind. ”

“   This Saturday, march for your rights. ”

“   He doesn't like a smart mouth, so keep your answers simple, to the point, and you'll do all right. ”

“   You do as you're told and you'll do just fine. ”

“   Did you do much fighting? ”

“   It was terrifying and it was boring at the same time. ”

“   I’ll tell you what I learnt. I learnt that there's things worth fighting for, and there's things that ain't. ”

“   It's only since I've been back that I realize why you made me go away. ”

“   When we march, we must be united. ”

“   United we stand; divided we fall. ”

“   Are you two old enough to be in here on your own? ”

“   You have bigger things to be thinking about. ”

“   Should I start a conversation or should we just sit in silence? ”

“   The world of science is littered with the reputation of men and women who spoke out before they were certain. ”

“   You have to be careful. He’s from another world, one which you don’t belong to. ”

“   You're a good teacher. ”

“   The best thing is for you to get on with your life. Forget about me. ”

“   Nothing's gonna change unless we all support it. And when I say "all," I mean all. ”

“   This is a peaceful protest and we have every right to be here. ”

“   You're all right. You're all right. You're gonna be all right. ”

“   Did you get caught up in all that mayhem? ”

“   I wasn’t there, but I know people who were. ”

“   Well, that may be your kind of politics, it certainly isn't mine! ”

“   If you so much as interfere, I'll find out where you live and I'll burn your house. ”

“   They hit us where we’re weakest. It’s the oldest strategy in the book. ”

EPISODE FOUR: DANGER LOOMS

“   Pleased with yourself, are you? ”

“   You think we organized this to bring the country to its knees? ”

“   I came to say thank you for helping me. ”

“   Oh, I specialize in damsels in distress. ”

“   Don't they understand the tensions this will inflame? ”

“   You've started a dialogue. We have to keep them engaged. ”

“   Half of me is pleased. The other half feels hollow. I don't know which instinct to trust. ”

“   Either we sit and we're at the same level, or you make me stand. Which is it to be? ”

“   We have more in common than you might think. ”

“   I want us to work together. ”

“   My door is always open to you and to anyone. You only have to knock. Have I made myself clear? ”

“   I know these will be difficult times for you. ”

“   What are you trying to prove? ”

“   Well done. You did the right thing. ”

“   There was a time when I was a great deal more like you than you'd imagine. ”

“   I keep seeing his face. His blood on my hands. They killed him. ”

“   You don't think the man's gone a bit soft, no? ”

“   When you do nothing, it breeds malcontent. ”

“   Sorry. He's just not used to anything other than his own opinion. ”

“   I've been waiting ages to casually bump into you. ”

“   You’re a strange one. ”

“   You have this all worked out, don't you? ”

“   This is sex and fun, darling. Probably the only place we can meet and be ourselves. ”

“   I'm turning you down. Gently, but I am turning you down. ”

“   This is a dangerous game you’re playing. ”

“   You shouldn’t have come back. ”

“   I've got a very good teacher. ”

“   Even a mere suggestion of romance across this divide can ruin a man. ”

“   People can be driven out of their homes by their own community. ”

“   If you act now, you might be able to avoid the inevitable consequences. ”

“   There is something lonely about you. ”

“   Men think they are in control, but they aren't. Women are. ”

“   Democracy? Another vastly overrated institution. ”

“   You killed my daughter. You never came back for her. ”

EPISODE FIVE: UNDER LOCK AND KEY

“   Open up! I know you're in there! ”

“   You lied to me. ”

“   I just want to know what happened. ”

“   Why the urgency all of a sudden? ”

“   If I had known, I would have done the right thing. ”

“   I'm here now because I've just learned the truth. ”

“   Could I have a minute of your time, please, sir? ”

“   Perhaps this would have been better had you remained ignorant. ”

“   If you pay more attention, you might have more success in finding a job! ”

“   This has nothing to do with you. ”

“   When I walk out of here, you will never see me again. ”

“   Distrust and suspicion drive a wedge between us. ”

“   I don't have to tell you how disappointed I am in you. ”

“   Had the boot been on the other foot, I believe I should have done exactly the same as you. ”

“   Your contribution is highly valued. ”

“   We are prepared to keep your history confidential. ”

“   if your history ever becomes public knowledge, I won't be able to defend your position. ”

“   His presence here is valuable. ”

“   I must insist you keep this information to yourself. If you breathe a word of it, I shall regard it as a personal betrayal. ”

“   So this is where they imprison you all day. ”

“   I honestly don't know how people do it. Cooped up in these little rooms, having to do what someone else says. ”

“   You shouldn't believe everything you read in newspapers. ”

“   Do you have any idea what damage is being done to our reputation? ”

“   Is your father unwell? ”

“   Usually, when we deal with your father, he knows exactly what we're talking about. ”

“   I just get this feeling that he's holding something back. ”

“   He isn’t one of us; he’s one of them. ”

“   He lives by their rules, not ours. ”

“   Look, I don't make the rules. I only deliver the message. ”

“   Hey, if you can't do it properly, you shouldn't be here. ”

“   Sometimes you seem so distant. ”

“   We need to show our strength. ”

“   You must know that what you're asking is virtually impossible. ”

EPISODE SIX: THE IMPOSTOR

“   All I ever get are stolen moments. ”

“   You have some explaining to do. ”

“   I have nothing to hide. ”

“   Don’t you dare call me a thief again. ”

“   We're interested in men like you. ”

“   What have I done that’s so special? ”

“   Do you believe in the cause? ”

“   We're only looking for men who are serious and committed to the cause. ”

“   Remember what I said. Keep your mouth shut. ”

“   Gentlemen, we have a larger problem than we thought. ”

“   We have the power to make them do what we want. ”

“   All those in favor, raise your hands. ”

“   You cannot give into blackmail! ”

“   Has it ever occurred to you they may have a genuine grievance? ”

“   You should be very proud. ”

“   He would be so proud of you. ”

“   If we stand together on this, they will bow to our demands. ”

“   I find myself between a rock and a hard place. ”

“   Will I have to betray anyone’s trust? ”

“   Not all rules are fair. ”

“   It's what I was trained to do. ”

“   He wants to meet you. Privately. Without anyone knowing. ”

“   We’ve come to rescue you. ”

“   I told you, this is all part of a grand business arrangement. ”

“   I'm just showing you what'll happen if you try and cheat us. ”

“   I fear that, to end this dispute, we both need to claim victory. ”

“   Others might call it a step too far. ”

“   I really don't care about politics. It's quite the most tedious thing in the world, apart from religion. ”

“   I don't know if the whole thing is completely bogus, but there's something not right about him. ”

“   What do you dream of? ”

“   We need a strong candidate. Someone with forthright views who speaks the language of our people. And we think that person is you. ”

“   You might be shocked to know all the wild imaginings I had buzzing around in my head. ”

“   He's committed no crime! ”

“   I believe we all have been deceived. ”

“   That is an outrageous allegation against me! Withdraw it immediately! ”

“   Your true identity is now known. ”

[bestworstcase]

You’ve mentioned a few times that Salem is awkward, could you get into you’re reasoning and evidence for this characterization (as she is currently)? I’m fascinated by this reading and fully persuadable. Her origin story being the tower, it makes sense she’d be a little socially stunted but she was charismatic enough then to convince others to fight for her through words alone (tho that is different from in person social skills (to that point she persuaded kingdoms to revolt against the gods)). Millions of years of isolation wouldn’t put a shine on amicability, but these things /inform/ characterization. I’m interested in what you see in her as awkward in how she’s presented to us in the Current Era (Remnant Era?)

this post regarding her interrogation of oscar in 8.4 is salient because that's the scene that rly convinced me she's being written this way on purpose. there's a lot of contributing factors, though:

both then (fomenting rebellion) and now (recruiting hazel), salem's standard approach to getting people on her side involves basically walking up and "demonstrating her powers," i.e. inviting or just letting the person she's trying to sway kill her over and over again until they're willing to hear her out. she can (and did) make a compelling enough argument for people to follow her, but the way she chooses to make people listen is by subjecting herself to extreme violence.

further, it's shown in V8 that even within her own inner circle, there is a lot of confusion regarding what salem wants—so much so that tyrian and hazel think diametrically opposed things. why does this confusion exist? ozpin (and most of the fandom) believe it is because salem lies; but a) salem hates lies and liars, and b) the idea that salem herself is deceitful is founded on things jinn says of her in the lost fable, which is a verifiably unreliable narrative. if we look at the two onscreen instances of salem speaking of her goals—"the moment you put your desires before my own" and "in pursuit of a new world"—what strikes me about both is her vagueness.

when cinder questions her in V5, salem answers in a very oblique way: "working with bandits? leaving ruby alive? what's the point!?" -> "never underestimate the usefulness of others; take leonardo. he was one of ozpin's most trusted, but now…" both the bandit (raven) and ruby were or are among ozpin's "most trusted," and salem's point is that she wants to turn both of them against ozpin (like leo and summer). but she does not actually Say That. i made this analogy in the oscar interrogation post but i'll make it again: the way salem answers cinder's question is like showing her work on a math problem but not actually giving the answer. a lot of salem's dialogue is like this: she talks in examples, hints, and implications.

in fact the one time we have ever seen salem clearly state what she means is after ozma asks her "what are you saying?" <- i find this to be significant not only because it flags that other characters find salem's speech to be opaque or unclear sometimes, but because salem answers him honestly and without any hesitation, which indicates that she was not trying to be vague or obfuscate her meaning on purpose. asked for clarification, she clarifies.

then there is what she says to ozma once he tells her the whole truth: "why spend our lives trying to redeem these humans when we could replace them with what they could never be?"—now i am not going to get into my whole theory here, suffice it to say that i think that by "them" salem meant the gods in accordance with her longstanding ambitions—but the salient piece for this discussion is that this bolded phrase is a direct paraphrase from the final lines of 'the shallow sea' and i do think that that is, given the preponderance of thematic links between salem and the faunus, probably intentional, i.e. salem is quoting that myth to express her rejection of ozma's mandate (compare ozma's reliance on fairytales to communicate and make sense of his existence.)

lastly, there are several occasions when salem is talking (to her inner circle in 6.4, or to ironwood in 7.11, or oscar in 8.4) only to be interrupted with unexpected new information (ozpin is back; ruby used the lamp; oscar is fronting). in the first two examples, salem responds by either kicking everyone else out or leaving herself. see the linked post for a more thorough breakdown of her conversation with oscar, but suffice it to say that she responds in a very awkward and disjointed way before she's able to get herself back on track.

so we have a pattern of:

speaking vaguely or being cryptic, in a manner that other characters explicitly find to be confusing,

clarifying readily the one time she's asked for clarification,

paraphrasing the concluding lines of a myth about people embracing change and leaving their old selves behind to live their truth in a new world that is harsh but free, in order to articulate her rejection of "redemption" and the divine mandate,

and ending conversations very abruptly when interrupted mid-speech.

and this pattern exists in correlation with a pair of soliloquies whose language is markedly more eloquent, even poetic, and delivered with a clarity and emotional smoothness that is often lacking from her spoken dialogue.

what this suggests, to me, is that salem struggles to articulate her thoughts (the soliloquies) into words (her dialogue), and that she deals with it with preparation—by planning out what she intends to say and how she'll say it in advance. that she relies heavily on scripts and rehearses speeches and conversations in her head specifically to avoid having to speak off the cuff, in essence.

(and i think this is generally the basis for ozma's distrust and doubts: she told him the truth but in a really confusing and cryptic way that didn't always make sense. if she wasn't coherent—and how could she be after millions of years alone?—of course he wasn't sure whether he could believe what she said!)

basically, i think she's capable of being compellingly persuasive only under particular circumstances (planned speeches given to an audience primed to listen to what she says by violent, spectacular demonstrations of her immortality), and she flounders in ordinary conversation because a) she struggles to find the right words to express her meaning clearly, b) her natural affect is blunted and sometimes erratic (<- "well… :) perhaps you and i can have a better working relationship……… >:( oscar, was it? /:"), and c) she knows both of these things make her come across as an insincere liar.

<- there is a performative aspect to… nearly every scene in front of her inner circle or her enemies; that informs this reading too. as does the fact that there are many, many characters who are tangibly more charismatic than she is—ozpin, blake, oscar, cinder, robyn, ruby, yang—whereas the character whose manner of speech most resembles salem's is pyrrha, who speaks in an overly formal way and explicitly feels socially isolated and unable to form real connections with people.

[harrarthellix]

Why I love Bg3's translation and its horny scenes

Haarlep's Scene.

First of all, the opening quote

"A thief in the night, greedy and here to take"

The first part is the exact translation (but with a diminutive, so it's more of "little thief" instead) but the second has nothing to do with the meaning. "Greedy and here to take" would be more of " Avaricioso y aquí para llevarse ", which is quite a more open sentence. The actual match in English would be more like:

"A little thief in the night, their ambition has reproach/rebuke/blame"

Huh, quite different, but not in a bad way, I actually love finding things like these. This sentence implies punishment ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)

------

"hmm... Raphael, all but spent himself to get that hammer. And you want to take it off him?"

Not really a dirty thing but the phrase "Se dejó la piel" means literally "Left his skin" which in my opinion is way more visceral than "Spent himself". Idk this is just taste because it's a set phrase, not literal. They could have gone with " lo dio todo" which is another set phrase for the same, but they picked the cooler option

------

"This is very naughty. Whatever are we to do?"

Okay, this one makes me laugh so hard. "Cochinada de las gordas" is a very non-elegant way to talk about stuff in general. Yes, it means the same but in a more colloquial tone. Has nothing bad, just shocked about the tone.

Also, the part about "de las gordas" implies a very big naughty thing.

------

" I'm Haarlep, Raphael's personal Incubus, glamoured and transfigured to look like him"

"This one is tricky. "Glamoured" itself does not exist in Spanish. You can use "Glamuroso", but it's an adjective, not a verb. The word "Encantado" is more similar to "Charmed". In dnd's translation "Encantar" is the translation used for "Charm".

This might mean the use of external magic to alter Haarlep's appearance. "Encantamiento" can be translated as "Spell". This word has more meanings depending on context but let's go to the next one.

------

cw: rape and abuse

"His violating stare sees more than all of you, sees: potential"

Okay, this one is hardcore shit. I'm not sure about the implications of the word "violating" in English but it's translated as "violadora" (adjective), wich literally means Rape as in sexual abuse.

I actually like a lot this translation because it could have been softened with "mirada intensa" (intense stare) but the point of this phrase is very much that Haarlep is already thinking about how it's going to use your body after this encounter. It's not trying to go around about what is happening and it's very on-brand with other bg3 moments. 10/10, would not change anything about this implication.

------

"Sometimes, when he is feeling more adventurous, Raphael asks me to change into the Archduchess Raphael"

Here is something weird. They translated "Adventurous" with "Audaz", which are different words, having a literal translation "Aventurado". "Audaz" is more like "Bold" or "Fearless" or even "Cunning".

But sounds nice I love the word "Audaz"

------

"Some last thought whispers in your skull, vacated by everything else but rapture"

Here we have two interesting things. First of all, the word "Whisper" is exchanged with "resuena". "Resuena" is a word used for a noise that repeats itself inside your head, but in poetry is used also for feelings that you can't get rid of. Super cute translation imo.

Second, the word "rapture" is replaced by "extasis". Hear me: In Spanish, you can use the same word when you are about to cum and to express that the power of god is inside you. And that is fucking magic. Yes, Rapture has another religious connotation but trust me when I say it's not the same thing. Rapture is more about leaving one's body in spirit, not about cum.

------

"Devote yourself to pleasure. Stay with me. This can be forever.

Another one with Religion stuff mixed in. "Consagrar y Devoto" are two distinc words in spanish. Devoto is about you being a believer, or giving yourself to a cause, but "Consagrar" its ritual. When something is "Consagrado" it means a priest has blessed it. it's the word used in catholicism to refer to the Transubstantiation (idk if it's written like this in eng). This implies here that sex is a ritual, in this case, to let Haarlep take your body.

Look, I love this shit, some religious kink swept in there

------

"You have laboured enough, pet"

Small thing, but instead of "Pet", Haarlep calls you "puppy" or "Doggy" In Spanish.

-----

AAANNNDDDD That's all I'm willing to do now. Enjoy this and remember to misuse this information.

[fastcardotmp3]

Re: the tags of that post you just reblogged from me - AU where Steve and Eddie swap roles for just the final fight (Eddie’s with the girls, Steve’s with Dustin) but with an added subplot where we meet Steve’s parents early in the season & maybe they’re trying to get him to grow up/move out/think about his future, or something else, but they’d have to feature somehow so we still get that ending scene except it’s Robin telling his parents he didn’t make it (im picturing a very tragic recontextualising around the phrase “you need to do something with your life” leading to Steve drawing the bats away from Dustin)

That’s just my quick thoughts though, I’d love to know how you’d do it!

oh I LOVE this you've got my brain spinning I have so many thoughts and it's all your fault!!!

(I am so sorry for how long this got)

I think there are for sure many versions of this plotline that could work BUT here goes nothing

I definitely agree that we'd need to introduce Steve's parents early on (in my ideal world we'd have met them sooner than s4 for this plotline but alas I'm not in charge I'm simply posthumously script doctoring) and I think one version of the conversation there could come from a place of wanting what's best for him, but centering itself around ambition and choice in a way that sticks with Steve.

"You had so much ambition when you were still in school, Steve-- all of your sports, how sociable you were-- what happened to that? Where did you lose that along the way?"

And Steve flounders a little bit, because he's gotten to the point after season 3 where he can see himself better from the outside, is just that touch more self aware and good at reading not just other people's feelings but his own.

So it takes him a beat to put it into words, but he's able to, is the thing--

"Maybe I don't need to go down the-- the usual path to end up where I want to end up."

"Is this where you want to end up?" his mother asks, "working at a video store for the rest of your life?"

"It's not about that," Steve shrugs, pouring two travel mugs of coffee all the while, one for him and one for Robin.

Because he knows it's not about that, he spent all of last summer learning it's not about that and the months since discovering that there's a certain amount of peace in knowing that things aren't perfect but that matters less when you have your people around.

"What's it about then? Steve, I just-- I don't want you to get stuck here, when I know you could do so much more with your life if you just chose to."

"I'm not doing nothing with my life, Mom!" he laughs, exasperated but certain for once in his goddamn life. "I'm-- I'm actually doing really well right now, I've got good friends and I've got the kind of job where I'm kept busy while I figure out what's next for me and I'm just... happy, I guess? Like, can't my ambition just be to keep doing stuff that makes me happy? Can't I choose that?"

And he has to go to work, has to walk out and promise her that they'll talk about it more later, talk about it with his dad too, but Steve knows what he cares about and this isn't going to shake his resolve.

What he cares about is this group of people who have changed his life even more than the monsters did, who brought enough good into it to at the very least match the bad, and in some cases (like the girl already monologuing as she climbs into the front seat of his car and accepts her coffee with a mocking kiss to his cheek) somehow usurp the bad.

Steve doesn't have to be what this town expects of him, what most likely to end up rich superlative voters expect of him, what his parents expect of him, because his life isn't about being any particular something, it's in the doing.

It's in the swinging of a baseball bat, the swinging of his fists to keep the people he loves safe.

It's in the morning drives to get Robin to school on time and the late night ones to make sure Dustin meets curfew.

It's in the friendship he's managed to find with Nancy in the past year, the knowledge that this version of them is the best one by far.

It's in the days driving the kids to the trailer park to visit Max even if she ultimately ends up refusing to come out with them, because at least they're doing it, at least they're trying with her.

It's in this, too, when they drive out to Reefer Rick's place and some of the claims of happiness start slipping through Steve's fingers again with the proof that it isn't over, the fight.

But they've beat it before and they can beat it again. It's in the doing, and Steve has gotten knocked down many a time but the thing he always does is he always gets up on the other side.

He knows this. He trusts in this. He's built a fucking worldview around this because that's where his ambition went, Mom.

That's what happened to "Steve Harrington, actually a cool dude."

Steve's humble enough to thank Eddie for saving his ass, but he's done this enough times to still be able to reassure the guy who calls him badass that, "It always looks hopeless right before we win. Don't freak out too bad if it looks like the end of the world, huh?"

Eddie looks at him like he has two heads, says he's jealous of Steve's optimism.

Even Robin tells him that she thinks they might not win this time but all Steve knows is that they always have before. All Steve knows is that his instincts usually work out, let him protect the rest of them long enough to make the big and vital moves necessary to beat this thing.

All Steve knows is that he just, he's changed a lot but-- He's just the same kid who was cocky enough to run back into the Byers' house to fight a monster, stubborn enough to let the Russian's beat the hell out of him before he'd let them do the same to Robin and he--

"I don't know, I still have hope. Maybe this is the first time we actually win. Forever."

There's this sense of finality to it, hanging in the air, and she doesn't look convinced there in the same way she doesn't look convinced when he and Dustin are saying goodbye to the other three at Eddie's trailer, but Steve kisses her once on the forehead and says, "what are you waiting around for? Go kick some ass, your schmuck will be here when you're done."

His instincts have always protected them in the past.

It's his instincts that have him formulating a plan the second he realizes the bats are going to get inside the trailer, going to make a break for the gate and attack whole swaths of people unprepared for such a thing.

Dustin will be mad about being abandoned on the other side, but Steve's pissed him off before and he's always gotten over it.

It's in the doing, his ambition.

It's in the doing, the key to a well-spent life.

It's in the doing, the being of Steve Harrington, overconfident nature and all.

He always gets back up, every knock to the head and blow to the ego, Steve always gets back up, so he holds his ground and fights. Leads the bats away and keeps them there.

His mother wasn't wrong that he's changed, but she wasn't right when she claimed the thing he'd lost was his ambition. He'd found it, this force of nature in his chest that makes him willing to face down hell if it means the people he loves are safe.

He always gets back up, a tail around his throat.

He always gets back up, teeth in his flesh.

Steve Harrington is a pro at getting knocked down.

"I'll get up in a second, just-- just a second--"

"Steve there's-- there's so much blood-- Steve, you need to-- you have to get up now--"

"It's okay, it's okay, we won, just-- just another minute. Wanna see that-- Rob and the others made it back. Then we--can go--"

Dustin is crying. Dustin is holding him.

And Steve is bleeding out, he thinks somewhere indistinct and hazy at the back of his mind. He'll get up and fix that in a minute.

"You die, I die! Hey, hey motherfucker! Don't close your eyes-- you die, I die, you hear me?!"

It's in the doing, really, that Steve does as he's told just long enough to see the other three come stumbling out of the tree line towards them.

It's in the doing, in the choice of it, that he dies knowing they won.

(His mother wails when Robin approaches her at the shelter two days later with sunken eyes and unwashed hair. His father sinks into the closest chair and takes the offered keys to a maroon BMW with trembling hands.)

(It's in the doing that this time, in order to really win, they have to cling a little bit to his hope.)

[imjustheretoseetheprivateblogs]

AxZ Week Day 5: Poetry

@senshixshitennouweeks

In Silver Millennium, Serenity hands her a slip of parchment, claiming she found it tucked into the hollow of a tree where she had met with her beloved Endymion (she suspects that she was simply playing matchmaker).

The words compare her to a pool of water on a hot day, keeping refreshing, serene, and reflective in pleasing rhyme and meter.

Though it’s short, it’s words stir something in the princess of Mercury and she wishes to know who made such lovely phrases on the tiny blue planet that Serenity is so fond of.

Soon, Serenity brings her more messages that flatter her about her mind and her ambitions, mentioning her beauty to punctuate the writer’s fascination with her.

She never finds out who it is, though. The Silver Millennium falls soon after.

He’s in the library, looking for inspiration for a new energy gathering scheme for their great ruler. His last plan had backfired spectacularly (Video rental stores were not an antiquated idea; it was novel and retro!) and he was going to find something full proof. Beryl was getting impatient.

He pulled a book from the shelf and opened it. A piece of loose-leaf paper, folded into eighths fell from between.

Curious, he picked it up and unfolded it.

I wish to share my words, read the lines of text, to let others know my dreams.

The words stir something in Zoisite and, against his better judgement, pulls out a pen and scrawls a reply, trying to match the number of syllables and give it some kind of rhyme scheme.

Your words have found me now, and filled my heart to the seams.

It’s a simple poem, nothing he’d want to show anyone, but at least he got it out of his system. Putting the paper in between the pages of the book, Zoisite puts the book back and heads for the music section. He’d always been interested in that, so maybe something would inspire him.

Just as he turned the corner, a girl with short dark hair and blue eyes turned the corner and took the book he had just replaced.

The two of them stand awkwardly a week after their second (really third) meeting. They could sit down in one of Crown Arcade’s many booths, especially since it was a slow day, but that would mean sitting across from one another or, God forbid, beside one another.

She’s still not sure trusting him is a logical decision.

He’s still not sure if she even wants to talk to him.

The tension is thick and cloying, a sensation like wearing an old frayed sweater by a campfire.

“So… um… you like to read?”

It’s a dumb question. Between the three books she’s carrying and the reading glasses in her pocket, anyone could see that.

“Yes,” she answers simply. There’s no malice in her voice, but no feeling either. It’s a simple fact.

He retreats to his room when he returns home, trying to write his heart out on a yellow legal pad and trying to take his mind off how Mizuno could even tolerate him ever again.

It’s all chicken scratch though. Even simple fluff poems about flowers being pretty seem to be hard for him to write.

A call from his prince draws him out of his stupor and into battle against a leftover creature.

It’s a bulky, bulbous monster called a Daimon that was apparently made by science.

“Are we winning?” Nephrite calls after his sneak attack completely fails.

“Do you want the truth or one of those little white lies to make you feel better?”

Jadeite’s frustration is understandable, if the improvised bandage on his leg is anything to go on. Mars’s fire seems to have no effect on the creature, Tuxedo Kamen and Sailor Moon are pinned by the Daimon’s onslaught with Nephrite and the other senshi are still trying to make their way across town.

“Mercury Aqua Rhapsody!”

Glittering streams of water streak at the creature, enveloping it in ice and suddenly, Zoisite’s mind fills with descriptions for the attack and for the trickling otherworldly harp strings that accompany it.

Even when Sailor Moon purifies the creature in a dazzling display, Zoisite’s attention is still on the Senshi of Water.

The muse has struck him hard and maybe he can work up the nerve to thank her.

She recognizes his words when he submits to her, on a sheet of green paper, a poem about Hermes.

He recognizes her’s when he sees her handwriting in her little blue notebook.

Soon, little notes are passed between them. Verses plucked out of the ether to make little compliments.

Soon, they’re talking at length of wordsmiths and writers; who they like, who has the best descriptions, which would fit with music, which writer sounds like they would have voted for Shinzo Abe. Soon, it grows more intimate. Love poems, shared between the two of them, games that become heated the more passionate the poetry.

And the two of them begin to wonder when their games will be played to a work of their own composition.

[hrodvitnon]

Abraxasverse Headcanons - Titans and Classification

Some headcanons of mine about the Abraxasverse’s monsters. ;)

1. After Godzilla’s crowning at the end of the Mass Awakening, with both Protectors and Destroyers submitting to him, Monarch needed to instigate a new Titan classification system to distinguish the “ally” Titans from new “hostile” Titans. Apart from Alpha Titans whom are their own category in this new system, the other Titans, Sub-Titans and M.U.T.O.s fall under two distinct categories:

(a) Monsters that directly acknowledge and submit to an Alpha Titan like Godzilla or Kong as their head honcho, and serve them when called. (Shall we call this category Subjects? Lord Titans? Subordinates? Thralls?) Rodan, Scylla, Methuselah, Barb, and the Hawk Monster from the Skull Island series (if it exists in Abraxasverse) would all fall under this category.

(b) Monsters that don’t answer to/won’t answer to any Alpha Titan, and strictly serve their own wants, urges and ambitions even if it brings them into direct conflict with an Alpha. Camazotz, Skullcrawlers, the 2014 Mutos, and creatures which fight to the death trying to kill Kong like the Mire Squid, and Killer Chameleons (if they exist in Abraxasverse) would all fall under this category. (Shall we call this category Rogues? Independents? Autons? Solitaries?)

2. The Titans/Sub-Titans/other M.U.T.O.s overall vary in intelligence and sentience depending upon the species:

Most to all of the “big ones” (Godzilla, Kong, Ghidorah, Rodan, Mothra, Thor, most Mass Awakening Titans) we already know are human levels of intelligent and self-aware.

But a lot of other creatures, mostly lesser M.U.T.O.s and Sub-Titans have much more primitive, basic, simple and animalistic minds - they’re just animalistically semi-sentient or non-sentient. If Abraxas or another Titan tried to communicate with a semi-sentient lesser M.U.T.O., it would only be able to understand or communicate back select things mostly related to their natural instincts and habitation and memories, and its Animal Talk would probably just be broken words and phrases rather than the fully-intelligent Titans’ complete “sentences.”

---

I dig it! “Lord Titans” sounds cool honestly, as it indicates a position of power and responsibilities that being a lord would come with, albeit from a giant monster standpoint. Rodan would love being called a Lord Titan, of course. “Rogues” seems an appropriate category for Titans who are only interested in doing their own thing. Sub-Titans having more halted communications is a good idea too, as it shows they’re still intelligent but in a more clearly animalistic way.

Man, you know the brainrot ain’t letting go anytime soon when you read “communications and airwaves [...] mindscrews” and your knee-jerk reaction is hearing the Three Note Oddity play in your mind... which I can imagine Gigan or even his followers employing for more subtle fuckery. Gigan handles the more overt and visceral radio mimicry when tormenting his prey. The members of the fleet however are fascinated by these old number stations humans used, adopting the old transmissions and adding their own subliminal subtleties to them...

Achtung, achtung...