#you just must be aware of it's shortcomings

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

Rent is a terrible musical and Jason will not be the first person in Gotham to voice this opinion

it's a musical that while having the backdrop of the story being about revolution against an upper class that refuses to make anyone uncomfortable. The status quo is not rocked so people with money can still relate.

The entire character cast are assholes, even the kindest of the main cast still murdered a dog and sang a catchy tune and had no remorse afterwards.

the show never really goes anywhere, character 's don't change and frankly don't care to.

It idealizes drug use and being poor, while there is a subplot for the homeless, there is no care shown for them and kind of implies a choice to be homeless.

That being said he was in the main cast as angel.

Jason is a hypocrite but is well aware of the fact unlike the rest of his family.

He doesn't choose the musical, the director did, and when he had a role time seems to slow down.

Being a vigilante, everything is fast paced, you need to get ducks in a row before one of the ducks takes out an third of the alley.

But to be able to shelf that mindset, even if only for the rehearsals it was nice.

That being said, artistic liberality is a thing.

To hell with angel going into the light peacefully, it ain't right for someone dying of a disease that can be treated.

If you wanted a show about romanticizing dying from a disease than you should go to the opera they tried to be with La bohème and tuberculosis.

No Jason is going to lasso his rage and put a pretty mask on it until he feels the need to put his own twist on a scene.

[taliabhattwrites]

My critique of cultural anthropology and academic transmisogyny, "The Third Sex", will be published in a few days. Here's the introduction.

This Machine Builds Fascists

Consider a mechanism whose sole function is to classify all inputs it receives as one of two categories: One and Zero. The inputs, it must be said, vary greatly in temperament, expression, embodiment, internality, and so on, but that isn’t as much of a hurdle for the machine as it seems. It has been programmed with a few simple lines of code that enable it to differentiate between Ones and Zeroes within acceptable margins of tolerance. Ones tend to look and behave like this, Zeroes tend to be like that. These truisms are crude, simplistic, and even reductive, true, but they work. As such, the machine chugs on, happily reducing complex inputs to a blunt binary classification, its delivery-day code having been deemed “good enough”.

Of course, there is still the matter of how the machine should behave when its schema fails, when it is presented with inputs that do indeed prove to be too ambiguous to easily classify. For however high the correlation between traits, sometimes a specimen that simply defies easy categorization will confound its decision-making, often enough to pose a problem. Does the code need to be updated? Almost certainly, but legacy code is a stubborn thing, mired in dependencies and versioning faff, deeply resistant to the most perfunctory of edits. Too many now rely on this iteration of the machine, on this particular instantiation of its logic, and it is almost universally agreed that any changes are best handled downstream—at least, among those with the power to change it.

The machine and its users are thus forced to consider: In the case of an “error”, a “mistake”, so to speak, is it better to classify something as a One or a Zero?

Well, that’s an easy enough decision. The Ones, you see, are quite important, are believed to play a rather critical role in the affairs the machine oversees. The Zeroes … sure, they’re certainly important too, in their own way, in the way everything worth categorizing is—but the Ones! It’s really all about the Ones. You can’t quite go around just calling anything a One, you have to be certain.

So the module is attached and business proceeds without interruption. The machine spits out Ones and Zeroes like it’s supposed to, like it always has and supposedly always will, a binary system choosing between two options. Yet, anyone who knows a little too much about its inner workings is perfectly aware that the machine’s neat bifurcation isn’t all that neat. Truthfully, the machine has three outputs: One, Zero (with a degree of confidence), and “NULL”. It’s just that the exceptions are caught and sorted into the Zero-category, because that method of handling the machine’s limitations still keeps things running smoothly. It’s not much of an issue at all, and there’s no real need to examine the machine any further.

No need to pay attention to the way its NULL exceptions keep rising in volume.

No need to examine it for any shortcomings, oversights … or any weaknesses.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

How do you write a humorous character?

Writing Notes: Humorous Characters

Here are some ways you can explore and develop your characters to make them as rich and comedic as possible.

Base your characters on real people. Characters are fleshed out and made individual by drawing on the qualities of real people you know or have encountered. Real life offers up an abundance of eccentric and dysfunctional people who can become comedy characters. When you have a real model behind the character they become more individual, believable and idiosyncratic. If you don’t have a real-life model (or models) in mind you are more likely to draw on stereotype and cliché. You can draw on a number of real people to flesh out your character picking up on their mannerisms, speech patterns, attitudes, beliefs as well as their biography and life experience. Since you’re fictionalizing, do feel free to do them a terrible disservice and focus on and exaggerate all their worst qualities. And in terms of their biography, if they’ve done three really "stupid" things in the last five years, your character version of them will have done those three stupid things in the last three weeks – or if they’re a real "klutz", in the last three days. Then once you have identified the kinds of stupid things the real person does, you can invent more in a similar vein for your character.

Positives and negatives. It can be brilliantly cathartic to take dreadful people in your life and turn them into comedy characters. Your characters have a problem or a goal and they set about trying to get what they want with their limited skill set. They don’t have the skills, knowledge or ability to effectively achieve their goals, but still they try. (Just like your bad boss). A first question to ask of your boss is: What’s wrong with them? This will be where the comedy lies. All their negative qualities, failings and shortcomings. Have a clear, short list of these issues. This is enough to get started. A next step to ask is: Who else do I know who’s like this? Now you are drawing on bad qualities of other people to make this character even worse. Then having considered your boss’ negative sides ask: What’s right with them? If you really despise them or find them totally contemptible, this can be tricky! They must have some positive qualities. What are they? A balance of positives and negatives makes the character more rounded and engaging – even if the negatives are likely to dominate with many characters, that bit of humanity is important.

Two perspectives on your characters. Here’s another way of looking at your character from 2 perspectives: firstly, describe how they see themselves and secondly how others see them. If there is very little difference between these two perspectives then that would be a self-aware, functional person. The bigger the difference the more comic and/or tragic the character.

Likeability of characters. Often writers get feedback that their characters aren’t likeable enough and yet at the same time there are often sitcoms with characters who behave badly and aren’t obviously likeable. And yet so many viewers have an appalled fascination with the truly dark characters.

Developing an ensemble of characters. Once you have one clear character with strongly defined positives and negatives, to create another character – simply make them the polar opposite of the original character. Comedy thrives on opposites.

Ensemble of Characters. In summary, most successful sitcoms have this dynamic (and some unsuccessful ones lack some element of it):

BOSS – A character in position of power over the striver/protagonist and others – it may be a role or rank or just social status or family seniority. They may have real power or it may just be vested in them by their position but they are inept in some way.

STRIVER (PROTAGONIST) – The main comic character with all their flaws and failings.

FOIL – The more reasonable normal one (usually also a striver) who has to deal with the main striver. Often protagonist and foil are basically on the same side but they can be rivals. Usually the foil is the one the audience can identify with but sometimes they are less obviously likeable.

FOOL – Self-explanatory – the "stupid" or naive and awkward one. Often happy with their lot, they tend to be able to bounce back from the indignities heaped on them.

How to Write Funny Dialogue

Once you have your funny character, how do you write their dialogue? Here are some comedy writing tips and techniques to consider when creating dialogue that is both humorous and convincing.

Quote funny people: In nonfiction writing, one technique for getting laughs is simply to quote people with a sense of humor. When the people around you are funny, you can bring them into your work. They know they are being witty, and you are taking them with you into the essay (or other piece of writing) as part of the humor. In fiction writing, you can create funny characters to introduce jokes into the text in a way that feels natural and not forced. Whether you’re writing fiction or nonfiction, some characters in your story are bound to be funnier than others.

Exaggerate: Stretching a real scenario into the most ridiculous version you can imagine can be another way to get a laugh in nonfiction writing.

Compress: People don’t speak in real life like they do on the page, so there’s an art to writing speech to make it feel real. When quoting a funny person, one of its important tools is compression. By trimming down your characters’ speech, you can convey realistic sounds without dulling the reader. This is important for all types of dialogue, but especially humorous dialogue. A lot of funny dialogue comes from one-liners, humorous responses to situations that are short and punchy.

Keep a diary: Keeping a diary where you write down funny things that happen to you, dialogue you overhear and love, and character traits, will help you see the world differently. Tuning in to your surroundings will open you to moments that could become stories and the parts of your world that belong in your writing.

Be self-deprecating: When you’re writing a scene in which you’re a main character, deploy a trusty humor tool: being harder on yourself than any other character in the story. When you make yourself a relatable character, your reader will feel connected to you. Let go of thinking about how you come across and just try to be honest—learning how to laugh at yourself is crucial.

Twist a cliché or undermine any expectation you’ve set up: Humor relies in part on twisting a cliché—transforming or undermining it. You do this by setting up an expectation based on the cliché and then providing a surprise outcome. In humor writing, this process is called reforming.

Put your funny lines at the end of a sentence or scene: Humor is often a release of tension, so the sentence builds that tension, and the pay-off happens most naturally at the end (the punchline).

Use contrast: Are your characters in a terrifying situation? Add something light, like a man obsessing about his briefcase instead of the T-Rex looming behind him.

Find funny words: Some words are just funnier than others, so make a list of those that amuse you the most. When working with compressed text, word choice is especially important. Wordplay is one kind of humor writing that can make your dialogue funnier.

Manage expectations: It’s especially difficult to make people laugh when they’re expecting you to be funny—never set the expectation that you’re about to try to be funny. It’s much easier to be funny unexpectedly. Make these attempts to be funny a quiet side effect; think of humor as a pleasant deviation from an expectation. Then create a context where laughter is easily produced.

Use body language: A large part of real-life dialogue is non-verbal, and these cues make their way into fiction through the use of stage direction, which is any textual reference to the physical movement of the speakers. The term is borrowed from theater, where such directions are necessary tools to help actors and directors envision the physical set-up of a play. In fiction, stage directions can often do just as much as dialogue to convey a character’s mood, frame of mind, or responses. If your dialogue starts to feel repetitive, put your characters in motion—walking, driving, or distracted by their environment. In comedy, you can use gestures to enhance the humor of a scene, or you can take body language to the maximum of physical comedy: slapstick.

Use gossip: Gossip makes excellent dialogue because people unconsciously dramatize events for the benefit of the listener. They narrate not what happened, but the essence of what happened. When you gossip, your listener suspends disbelief. This is a great way to introduce exaggerated funny stories.

Pay attention to rhythm: Your dialogue should be rhythmic because human speech is naturally rhythmic. When you listen to people having a conversation, they’re creating rhythmic poetry; pauses are filled, sentences are capped by the other’s interruptions, all amounting to a patterned cadence. A play is essentially a poem written for several voices. When writing humorous dialogue, delivery and timing are especially important. Don’t be afraid to rewrite each line of dialogue in your first draft until you get the rhythm just right.

Read your work aloud (to an audience, if possible): Reading aloud is another layer of the editing process—kind of like live workshopping. Make notes on the page as you read, demarcating where the audience laughs and where there is silence. Even without having an audience’s reaction to gauge, reading your work out loud can be an invaluable tool in the writing process. Whether you do stand-up comedy or share a short story at an open mic night or reading, pay attention to your audience’s reactions: where people laugh out loud or where your jokes fall flat.

Use funny dialogue for character development: Dialogue serves the triple purpose of revealing character, advancing plot lines, and providing entertainment. The entertainment part will come more easily if you’re a naturally funny person, but it’s important not to sacrifice character development in dialogue-writing. Dialogue should always be appropriate to the character and should take their point of view, beliefs, and backstory into consideration. People’s desires motivate them to speak, so when writing dialogue, ask yourself what your characters want. Ideally, you will know your characters well enough to sense not only what they want but how they would express their desires verbally. Good jokes often hinge on subverting expectations, and the best jokes—the ones that will stick with your readers—tie into the story as a whole.

More information:

Researching Humor

Linking Sense of Humor to Personality

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Insults & Dry Humor ⚜ Humour ⚜ Laughter & Humour

Hope this helps with your writing!

[neonscandal]

Hello, I have a question about whether I considered Suguru's best friend because he didn't see that his best friend was sick, that makes me so angry. One thing I'm sure of is that if it were the other way around, Suguru would definitely help Gojo and that's the saddest thing.

I'll start by saying that, canonically, Satoru was Suguru's best friend and Suguru was Satoru's best friend. Gratuitous justification isn't really needed since it's in the source material and not just implied.

I agree that, had it been the other way around, Suguru would have noticed but that's because Suguru was the more emotionally intelligent person in their relationship. He was sensitive, humble and was able to put others at ease, earning the approval of Haibara, the respect of Nanami and, of course, his close friendship with Shoko and Gojo.

How did Gojo (and Shoko, for that matter) miss such telltale signs? Well, it happens all the time, doesn't it? Isn't that why people always say, "Check on your strong friends,"? The fact is, you don't know until you know. They never could have imagined he'd veer so far off path, Suguru was the very best among them.

How he goes off to spiral in the shadows alone despite Shoko and Satoru looking back - all the easter eggs will never not get me.

How could Gojo not see what was happening? The simplest way to explain it is... people can only meet you as deeply as they've met themselves. Gojo can have all the history and Digimon at his disposal but this abundance of information makes him a mile wide and an inch deep, emotionally. Even after Geto’s defection, his greatest loss, he still lacks the emotional intelligence to prepare Yuji for the pitfalls every sorcerer must learn to bounce back from. But now, he’s aware of this flaw, knows what can happen and he subsequently enlists the help of Nanami to proactively address that because he still isn’t the man who knows how to navigate that. Even then. Doesn't make what happened to Geto any less tragic. Also doesn’t change the fact that they were each others’ best friends because we accept the flaws of the people we love. Geto knew Gojo had the emotional competence of a spoon. It’s why he always had to nag him. Gojo’s persisting acceptance of Geto, despite everything, shows how deep their friendship was, reciprocally, despite his shortcomings.

If only Geto knew that.

[jackwolfes]

@febuwhump day 1: vocal chords Wesper | Six of Crows | TW: SickFic; Past Abuse febuwhump masterlist

The Van Eck heir was a sickly child. 

It was just another one of his many failings and, ultimately, not that much of a surprise. Of course his father doted on him when he was small — Ghezen forfend anything bad happen to the heir of such a great house — but with time, age, and all his other shortcomings… 

The mediks never had any solutions for it. Some children, they said, are just naturally weaker than others. 

Wylan’s father never liked that answer. 

In his early teenage years, Wylan spent his sick days alone. The staff would bring tea to his bed when he rang for it, although he was forbidden from taking lunch anywhere other than the dining room or his study. Bored days in between sweat-soaked bed sheets were a common and lonely affair. Weak and trembling, he rarely had the energy to drink it, but honey and lemon helped soothe the ache in his throat. 

But an awful lot of those sick days were spent in the mansion’s imposing study, told with unflinching certainty that he wouldn’t be eating supper if he missed that day’s lessons. What sympathy his father had for him as a boy waned with time, and although it must have been obvious he was sick — the splotchy flush on his cheeks and trembling hands were a dead giveaway — his father never listened. 

Every raspy request to stay in bed and rest a day fell on deaf ears, when Wylan managed to be heard at all. 

With no explanation from doctors, Wylan still doesn’t know exactly where the illness was; just that more often than not, the soreness in his throat and hacking coughs left him mute. The fire in his throat when he tried to form a question wasn’t worth it, least of all when he knew what each answer would be. 

No one ever noticed his silence. No one ever cared to listen to what he had to say. 

---

Wylan wakes half a dozen times that night. Each time his eyes open it is with a dull and foggy awareness that the bed is unseasonably warm, but the tightness in his chest and vague sense of dryness distracts him before he can make that thought make sense. 

When he wakes at dawn with bleary eyes, Wylan knows there will be no getting back to sleep. Even lying down he is lightheaded, but the burning tickle at the back of his throat tells him all he needs to know. 

Weakly, he groans. It takes all his effort to lift a hand to his face, but the added darkness of his hand over his eyes does help some. When he was younger there was nothing to do but pull his heavy limbs out from bed and try not to collapse during his lessons, but right now he doesn’t think he has the energy to try. 

“Mmh?” 

A sleepy grunt draws Wylan’s attention, as much as he has any attention left to draw. The bed dips beside him as he remembers, unnervingly slowly, that he no longer sleeps alone. 

“Wy? You ok?” 

Wylan lets his hand slide off his face, turning — rather pitifully — to look at Jesper. Sunlight peeks through the curtains and illuminates the worried furrow in his brows. 

Jesper reaches out to touch his forehead, blissfully cool. Wylan’s eyelids flutter shut as he sighs into the touch, dimly aware of the way Jesper swears. 

“Saints, Wylan, you’re burning.”

Wylan presses his forehead a little bit harder into Jesper's palm. The world tips and sways. The calloused scratch of Jesper’s fingers is comfortingly familiar. 

Jesper chuckles. “So I take it I should call for tea?” 

And Wylan means to say yes, please. Two words, so easy a three year old could manage it. 

What comes out is a raspy, breathless squeak that hisses at the end and turns into an agonising coughing fit. 

Jesper's eyebrows shoot up, but the world has gone dizzy for Wylan. His face flushes with embarrassment, even shame, that manages to cut through the sore ache in his throat with startling ease. 

Even at his most incompetent, he's been able to do something as simple as ask for a cup of tea. The powerlessness of having that taken from him is scary. It isn't like he'll be able to hand Jesper a note asking for what he'd like. 

He tries to say sorry, ends up sounding like he's been shot in the neck. 

“Alright,” Jesper says, rising up as if to get out of bed, “you need a medik—” 

Wylan grabs Jesper's sleeve, fingers clutching weakly in a last ditch effort to keep Jesper close. The last he wants right now is to be alone. 

Pity softens Jesper's eyes. “Want me to stay?” 

All Wylan can do is nod, but Jesper settles back anyway and reassurance surges. Wylan sinks heavily down into the pillows, allowing himself to be swept into the comfort of knowing he isn't alone. His eyelids flutter shut, breathing through parted lips as he tries as hard as he can not to spiral into panic. The nerve-wracking familiarity of a deep quiet when he feels this miserable looms on the horizon. 

But the silence doesn't last long enough for dread to actually set in. 

“Inej wrote, by the way. Did I mention that last night?” 

Wylan perks up — as much as he can — but Jesper presses a hand to the side of his head and encourages him back down once more. 

“That was a rhetorical question, merchling. She’s coming back to Ketterdam for a few weeks soon and said something about those melon candies you liked from the Shu Han. I was going to write back today and ask her to get some of those peanut sweets, too, except now that I think about it I don’t actually remember where I put any of the postage stamps—”

A gentle smile floats across Wylan's lips, the only thing he has energy for. He nuzzles down into Jesper's chest as he continues to ramble on, lulling Wylan softly back into sleep.

[thebadboyfanclub]

I Want My Life Back (Aemond x Reader)

As you guys have realised I adore writing morally gray moments and subtle scenes of endearment between the reader and the character so I hope you like it as well

Rhaenyra was furious, she had lost so much so fast, gave birth to a stillborn, her father was dead, Aegon was crowned king by Alicents command and now her daughter was nowhere to be found, what could she have done when Otto came to Dragonstone with “civil conditions” in order to negotiate but to also announce that her beloved daughter, her precious (y/n) was in Harrenhal with prince Aemond.

“You killed my daughter and now you dare to kidnap my dearest (y/n)?!”

“Nobody took your daughter princess, Aemond and (y/n) eloped”

“You expect me to believe that? My (y/n) would never do this”

“She is her mother's daughter, as you were forbidden by your father to marry Daemon she was also kept away from Aemond, no blood need be spilled, your daughter can create new lineage for the Targaryens, let us unite in harmony again”

“By harmony you mean we bow down to the drunkard bitch that you call king? (Y/n) is probably in some dungeon begging for mercy and you dare to indicate she went willingly? Let me make something clear to you Otto, if I need to kill someone, best believe I am going for Aemond first”

Daemon threatened in a hissed tone while he stood next to Rhaenyra, her hands formed fists from anger and agony, (y/n) was her only daughter, little raven-haired beauty with eyes at the color of the wooden tree she liked to rest under on the summer days in their garden, this was a calculated move from Aemond so Rhaenyras hand will be forced into violence… and he had succeeded.

“My daughter is not a broodmare, she is a princess, I will not allow you to force into squeezing Aemonds children just so you can have leverage over me. We are done here”

There was no way for Rhaenyra to predict this, she scattered her brain that night unable to sleep for glimpses of intimacy between Aemond and (y/n), (y/n) was a sweet girl and Aemond was a brooding prude that blamed his shortcomings on her sons, there was no way (y/n) could have fallen for him.

But (y/n) did, Rhaenyra might not remember though Rhaenyra was unable to see their hands intertwining under the table or how (y/n) looked at Aemond while at the training grounds, nor was she aware of the raven scrolls that were exchanged between them all these years, (y/n) was apprised of the consequences of her actions, she expected her mother to be livid, demanding her to come back home, she predicted everything apart of her grandsires death and the greens scheming.

“We must go back, my mother will listen to me, we can explain”

“My dear I always found your naive nature adorable besides this moment, Rhaenyra will ask for my head the moment she glances upon us”

“Then I shall go alone, Aemond your brother usurped her, if we declare for her perhaps Alicent will soften and bend the knee”

“That cannot happen, it is too dangerous, Daemon will throw me in the cells of dragonstone, is that what you want? To be kept away from me?”

Aemond reached for his lover's hands and brought them up to let them rest on his chest while he gawked deeply into her eyes with a pleasing look, the raven that was sent to them by Aemonds grandsire Otto should have been burned, foolishly he let her know of the events from Kings Landing, (y/n) was overcome by grief for Viserys even though it was Aemonds father.

Aemond was worried for the future with his intentions, not for kings or queens, they could kill each other for all he cared, in fact, what a bright idea would it be to see his lovely (y/n) wearing a crown while she stood by his side? A child or two next to them, the picture was rudely ripped from his imagination by (y/n) who paced around the room like a mad woman, whispering plans to go back, Aemond would rather eat dragon glass than see Rhaenyras face right now.

“No, of course not, Aemond, she is my mother”

“And my sister, my brother, my own mother, still I stand here by your side I do not whine and beg to run back to her”

“Whine? Is that what you think? That I’m simply homesick?”

“Truth be told I do not know what to think of you anymore”

“they need us”

“I need you, me! The one that came to your chambers and promised you a future as bright as the sun and children as many as the stars above, our families kept us from one another for so long I will not let them do it again”

Aemonds voice boomed through the room, (y/n) was left as still as a grain of salt, stiff as she lowered her gaze to the ground before she looked back up to him, fear and sadness written all over he faces, Aemonds deep breaths were the only thing you could hear at the same time that (y/n) was left with countless things to say, strangely she had seemed to lose her voice, no, he had taken it from her.

“I love you, Aemond, I love my family too”

“I am your new family and you better get that through your thick skull”

“You promised me that we would be happy”

“We will, once you give up those foolish ideas of going home”

“Aemond no, please”

She tried to run after him, instinctively she was sure of what was to come alas she was not fast enough, the door shut before her eyes and the sound of keys twisting was heard as she slid down the door to the ground.

Aemond stood on the other side, listening to her whimpering and (y/n) calling for him whilst she banged on the door in desperation, every fiber of his being was screaming to open the door, hug her, kiss her, give her everything her heart wishes, thought the fear of their families intervening and twisting their fate around until there was nothing left kept him from doing what his heart truly wanted.

“Please, I have never asked for much, keep her from hating me, in the Mother's name I pray”

Aemond had earned his piousness from his mother, the fear of the seven often sneaked into his consciousness making him beg for forgiveness for seeking the companion of (y/n) in a manner that was unbefitting his station, now he was left in his own devices to navigate his relationship and properly stir it to the safest route.

“Aemond, please, let me out”

Her voice cracked as her bangs on the door were becoming smaller, slowly giving up at the attempt to change his mind.

Aemond was the only man (y/n) ever wanted, she adored her mother as deep as bones so to run away with Aemond meant a lot, on the contrary (y/n) wanted to stand by her mothers' side, why must she choose between love and family?

Minutes passed, minutes turned to hours and (y/n) stayed on the cold floor while the sun said its goodbyes and was replaced by the moon, a serene night, sounds of nature filled her ears that usually calmed her, the wind passing through the leaves was melodic yet (y/n) felt like an empty shell of a person, weak from crying she dragged herself to her bed, she did not even try to take her clothes off, she just laid there, waiting for the sweet feeling of sleep to take her away, take her to her mother.

It was a pointless task, (y/n) could not just sleep like nothing has happened, besides, the bed was too cold for her liking, it was their second night away from home and they were spending it away since Aemond decided to lock her away like a child in punishment, safe to say that it wasn’t unraveling the way (y/n) had pictured it.

While (y/n) was dwelling over the bad turn of events a shuffling of keys in the lock forced her to raise from the bed and turn her attention towards the wooden door.

“(Y/n)?”

Aemonds voice was as light as a feather as he walked into the room, the candles snarfed out hours ago meant the only source of light came from outside which wasn’t that helpful, still as the moonlight laminated in the room Aemonds silver hair alerted her.

“You are being cruel”

“You mean everything to me”

“I want my life back”

“You chose to come with me”

“Not as your prisoner”

“Can you promise me that if I set you free you won’t try to run away?”

Silence, utter silence took over as (y/n) bit her bottom lip, Aemond waited patiently before a smirk appeared on his lips.

“I thought so”

“I still need you, intensely at that, my love for you is deeper than this, I just- do you understand why I am resisting?”

“I do, do you understand why I want us to stay away”

“Yes”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Lay with me”

Her voice was meek and hoarse from crying almost until this moment until the tears dried up and the gagging from the sore throat became insufferable, her eyes swollen and red, Aemond hated seeing her like this, he wanted to claw himself and rip his skin to pieces for putting her through such emotional suffering.

He complied by taking off his jacket, then shoes and pants, slowly to not startle her he crawled into bed with her, his arms snaked around her and his one hand found her thick strands of hair while the other ran circles on her back, (y/n) took a deep inhale at the contact, his touch always had a strong influence over her, Aemond was (y/n)s milk of the poppy, addictive, sweet and numbing to point of delusions, a faint smile appeared from (y/n) as she nuzzled closer to him, her hands clung on to him for dear life.

Aemond was her prison, he held the keys to her freedom yet she wanted to stay, to love him, some would call it the stupidity of a young girl, the poets would say that the love had poisoned her blood and (y/n) was letting the snake bite her because of how sweet the kiss was.

“I will always be here for you”

“I know, I just wish things had been different”

“They will be”

“You don’t know that”

“I will do my best”

“That is still not good enough, I am sorry but it’s not, Aemond we could-“

“I will not breathe more life into the matters of our families, the people that kept us apart if you recall, I just want to enjoy your presence for one night”

(Y/n) only puffed out a breath of frustration, she hated to admit that he was right, going over it again and again would not sway him to her side of things whatsoever, if anything it angered Aemond to a bigger extent and that would make things worst for (y/n).

“Hopefully one day we can look back on this time period and laugh, your hair will be great and our grandchildren will run around us”

“That sounds like a wonderful future dearest”

“Do you think we can make it?”

“I don’t know”

He was honest as he stroked her head and she inhaled sharper to take in his scent, a scent that soothed her, a scent that reminded her of a time that they sneaked around the castle at the hour of the wolf in Aegons chambers while he was already out of the gates doing Gods know what.

“What I do know is that I will not stop until I create a haven, for you, and for our new family”

“Until we can open our gates to our families”

Aemond chose to bite back his tongue, it irritated him that she always found a way to bring them up, Aemond was certain that this rivalry for the throne would end in a bloodbath for both sides, nobody could tell with certainty that Rhaenyra or all the others would survive.

Of course, it left him anxious as well, his lovely sister, Heleana, his adoring mother, Alicent, his sweet brother, Daeron, and even the agitating Aegon who had his moments, he had to give it to him that Aegon was the only one that helped him keep his affair with (y/n) under wraps.

“We should rest, an important morrow awaits us”

“Will you help me pick out a dress?”

“I have already arranged a dress for you, did you think I was going to let my bewitching bride wear a simple gown?”

Requests are open!

[excalibur-gone-missing]

Paring: wonwoo x fem!reader

Genre: lovers to exes

warning(s): angst

summary: wonwoo realizing that good things dont last unless one takes care of them.

words:750

a/n: I request each and every one of you to comment on this fic don't be a silent reader it helps me as an author to understand my readers and i would love to communicate with all of you. Constructive criticism is always welcomed by me so do talk about this fic or send me an ask.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Wonwoo had realized you were the love of his life from the prime age of fifteen. You obviously were not aware of this revelation of his, but you did not need to, he was fine with keeping it secret from you till he was comfortable with sharing it.

He had met you when you were six and though a series of unfortunate events, wherein you shoved his face in dog shit and he pushed you into the lake without knowing you could not swim, you both became best of friends, almost inseparable.

The first crack in your ever so strong friendship came with Wonwoo realizing his feelings for you, he stopped talking to you trying his level best to make sure it goes away. It resulted in you breaking into his house to inquire his sudden disappearance from your life and decreasing his life span in the process.

He had his first serious conversation with you about your relationship then. After spending the whole night talking, you both realized you were equally in love with each other and felt the innate teenage need to get into a relationship.

That was the second crack. Now that he thinks back to that day, he realizes the foolhardy risk you both took. It just resulted in a lost friend and a broken relationship.

That was five years ago, both of you were young and dumb, and did not know how to actually work out a relationship. Now at the age of twenty, both still young and dumb, but wiser than your fifteen-year-old selves stand in the living room of his college dorm teary eyed and exhausted from the conversation you just had.

"Maybe it's time we take a break you know experience the world, because I don't really have the energy to do a long distance anymore Wonwoo, not when it's just me putting the effort." You spoke.

That was the topic of the argument, 'his extreme ignorance to your presence', as you had stated, taking utmost care to point out all the time when he went wrong and how you are the only one putting enough effort.

In return he had used up his energy to point out valid reasons as to why he was not able to be available for you in his schedule. His head is throbbing, and he would very much like to have a glass of water but alas the predicament he is in refrains him from doing so.

"let's break up then, what are we waiting for", he says.

All he gets is a scoff from you as a reply. You turn around while running a hand through your hair, you mumble something that sounds similar to 'prick' and walk out of his dorm slamming the door shut.

Maybe if he would have tried to understand where he went wrong instead of making excuses, maybe if you would have tried to understand his predicament or maybe if you both would have sat down for a discussion, you could have salvaged the broken relationship of yours.

But that was not the case here, you both were too deep in your emotions to even try and feel the others, the years in uni had made you both incapable of accepting the changes you both went through. It has made you both hardheaded souls who refused to accept their own shortcomings and blame the world for everything when they could easily fix the problem with accepting their faults instead of defending them.

You were Wonwoo’s first love, and he knows he was yours, but maybe good things do not last long or maybe to make them last one must put in effort, which you both just refused to do. He knows before anything else you both were friends; he does not know if you will be anymore, but he sure does hope that the friendship stays.

Maybe he is a prick he thinks, but you are no less, he knows both of you are equally at fault here, but he will take the easy route this time too, he will blame you because it takes too much courage to blame one’s own self.

He just hopes when the storm dies down you come back to him maybe not as a lover but as a friend because you are too precious for him to lose, and he hopes you think the same as him. Because at the end of the day, you are best of friends.

[chickenkurage]

“The state I found you in (It's like looking in a mirror)”

Summary: Snow sees himself too much in Vee, so it wasn’t a surprise to see Vee in such a bad state, Snow is just slightly angry at himself for not noticing sooner.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Found Family Dynamics, Fluff

*~*

Kit: Cursor Alan

Vee: Teen Alan

Feathers: Duck Alan

Noogai: Artificial Intelligence Alan

Snow: Creator Stickman Alan

Oji: Farmer Alan

*~*

Snow was keenly aware of Vee's tendency to lose sleep and skip meals, neglecting breakfast, lunch, and even dinner. Vee had a persistent habit of doing so, often relying on Oji or Noogai to pull him out of his funk and coax him into eating or taking a bath. The weariness etched on Vee's face made it clear just how much he struggled.

In short, Snow understood that Vee was on a self-destructive path, mirroring Snow's own struggles, yet Snow hadn't found the courage to address it with him. Oji and Noogai seemed better equipped to handle this than Snow, who admitted his own shortcomings when it came to dealing with emotions.

If only he were more adept at such conversations, maybe the Hollowheads wouldn't have distanced themselves from him, would they?

At present, it was just Snow and Vee in their shared home. The others had moved on to their own worlds.

While in his world, Snow has only Ammy to confide in. He longed for the company of his other selves, only to realize that Vee was the sole remaining presence in the household.

Now, as Snow sank onto the couch, resting his chin on his hands with his elbow on his knees, he let out a heavy sigh. Should he return to his own world? College life was demanding for Vee, just as Snow vaguely recalled his own art school days.

College life was a relentless grind, with countless sleepless nights that Snow himself had endured. It was entirely plausible that Vee was going through similar struggles.

In a fleeting moment, Snow contemplated knocking on Vee's door to inquire about his well-being but ultimately retreated to his own room, opting to rest first. Perhaps tomorrow he would muster the courage to engage in a conversation if Vee emerged from his own seclusion.

*~*

Vee remained holed up in his room not just the next day, but for several days in a row, leading Snow to believe he was alone in the house and that Vee had likely left the night before. Standing outside Vee's room, Snow hesitated, contemplating whether to knock. Could Vee still be inside? Maybe he had already departed.

"No way he's been in there for days. That's impossible. No one can do that," Snow muttered to himself, dropping his hand to his side and crossing his arms.

Before he could react, the door swung open, revealing Vee with a tissue stuffed up his nose, his complexion pale, and his eyes weary as he looked up at Snow in surprise. "S-Snow? Have you been here all this time?" Vee stammered, his astonishment mirrored in Snow's blinking gaze.

"I thought you had gone home a few days ago, Vee. Are you telling me you haven't left your room in days now?" Snow inquired, his typically soft voice taking on a slightly more angry tone as Vee winced, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Days have passed already? Uh... no way, haha... you must be kidding, right?" Vee weakly grinned up at Snow, but his expression faltered when Snow continued to gaze at him intently. "Oh, crap... Seriously?" Vee whispered, placing a hand on his head, his eyes widening before Snow gently rested a hand on his shoulder. "What have you been doing? Did you even eat? I thought—I thought you had already gone home," Snow's voice tinged with concern as Vee waved a hand.

"I-I did! I just ate really late. You were probably already asleep... um," Vee awkwardly explained, pulling the tissue from his nose, crumpling it into a ball, and stuffing it into his pocket before sniffing. "I was just finishing up some school work, and I couldn't focus back at home. I kept getting distracted, so I came here..." Vee mumbled, as Snow sighed.

"Are you sure you're alright? You look really pale," Snow inquired, bending down slowly to meet Vee's gaze eye to eye.

"Uhh, heh, I'm doing fine, just a little tired. School work's got me messed up, am I right?" Vee nonchalantly shrugged as Snow observed him closely. "Are you sure?" Snow questioned once more, his concern evident, as Vee nodded rapidly, wincing as the room seemed to spin around him. His head had been throbbing persistently for days now.

"Vee?" Snow placed a hand on Vee's shoulder as Vee stumbled on his feet. He heard Vee sniff again, pressing the back of his hand against his nose, only to emit a small noise of surprise when it came away bloody. "You're having a nosebleed!" Snow exclaimed in panic as Vee stared at it, bewildered, before faltering again and almost collapsing into Snow's arms.

"I think—" Vee stuttered, his hand reaching to his nose in an attempt to staunch the bleeding before apologizing to Snow, "Sorry, Snow, I think I'm going to pass out." With those words, Vee's vision darkened, and he slumped towards the floor.

"Shit!" Snow exclaimed, moving swiftly to catch Vee before he hit the ground, lifting him up in his arms to prevent his fall.

*~*

It took a considerable effort for Snow to stop Vee's nosebleed, to the extent that he began to worry if he should rush Vee to the hospital, only to recall the impossibility of bringing Vee to his own world.

Snow dedicated himself to wiping the blood from Vee's chin and placing a comforting hand on his clammy forehead, his face etched with concern. He paced back and forth in front of the couch where Vee lay, yearning for the presence of Noogai in that moment.

Would Noogai be adept at handling this situation? Or perhaps Oji, given the other Alan's experience with children. "Ugh, damn it!" Snow growled, frustration evident as he clenched his fist in his hair, pacing anxiously to the point where he feared he might leave a trail of fire in his wake from sheer agitation.

"Snow?" Vee mumbled, breaking Snow from his thoughts. Snow turned to him in surprise, rushing to Vee's side and kneeling beside the couch to assess his condition. 

"Vee, you're awake! How are you feeling? You just had a nosebleed for almost 2 minutes. I was so worried," Snow's words tumbled out rapidly, tinged with panic as Vee squinted at him, attempting to comprehend what Snow had just said.

“Wha—” Vee mumbled, attempting to push himself up but faltering until Snow lent a hand, assisting him to sit upright. He handed Vee the now-warm water from the coffee table, guiding him to take a sip. “Sorry, uh, drink first,” Snow murmured as Vee nodded, eagerly gulping down the water.

“What happened?” Vee inquired, rubbing his head in confusion. The throbbing headache had vanished, and to his surprise, he felt better than before. Could Snow possess healing abilities? A power nap couldn't have worked such instant wonders on Vee.

“You passed out, Vee. You weren’t getting any sleep were you?” Snow's tone carried a hint of accusation as Vee blushed. “That wasn’t—” Vee began, his face flushing as Snow scrutinized him. “Yeah, I didn’t,” Vee admitted, his demeanor deflating as Snow sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That was dangerous. What if I hadn’t been here? What if you had passed out and choked on your own blood?!” Snow's tone was laced with worry and exasperation as Vee raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s... kind of graphic... and a very well-thought-out scenario,” Vee remarked, furrowing his brow as Snow emitted a distressed sound from the back of his throat.

"Vee, I'm not joking. That was incredibly risky. Isn't this a wake-up call for you to start taking better care of yourself?" Snow's voice held a peculiar softness as Vee gazed at him, his expression a mix of surprise and pallor. "Oh, that, huh?... Right... uhm," Vee responded awkwardly, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Vee... I—well, a lot of us care about you. The people in your world care about you too. Why don't you value yourself as much as they do?" Snow tilted his head, his forehead creased with worry.

"I do... I just forget sometimes... I'm sorry for causing you so much concern, Snow," Vee mumbled, averting his gaze to his lap, his lip caught between his teeth. Beside him, Snow simply sighed. "It's okay. Perhaps next time, set alarms to remind you to take breaks," Snow suggested, standing up and settling at the foot of Vee's position, allowing Vee to rest his leg on his lap.

Following this exchange, silence enveloped the room. Vee reclined against the bunched-up pillows behind him, his eyes growing heavy once more as he observed Snow turning towards him. "Go back to sleep. I'll keep watch," Snow spoke softly, prompting a hum of acknowledgment from Vee. "Thanks, Snow. You're the best," Vee muttered, snuggling back into the pillows.

"Thanks for being here," Vee murmured, closing his eyes, finally succumbing to sleep.

Snow slowly released a breath through his nose, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. Guilt churned in his gut, weighing heavily on him for allowing Vee to push himself to the brink of passing out and suffering a nosebleed.

*~*

The next day, when the others returned, Snow arranged for Noogai to give Vee a check-up. Fortunately, it turned out that Vee was only dehydrated and slightly underweight. Upon hearing this, Oji wasted no time in bustling about the kitchen, preparing a feast, while everyone collectively enveloped Vee in a blanket. Kit took charge of the TV, playing something to distract them all.

While, Feathers delivered a stern lecture to Vee about the importance of taking care of his own well-being.

"Guys... please, Snow, help me out of here," Vee mumbled, his voice muffled as he struggled within the confines of the blanket, his hair tousled. Snow chuckled softly. "I think a week of rest would do you good," he suggested, causing Vee's eyes to widen in disbelief.

"What?!" Vee exclaimed, watching as Snow made his way towards the kitchen where the others had gathered. "Wait! Snow! Guys!" Vee called out, a mixture of surprise and protest in his voice.

*~*

for @0gingerflake0

Hope you enjoy, very late, sorry for the wait :3 - S

[obsidianpen]

Pen!!! I’ve been wondering about Harry and Voldemort’s connection and how it works when they communicate. And also, how that played a role at the wedding.

So. Harry dancing with Daphne is fine, because she’s genuinely not interested in him like that, while the reverse goes for Harry. I think his reaction is very dependent on what Harry feels or thinks when interacting with another person — desire, happiness, peace, which are all things Voldemort probably actually wants Harry to experience, but by his hand, not anyone else’s. And being aware of his own… shortcomings probably makes him more insecure than he’d ever admit, even to himself. Now Ginny… well — firstly, if I recall correctly, Voldemort had already left when Harry stumbled upon her, so he couldn’t have seen them directly; and secondly, I don’t think he used to check in on Harry every other second, at least at that point. Yes, Voldemort can sense what Harry is feeling, see what Harry sees, but he needs to be… logged in, I guess is a good analogy? Or like when you’ve got tabs opened on your phone or laptop, but unless you click on them you can’t really see any real-time changes of whatever site or app you’re surveying. And for Voldemort to be actually alerted of anything happening with Harry, while not actively using their connection, a very significant spike of Harry’s emotions must probably occur — all very reasonable points when thinking about his interaction with Ginny.

Bottom point being I don’t think he wouldn’t have been bothered by them dancing together just on principle, because he was well aware of what they were to each other, rather he didn’t clock in until Harry’s emotions spiraled enough to alert Voldemort.

This is something I’ve said on Discord too, but wanted to get your personal thoughts on their connection too. Is that how it works, at least roughly?

yes I would agree that’s roughly how it works! He had already left at that point and was very much ‘logged out’; he had about a million death eaters around including Bella to keep tabs on Harry. It was indeed Harry’s strong emotions for Ginny happening that made him freak the fuck out. Because knowing about someone having a past and feeling those raw emotions are very different things, and he wasn’t prepared for the wave of jealousy and spite that assaulted him (in a way that wouldn’t have in the first chapters, because his feelings for Harry had grown exponentially without him really realizing)

[velvetvexations]

I'm not saying the real thing doesn't happen, maybe it does often — and I just haven't seen it much because most irl trans spaces I've been to were over mostly trans fems and they usually asked us about trans masc stuff when they didn't know — but I feel like there's a possible other side to the issue of "afab trans people using their agab against trans fems" which is that online at least trans masc experiences are way too often just assumed. Both cis and trans people who don't want to listen to us love to talk about which issues we do and do not face, how we did and did not grow up and how it did or did not affect us.

So that's how you get TERFs assuming that we must have been raised to believe that girls can't do things boys can and that's why we think we aren't girls and some trans people assuming the opposite, that we got to wear and do whatever we wanted and never had to experience misogyny because our masculinity was seen as superior and encouraged.

But if you make assumptions, you will upset people whose experiences you're misrepresenting and you may get pushback from said upset people.

I think we all know how hard it is to put the transmasc experience into words in a way that doesn't imply that female/male socialization is a real and universal, so I can imagine why someone who's upset might say some things in a way that could make trans fems feel attafked and invalidated in their femininity.

There are trans mascs who weren't allowed to do or wear anything masculine whatsoever as children, there are afab trans people who were beaten for wanting to do things boys do and forced to marry and have children young, there is still systemic misogyny that affect all trans people who happen to have been born with a uterus and vagina, girls and "girls" are still more likely to be paid less for the same work and less like to be encouraged to be good at sports or math, more likely to be murdered by romantic partners etc.

I can't blame random normie trans people just living their life for not knowing how to explain all of this in a way that couldn't possibly be interpreted as radfem rethoric implying "trans fems aren't oppressed/don't know what it's truly like to be born a girl" for example in an emotionally charged situation where maybe someone told them to shut up because they don't know what it's like to experience misogyny.

The solution imo is to keep working on developing trans theory to make it more inclusive so that we can find ways to express those ideas and spread awareness in less confrontantial ways. So much time & effort is spent just pushing back against transphobia, which don't get me wrong is important but I hope we get to a point where we (trans masc & other gender diverse ppl) can just talk about our experiences and have people listen and vice versa we would enjoy reading transfeminist theory a lot more if we could expect it to be inclusive or at least not to be making up falsehoods or generalizations about our lived experiences.

But I can see why disciplining people with an overtly transphobic 4chan insult is much much easier & satisfying for people who refuse to acknowledge their shortcomings.

Honestly, I love you, and I love this analysis, but I think you're being too kind. I think at some point some people have to just...be better. I know I say a lot I think a lot of transradfems are just genuinely awful people - certainly I refuse to be swayed the ones at the top are anything else, to say nothing of the explicit tankies - but even if someone has sympathetic reasons for their transandrophobia and exorsexism, it's like, okay, yeah, we should keep trying to do better at outreach, but at the same time it's absolutely on them to stop coping with trauma by hurting people and ignoring that that is in fact what they're doing. It's not on transmasculine and non-binary people to be their therapists.

And the lengths I've seen people go to, like this very ask, to try and be as patient as possible yet still get met with immediate dismissal and readings that sound like Christian moms explaining how the names of Pokemon are Satanic codewords just boggles the mind.

Like, if I were to say "I disagree" it isn't that I think people should stop trying to be nice, I do think we should be doing what you're saying we should be doing, but at the same time it's their responsibility and can only be forgiven up to a point. No matter what they may have gone through or still go through, they have a responsibility to their fellow human beings let alone trans people to be better.

I'm for sure also not trying to say you're implying otherwise, I don't believe you were saying we should totally let them off the hook and coddle them until they stop being bigoted, but I just feel very strongly about stressing that they have to fix their hearts.

But that's also why Velvet Nation is composed of so many better activists than me. At most what I can do is bite someone's head off and maybe make some people feel like they have a supporter that's passionate enough to get that angry on their behalf. I'm not nearly as constructive as yall and that's more important than me and my woe unto the wicked thing.

[akunoniwa]

Reconciliation

AN: i really like the priest trope y'all and dottore continues to plague my being.

Synopsis: In which you confess to your earnest, local priest about your most wretched sins...

Pairing: Priest!Il Dottore x fem!reader

Warnings: MDNI, he's a priest all of the sudden... for some reason..., dirty (blabbing) talk, mutual masturbation ig, you two just drive each other mad

WC: ~2.7k

Also, if anyone is interested, for the last couple years I have been curating a playlist of Evil, Macabre, Scheming classical that I usually write to. You can find it here! (Spotify :/)

Dottore himself may possess a universe-worth of deranged secrets, but his malevolence was the most obvious truth of all.

He’d be a resourceful and dutiful liar, a rehearsed cosmopolitan who knows what to say to get not just underneath your frail blouse, but your skin. He’d often get hyperboles thrown his way, how he must be able to read minds… Surely… That is impossible, right?

How Dottore managed to slip in through the ancient cracks of the Church of Favonius, one could not trace with their finger alone, as he found a special way to bypass the seminary. Growing morbidly bored in his lab as his segments took care of the more ‘menial’ things, he had a thought, twisted and contorted as usual: Where could he get a true, mouth-watering taste of humanity, bare and earnest before him? Naturally, a church is a place where sin may be denounced, but in a sense is romanticized and encouraged in its fashionable banishment. How he’d not considered this his first time around was… Perhaps a symptom of his inability to have all of himself in one place, both cognitively and literally speaking.

Dottore couldn’t merely walk into the cathedral in search of employment, however. The fame he’d acquired was not for his victories, but rather his shortcomings, though the public wouldn’t discern them beyond atrocities, successful or not. While the Fatui had strange footholds in every part of Teyvat, his presence would not be shrugged off, especially should Seamus get word of his meanderings.

His plan, then, was simple– dispose of a working, familiar priest, and he could replicate him as he’s done before in Inazuma, promptly and quietly taking his place. The edges of his ears tingle with anticipation as he imagines all of the degeneracy and blasphemy he’d bear witness to in confession, perhaps he could absorb some inspiration for other projects… Or so he initially thought before you started coming to him for ‘advice’, blotting his mind with a different genre of filth.

In the confessional, he’s able to indulge in hearing various grim sins and tales, his tarnished soul getting off on the compiled suffering in one way or another. His coos of nurturing advice would aptly dilute any evidence of that, though, as he had a reputation to maintain. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to hear your most vile fantasies should he somehow get removed.

You came in routinely, your voice shrouded in its faux shame, so close to his ear as it was only separated by a mere wooden screen. He could damn near feel your tongue as it pushed your impure thoughts to him on its crests and troughs. He was well aware of your intentions, convinced you’d not step foot on church grounds were it not to hand-feed him samples of your depravities. The image of you kneeling, in such a decadent position while you granted him whispers of obscenities, made it hard to restrain a grin of utter, vulgar satisfaction.

Knowing who was approaching next, he allowed himself to loosen his grip on his character only slightly, “My… I never would’ve expected your prompt return…”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…” Your voice crept beautifully through the holes of the screen like a miasmic mist. He allowed his still-unfamiliar title slipping past your lips prick chills all over his body, the blatant implications of hierarchy stoning him.

This was all between you two anyhow, so he decided to play with you to his content, “I can only imagine.” His true voice, too, lingered like smoke through to your ears, dense yet airy, “Perhaps the Lord will find it within His grace to admonish you of your consistently licentious behavior… Tell me, dear, what ails you?”

“I just can't seem to stop thinking about you, Father…” You always had a hard time dropping the guise immediately, as if you haven’t shared these thoughts with him numerous times before.

You heard him shift, his robes moving slowly about his tensed, upright form, your voice drowning him when it was shaped in such a needy tone, “Ah… Quite the predicament, indeed. You know this is a safe place for you to air your sins out into the open, you must proclaim them clearly to Him.”

Your light giggle sent wakes of delirium through him, “I could never conceal my true self from you, Father… Although, I find myself wondering if you’re really an envoy of God or a spawn from Hell.”

“You wound me, darling, deeply so, though that will not divert my faith and divine purpose to ensure your merciful forgiveness.” He improvised artlessly, your implications alone rustling his guts, a friction he was growing addicted to. His entire being salivated at the thought of what mangled ideas you’d bring right to his feet. How you returned to him, beckoning for attention like a crow as you’d gift him with gleaming desire.

“A true messenger of God’s word would surely not get giddy at the thought of fucking one of their devotees… Wouldn’t you agree?” Your words were somewhat daring on your part, as you couldn’t entirely surmise just who was inches from you, but he has more than revealed his insatiable lechery.

You swore you could feel his breath through the screen as he pushed out an arrogant chuckle through his nose, as if there were no other place for you but the palm of his hand, “It’s that very thing, your passionate devotion, that compels Him. Though it seems you’re trying to parry attention away from your misdeeds…”

You noted, much to your pleasure, how he didn’t deny your accusation, “It’s just… Often when I go to pray before bed, I get distracted…”

“It’s entirely normal to get distracted,” He briefly paused, you could almost feel the breath that was perched in his throat in your own, “Perhaps you’re neglecting a piece of your conscience, an inherent part of yourself that you’ve yet to reconcile with.”

An inherent slut, that’s what he thought. How you come in here weekly only to tempt him, your mind is devoted to nothing nearly akin to a god. Truly exquisite.

You continued a bit more blatantly, toying with him, “That could be… It’s so hard to not lose my train of thought when I’m on my knees and can’t think of anything but your voice in place of His.”

His body was bleeding soot, he felt a build-up of carnal animosity trickle into his veins as you spoke, “Is that so… Was I not conveying His word as I usually do, darling?”

Your knees were quickly growing sore from kneeling, but the pain was blunted by the dull buzzing in your abdomen, “If His words are usually detailing what terrible things he’d like to do to me, but I can’t be so sure…”

His legs inadvertently parted, weakening upon your implications, a heat radiating between them that he wished was due to your body being between them. He was trying with every atom that built him to keep his hands in a neutral position on his thighs, but so desperately wanted to alleviate the growing strain in his slacks, “Terrible, indeed… I think you’re not truly allowing Him to touch you, darling, letting Him resonate deep inside you…” His veiled smirk ought to run laps around his entire face as he shuffled through his deck of delirious innuendos. He just enjoyed the theater of it all as his hands clawed at polyester.

While his acting was laughable from a more rational perspective, you were too intoxicated with want to mind and his prods were becoming too potent, “You may be right, Father,” You hoped to any higher power that calling him that was fucking with him. Not being able to see him was making you spiral, the need to merely touch him was stacking as you were beyond yourself before even making it to the church. Being that his voice was all you knew, you were sure that should he actually graze your skin, you’d be all the more susceptible to his antics.

As much as he likes to indulge in teasing you, he so badly wanted to drop the act that you’ve both rehearsed so many times before and insist that you meet him on this side of the screen. Your honeyed voice is always shredding him to dust, his mind disintegrating at the thought of how reprehensible it’d be to take you right here in the confines of the confessional box. Look him in the eyes from your precious, kneeled perspective and tell him how far from God you’ve fallen, how your repentance can only be properly demonstrated on his cock. Your delectable moans would drip right into his ear as he takes you, making your sex the only sacrament you’ll ever require.

“Father?” You called to him through his mental escapade delicately, his silence unsettling in several ways, though it seems you’d successfully wedged your way into his head.

“Yes, darling.” His ability to respire becomes all the more taxing, the facade threatening to shatter as he almost forgets his role for a moment.

“Could you… Do me a favor?” Curling, winding, your vague presence was constricting around him so deliciously.

“What is it…?” You already had him at the heel of each consonant. You debated in your fantasies what you’d lose yourself over more: Being told what to do, or telling him what to do… Did you have to choose?

You bared your fanged will, “I know you want to touch yourself desperately, if you’re not already…” You began, confident in your assumptions as you heard an eroded breath tumble from his lips, “Could you do that for me…?”

His brows collided in a furrow, dumbfounded with how forward you were finally being, “Of course, darling…” He easily committed, “Anything to bestow God’s love, even to the undeserving…”

He didn’t care to hold back his heady exhale upon finally kneading a palm into his already well-hardened cock, cuffing it now and then to outline the silhouette through his pants. You, too, let him in on your movements, ensuring he heard your sweet, lofty mewls as your fingers padded your clit ever so slowly.

“How do you feel, Father… Tell me…” You sang to him, oh how he wished he could see your flushed face, how you urged him to pleasure himself.

“I know it wouldn’t compare to your vile little mouth.” He groaned through another wavered exhale, “I would go as far as to guess you were wet before you got down on your knees, before you got to this Church, thinking about how badly you want to be fucked in such a sacred place…” Saying this knowing damn well how his body faltered at the sight of your name being rightfully branded on his list for another confession.

“Maybe that’s just how I show my devotion, Father…” You bit your lip as your clit gradually stiffened with need, cycling just the right spot, hardly able to resist rutting into your hand.

“Fuck, and you keep calling me that,” His grip tightened, though he’d not let himself free from his constraints yet.

“Is that not what you are? Or are you, God forbid, hiding something?” You pressed him in unison with your hand.

Him revealing his true identity would benefit no one, including you, but something about being able to fuck you as his true self set him ablaze. His expression tightened into one of brief apprehension, he could feel the knocking of his heart in his throat– There’s no feasible way you’d know who he is…

“Of course,” He assured himself more than anyone else, “But when you say it the way you do, in that sickening little whine of yours… It’s too good, darling, too much.” You reeled as you could hear the grin that tugged at his lips, though the struggle to maintain composure between you is what spoiled you.

“Are you moving… Fast or slow?” You forced him to elaborate, though your voice only continued to dwindle.

“Painfully slow…” His hips instinctually rose and fell in his vice grip, “I wish it were any part of you, darling… Your hand, your pretty mouth… Maybe you’d be sitting in my lap…” He mused wickedly.

You hummed in a whisper, “I wish I could touch you…” You decided to admit, “What would you want me to do to you, Father…?” You dug your interrogation into him as you wandered to your cunt, overflowing with slick need as two fingers dove inside in a curl. How you could have his cock pushing through you right in this moment but you both opted for this pitiful demonstration instead…

He adored how you were tearing yourself apart for him, desperation infecting your words, “Perhaps I’d want you to start with your hand in place of mine so you could realize how utterly insane you make me feel… How hard I am for you with just your voice alone, darling.” The rhythm of his breaths was becoming more hasty, the timbre of his voice growing more tangy as his lust snuck through the confines of his weakening dignity.

“Fuck, I really just wanna feel your hot lips wrapped around me, that filthy mouth of yours… Your flattened tongue running against the underside…”

You egged him on with a moan of approval, his mental painting distracting your movements from exceeding a slow massage inside you, “That sounds so good, I want to be the one making you feel good…”

On that note, he found himself needing to corrupt you. Requiring it. It was a perfect setting to do so, beheld in the eyes of sanctity at its most intense. It made him want to rip his own heart out, how this feeling ravaged his entire being. He wanted to be the only one who could make you feel like you served a purpose, symbiotic destruction as he’d fuck you until you could recall nothing else but the sensation of his cock filling you to the most dizzying brim. As much as he wanted you to worship him, he found the prospect of making you ascend with pleasure more gratifying.

“I bet you’d be the kind to get off on me fucking your mouth, neglecting your aching little cunt…” He loved denying himself the raw contact with his cock, but it was becoming quite the task to uphold as he moved to fumble with his belt buckle.

Your face managed to insulate itself with a blush that, should he have seen it, he would’ve taken you upon first notice, “I’d want you to grip my hair, forcing me to keep eye contact…”

“Good, darling, now you’re imagining… How I’d make you gag looking right into your eyes, as that’s only what you deserve for punishment’s sake.” He managed to free himself from his slacks, with no patience to adjust himself beyond his length protruding through the opening of his fly. Your shallow pants were so close to his ear, through the fine holes of the screen he hallucinated a face to imagine. He watched the apparition of you sway and twitch as you were barely able to remain upright while your fingers pumped inside you.

“Do you often touch yourself in prayer, darling?” He ventured.

“Only if it’s to you… Your voice truly haunts me, especially when you tell me all of this worthless shit, I just… Can’t help myself, Father.”

“I think of you all the time, how close we are right now, how I could fucking destroy you but we continue like this anyway.”

“Why don’t you come out of your little box and fuck me then?”

His damned laugh that drove you up the vaulted cathedral walls sounded once more, wondering how long he could be stowed away like this. It is Sunday after all, but perhaps this schedule 10 minutes before mass was intentional. Dottore was adeptly full of himself as he’d not mind if your screams were heard over the choir, in fact, that’d be ideal. While the confessional wasn’t in the main hall, it wasn’t secluded enough to dampen how his hips would assault the skin of your behind as he took you…

Your offer was too divine to refuse.

[weaselbeaselpants]

Arbitrary 50 'villainy-villain antagonists who have a point'

Lily, if you know what's good for you you don't reply to this at all just like you shouldn't have the first time.

Lady Eboshi. (Princess Mononoke, aka Lorch's favorite kid's movie)

Nearly all of the Rogue's gallery at some point. (Batman TAS)

Sweeney Todd.

Mrs. Lovett. (Sweeney Todd)

Erik. (Phantom of the Opera)

The Wretch, aka Frankenstein's monster.

The Witch. (Into the Woods)

Judge Holden. (The Blood Meridian)

Hama. (The Last Airbender)

Mewtwo.

Yzma. (The Emperor's New Groove)

Judas and the priests. (Jesus Christ Superstar)

Onceler. (Lorax 1972)

Patrick Bateman. (American Psycho)

Hannibal Lector.

AM. (I Have no Mouth and I must Scream)

Professor Nemur and Strauss. (Flowers for Algernon)

The Grinch (2000 How the Grinch stole Christmas)

Tywin Lannister.

Tyrion Lannister.

Sher Khan. (Jungle Book 2016)

Jaimie Lannister.

Cersei Lannister.

The Narrator/Tyler Durden. (Fight Club)

Flowey. (Undertale, Pacifist Route)

Sans. (Undertale, No Mercy Route)

The Wizard (Oz books and the Wicked musical)

Abigail Prenderghast. (ParaNorman)

Mickey and Mallory. (Natural Born Killers)

Olivia Foxworth. (Dollangager series)

Joseph Sugarman. (Bojack Horseman)

Beatrice Horseman. (Bojack Horseman)

Bojack Horseman.

Alex DeLarge. (A Clockwork Orange)

Chiaroscuro. (The Tale of Despereaux)

Col Kurtz. (Apocalypse Now)

Verosika Mayday. (Helluva Boss)

Rattlesnake Jake. (Rango)

The Grand Council Woman. (Lilo and Stitch)

Gantu. (Lilo and Stitch)

Amos Slade. (The Fox and the Hound).

Toffee. (Star vs the Forces of Evil)

Mina Loveberry. (Star vs the Forces of Evil)

Colonel Shikishima. (Akira)

Beetlejuice. (og movie, tv show AND musical)

The Mysterious Woman. (Centaurworld season 1)

Oh Dae-su. (Oldboy)

Ramses. (The Prince of Egypt)

Esmerelda. (Edward Scissorhands)

JD. (Heathers, movie and musical)

For your sake, Lily, I made some rules; the characters I chose can't simply be sympathetic with an excuse for what they do ala Nowhere King/General/Elktaur and they also can't be only a manipulative bastard who literally doesn't care about anything but their own glory like Emperor Belos/Philip. No Jack Skellingtons or Syndromes either. I tried my very hardest to follow your "has to be good"-rule, which in my hands is "can't be written in a way to which the writer is either forgiving the character's shortcomings OR villainizing a specific mindset."

A villain with a genuine point to make can be a really compelling, tragic, WONDERFUL character as that's almost always some kind of person with a level of self-awareness, pain and even good in their heart still who has fallen HARD. A villain with a point can also be an absolutely horrifying obstacle for your heroes, because just like in real life, awful people will use your own faults and the preexisting misery of the world to justify their own actions.

Thanks for the fun writing prompt, Lillian.

[sarahisslytherin]

No thoughts just bodyguard!frank being jealous and not being able to do anything about it when men flirt with you (not nsfw but definitely hot and a little bittersweet).

You can feel Frank’s heavy gaze from the other side of the room. It takes every fiber of your strength to keep your eyes trained on the guy in front of you, sipping from your drink as he showers you in compliments, tells you how you must be an angel from heaven and all that. Frank would never use a cheesy pick-up line. He has no need for one. All it takes from him is one look and you’re wrapped around his finger.

Focus, you tell yourself.

The paparazzi is no doubt lurking in the darkest corners of this seedy club, waiting for you to fuck up so they can splash your shortcomings across page six. It was Frank himself who told you to do what you would normally do; party, flirt, dance. Definitely don’t stay glued to his side the way you wish you could. The princess and her much older bodyguard? It would be everywhere. Better to listen to this young man rambling nonsense about inflation and politics, better to be seen kissing him than Frank. You risk a quick glance back at him. He looks like a statue, all sharp edges and stoicism. He looks so out of place amongst the lustful, drunken fools in this place. Not that you haven’t seen lust in his eyes before.

Focus. 

He’s asking you to dance. You force a smile and nod as you let this stranger take your hand in his and lead you onto the crowded dance floor. You can feel the bass thumping in your ribcage, hyper-aware of your every movement. He spins you around before drawing you back in, and you don’t need to look to know Frank’s hands are curled into tight fists, arms crossed across that broad chest of his. This is the way of things. You’ll dance with strangers and he’ll watch. You’ll go home with him. When the lights go out he’ll slip into your bedroom and you will be waiting. You’ll fall asleep in his arms, flush against his chest and you’ll never feel safer. In the morning he will have woken hours before you, ready for yet another day of pretending he’s not weak in the knees for you and every little thing that you do.

This is the way of things. At least for now.

[possessesnightshift]

i'm not an eloquent political speech person so im just gonna be direct about this

americans, please please fucking register to vote and vote for joe biden in november

and before you jump to whatever policy thing or weakness of his to counter this plea, just stop. it doesn't actually matter. trump is worse. trump is fucking so much worse

our job from here on out is not only to hold our noses and vote for biden, but also to convince all of our friends family and whoever else to also vote for him in spite of all of his flaws. yes all of them

we need to make the fucking argument that trump is so dangerous, the country would be better off with a drooling old genocide lover whose mental faculties are drying up faster than the sahara desert. we need biden voters to be keenly aware of his shortcomings and refuse to back down. there's no use in pretending biden is still sharp as ever or has this mass grassroots support (he does not). he sucks. he is probably the worst democratic candidate in the party's history.

don't care. trump is worse. he needs to be stopped from taking power by any means necessary. he needs to be STOPPED.

from a non-republican pov, democrats constantly leaning on the "but the other guy is worse" argument is frustrating as all hell. i certainly hate it myself. but what gets lost in the conversation is that the republicans are essentially so beholden to this principle nobody even notices.

i know plenty of small town midwestern republicans who were embarrassed to admit they voted for trump. they voted for him in spite of his nastiness and blatant buffoonery (not in spite of his racism bc they're likely ok with that) because he was on the republican ticket, and to them any republican is better than a woke liberal who wants to take away our gas stoves and force drag queens to read us stories at bedtime

so yeah i kinda don't fucking care at this point

biden is a laughably bad candidate for the election of 2024. any other time he could've run (including 2020) is completely different than now, when he's just too fucking old. so should we just roll over and let him lose? just for trump to finish his term, be biden's current age, and either run for a third term or just stay in power bc the supreme court is on his side and they've been preparing for this for decades? fuck that

actually i think a rotting, pulpy corpse would make a fine president compared to dumbass donald "reality gameshow host" trump. literally if biden dies the day of the election he's still got my vote because it is not for him

the left has to learn to have the tenacity that republicans have. we emulate the right in the worst fucking ways (e.g. closing the southern border for no reason) but we never emulate their pettiness. we never say 'i hate the republicans so much i will willingly vote for someone i kinda hate to spite their smug asses'

remember when trump used to be a joke? remember when he was a giant embarrassment? remember the memes about his illiteracy and his lack of awareness? (see 'covfefe' for more info) trump may have the means to become a brutal dictator, but he relies on people smarter than he is to pull it off

if trump continues to hype up his project 2025 and his fascist ambitions with the swagger and confidence of fdr running against herbert hoover, what does it signal to the rest of the world for that man to LOSE to a corpse with the stamina of a wet flounder? it could stop the fascist momentum in its tracks by associating it with weakness and incompetence (you talk up all this hype and you lose to THAT man?? i guess you must be full of shit huh)

these are fraught times. there's no way to get out of this without letting go of our ideals of a perfect candidate who responds to the political desires of the people. that candidate does not exist and never will

right now we have not just an opportunity to preserve our rotting democracy for a little longer, but something much more special. we can fucking put an end to the trump experiment once and for all. we can make trump wannabes like ron desantis scramble to dissociate their image from the toxicity of the trump administration. we can turn him back into a joke.

at this point im screaming into the wind. no person who isn't already voting for biden is gonna read this far. but i want these words to be here anyway because i think they have value. 2024, 2028, and 2032 are all going to be pivotal election years. we can't wait around. we have to act NOW.

vote rotting fish 2024. i will plug your nose with a clothes pin if you refuse to do so yourself...

[demonslayedher]

Hantengu: As Bad As You Can Get Without Being Muzan

I've touched on this in old meta entries and I'm just going to wind up linking them here, but a friend got me going on this again today, so I'll state it again: Hantengu is one of the most insidious characters in this whole series, if you're going by sweeping themes of self-mastery which Gotouge may or may not have consciously intended.

For starters, I'm going to compare Hantengu to his polar opposite, Rengoku Kyojuro, mostly by referring you this post where I already explained how Kyojuro displays samurai-style idealized virtues of self-mastery, stoicism, and inner peace about death or aging. A common theme in oni lore is how letting one's passions run amok is what brings out the demon any person has potential to become, whether these passions are greed or worry or even joy. Kyojuro is very clearly a passionate person, but he's self-aware enough to know that his passions must be kept in check in order to benefit from them, and that means putting effort into maintaining them. He's seen how that can lead to burn out as in the case of his father, so he maintains his own balance by recognizing and accepting the harsh truths of any situation with as much grace as he can muster, recognizing and taking steps to overcome his own shortcomings, and recognizing and making a choice to "set his heart ablaze" instead of getting lost in frenzy.

Hantengu, on the other hand, lets his passions run so amok that they take their own physical forms, and even then no single one of them is ever consistently powerful enough to be sustained for long before he's spawned something new based on whatever new frenzy he's in. It's his reckless abandon of self-control that made him so demonically powerful.

There are other characters who lack self-control, though--Inosuke and Zenitsu are who they are because they are the perfect agents to introduce chaos to any scene. They gradually take steps to learn self-mastery, however--Zenitsu is hyperaware of his own failings, to the point of rumination, and Inosuke is hypoaware. However, at their core, their desire to do better by other people leads them down paths of self-improvement, a path which keeps them aligned with humanity as opposed to the allure of powerful demons.

Demons in this series display similarly admirable traits, though--Kokushibo and Akaza have striven as hard as any Corp member to improve themselves, for instance. Gyutaro and Daki might have had blatant disregard for others due to a lingering jealousy and hatred for how much better everyone else always had things than they did, but they have always taken active roles in standing up for themselves and trying to improve their circumstances.

If we dive into more loathsome, demented demons, we still see that they know themselves enough to own their faults, whether they see them as faults are not. Douma is quick to recognize his own lack of passion, Enma is unashamed as about what gives him pleasure and uses his underhanded, self-protecting tactics in order to play the long game in his strategy, Gyokko is an artist, and Muzan is perfectly clear and at peace with who he is and what he wants. Muzan's desires are so plain to him that it even opened up a believable opportunity for Tanjiro to feel sympathy for him in their final encounter, though Tanjiro made the choice not to.

Tanjiro never even entertained the notion of pitying Hantengu, though.

I'll come back to Tanjiro, but to borrow from this post about themes in KnY as they relate to oni lore: In many philosophies, even an excess of positive emotions can be detrimental, and people who follow those philosophies are instead encouraged to not given into any emotion too strongly. Likewise, the lack of a virtue can be bad, but an excess of it becomes a vice.

While the Ki-Do-Ai-Raku fearsome foursome represent the danger of unchecked, excessive emotions, Zouhakuten represents an excess of virtue, which turns it into a vice. From an outside perspective, of course Tanjiro was doing the right thing attacking a tiny oni, because this oni will go on killing people if he doesn't, but Zouhakuten focuses so intensely on the injustice of attacking the small and weak that he is ignorantly convinced of his own self-righteousness.

The other demons don't do this, particularly--they justify what they do, like Daki saying how this is just the way the world works that beautiful and powerful oni can do whatever they want because that is how the world works, but she doesn't claim her actions are righteous. Muzan also makes rational points--which Zouhakuten echos--about how the demon slayers drive a lot of the violence due to their own inability to make peace with their lot in life, and going out of their way to attack demons. However, as much as Muzan believes he is superior, he doesn't belief he is a god who can cast moral judgement on others, nor is he interested.

Zouhakuten, taking the form of a deity that fiercely protects the precepts of Buddhism and threatens those who defy it, makes the daring claim that he is just.

The Demon Slayers Corp members, at least those like Tanjiro, are guilty of the same thing. The difference, however, comes back to self-awareness. For example, Tanjiro is confronted with the question of whether Zouhakuten/Hantengu has ever eaten anyone in Tanjiro's life, and as he has not, Tanjiro must at least question if justice is on his side anyway in attacking Zouhakuten. It was an easy answer, but being mortal and easily killed for sticking his neck out by picking fights with demons, it's something Tanjiro continually has to question and reaffirm.

Yes, the answer is always easy for Tanjiro, and yes, there are Corp members who are only in it for the glory or the money (and these characters are not treated as heroes). However, Tanjiro must also continually self-reflect on his own weaknesses and failings. Taisho Secrets tell us he's even reviewing his training and battles in his sleep to analyze and learn from them, and we see his continual efforts to improve no matter how beaten down he's gotten. In the heat of battle he has to keep himself confident and focused. He's got to keep from beating himself up unfairly, and he's got to keep from getting over-confident, it's a balance to maintain and it takes practice to read oneself with clarity.

He's constantly having to practice self-mastery, which means Total Concentration of whatever strength he needs to pull from, including passions like righteous anger that make it feel like his heart and/or forehead are ablaze. It takes him practice to be able to keep rebounding, but he's got humility to be able to learn from others, take criticism, and analyze himself with clarity.

These are the virtues which Kimetsu no Yaiba extols, and which most separates the paths of righteous from the paths of those who who gave into their passions.

As a few other examples: --Nezuko retains her virtues by recognizing her own weakness and focusing on self-mastery --Rui lost himself in a feeling of entitlement, conviction in his own sense of justice, and disappointment in his parents. Or so he thought! That was all the result of running away from a truth about himself he didn't want to face; the fact that he was the one responsible for breaking his family bonds. --The Pillars, with all their human faults, remain righteous because they could easily succumb to their own sorrows, angers, and self-loathing. The fact that they do not--however much these things have messed them up--and they keep striving to better themselves, for the sake of a conviction in something difficult to achieve otherwise.

Zouhakuten, instead of rising above his own shortcomings, is a deeper concentration of, a wallowing in those unbridled passions. Being so convinced of his own righteousness, he does not have any clear self-understanding, and therefore, has no inclination toward self-mastery.

He is, after all, Hantengu.

Hantengu made himself into what he is because he convinced himself of his own lies about his own helplessness, and this utter lack of self-awareness and his unchecked passions are what make him a demon. By doing nothing to improve himself, he grew out of control. And, ultimately, Hantengu is selfish. Everything must revolve around him and how he is the most wretched creature, the most powerless thing to ever have the harshness of the world thrust upon it. Among a cast of relatable demons, made victims of their own poor luck or circumstance or a desire to amend some wrong done to them, Hantengu is the worst because he got himself there for nothing but his own self-centered lie.

While all the demons have relatable traits which have flown out of control, he's the most realistically like someone we all know or have met. He's the most benign and hardest to catch, one whom many philosophical, religious, or therapeutic texts try to warn against for how his insidious fleeing from truth grows into something monstrous.

The scariest part is that the wallowing Hantengu might be closer than we think.

[meingeist]

In The Happy House

on AO3

summary: a collection of star-crossed lovers' tales, from within Leto Atreides I's fief over Caladan; starting from his arranged concubinage with a certain Bene Gesserit witch.

pairing: Duke Leto/Jessica

word count: 2,7k

NO WARNINGS for this chapter. Ratings may very...

CHAPTER I: Twin Euclases

"We now reach the apex of our engineering. Ten millennia worth of careful intervention and politicking; the zenith of which you must now oversee. You ought to be faultless in such endeavour, girl. There is no room for shortcomings."

Jessica is a silken figure, a vision of black, postured straight with her hands joined on her lap, as she sits between two acolytes, charged with escorting her onto Caladanite soil. Before them, Gaius Helen Mohiam, monologuing on the subtleties of her mission. "You must only bear him daughters—the first of which you'll eventually wed to the Harkonnen dauphin. From their coupling shall be born the Kwisatz Haderach."

Gaius' sharp eyes pierce through the lace of her headpiece, as she blankly stares at Jessica. "I needn't explain further how imperative your success remains in the grand scheme of things, girl. You are to see to the prevalence of the groundwork that has been laid for you by generations of foremothering missionaries. In your hands now lie the efforts of your peers, and the vanity of their sacrifice. Failure is inadmissible."

Jessica wilts slightly under the weight of the Mother Reverend's glare. With a bow of her head, she replies, "I exist to serve. I won't disappoint."

At her response, Jessica hears the faint exhale, shaped as a smile, crossing the lips of her seated neighbour, whose eyes hadn't shifted from looking forward. Almost an augury of pride, a token of belongingness. Jessica internally grasps for the memory of that barely perceptible smile, and shelters it close to her heart, as if it could generate strength from the silent support of her overseers.

She reckons the Sisterhood fiercely believes in her. She wouldn't be in her current position, with the future of her Order at the mercy of her will, had it been any other way. They trust her sense of duty, and her unwavering discipline, as well as the boundless potential she cultivates for their gains; let that be support enough for the road ahead. And while she would sooner admit that her teachers steer the next generations with an iron fist, an adamantine armor in the stead of flesh, hardly ever showing any care for her beyond her training, Jessica remains a growing cub within the lion's den, and these women's validation is at the belly of the champion she's been groomed into. Without it, she feels at war with herself. Her conditioning runs just that deep.

As Gaius glosses over the upcoming ceremonials—which Jessica would rather call hand-offs, the latter allows herself a brief moment of distraction, as Caladan's expansive flora grows into view from the window of their heighliner. She discreetly admires the planet's ecology, and natural attributes. Through the thick bush of trees furnishing the forests, Jessica witnesses the vastness of this foreign ecosystem. Rich in music, she bets, from the native fauna coexisting within their natural courses; from little winged creatures singing, perhaps, or the deep growls of furry, tailed beasts; she ignores. She hadn't been made aware of the location of her assignment until they boarded, and flew off the Chapterhouse. Caladan is as foreign as it can get.

She anticipates the wobbling shift from the ecological footprint and climate of Wallach IX—her motherland. Already, she can tell this planet is nothing like where she comes from. Through her window, she notices the lush, flourishing soil. She blinks in slight awe at the dexterous culture of masonry of this House Major, coming into view, and how concordant their architectural establishments are with the nature that surrounds it.

Their landscapes are incredibly biophilic, with concrete perron stairways crossing the ranges of mountains along the capital. It was a sight. Caladan was an organic amalgam of rich pine green, concrete gray, and a sea of blue, from the cloudy heavens, down to the colossal ocean. And among the many uncertainties Jessica could account for, she secretly hopes she'll get to witness such grandor from up close. Maybe dip her foot into the waves crashing against the shore, or perhaps explore the diverse flora—there may even be gardens, if she's—

"Jessica."

At once, the trance is broken, and Jessica spins towards the Reverend Mother, a tad apprehensive at being summoned into focus—something that hadn't happened in a while. Fortunately, her sharp senses had caught onto bits of Gaius' speech. "Yes, Reverend Mother. I shall look into his weaknesses as soon as we familiarize."

She catches inaudible sneers from the neighbours at each her sides; they probably think her youth justifies those small drawbacks. Not nearly enough to disturb the course of her mission, and her implacable drive. Gaius, on the other hand, isn't as merciful, and sends Jessica a stony glower. "Focus. Never less."

Promptly, the young girl lowers her gaze. "Understood, Mother Reverend."

"You're overlooking Caladan;” Gaius notices, as she turns to look out the cabin's window, "you'll acclimatize soon enough." A smirk draws at her lips from under her headdress. "Fascinating planet…With an unshakable fiefdom, which you must somehow helm your way. Our Way. Whatever it takes. Complete servitude, to fully seize his character. Every parameter, whether that be of your environment, or the Duke, must be thoroughly assimilated. Total apprehension of the Council, and the Small Council. No room for surprise; absolute awareness. And of course, full protection of the other party. A knife, moving in the shadows, never to be caught red-handed, to assure the survival of the Atreides Siridar Fief."

As clear as crystal, Jessica thinks, as she raises her joined hands. "The assignment will be settled to the letter."

"I should hope so, Jessica." Another hard look, to go with the fluent, ironclad timbre. "It is no small task. It is…at the very crux of Our Order. That is why you must recall to never stray from Our Way, to never dim your hardlearned discipline. To not fail Our teaching."

At her words, Jessica could almost feel the weight of the heavens being clasped off Atlas's shoulders, just to be topped onto her own. The apprehension clawed at her stomach, but she would preferably throw herself off the shuttle than let fear dominate her, even if only a little—even less in the presence of Fearlessness, made women, standing before her, or sitting at her sides. "I won't betray Our faith, Reverend Mother. Nor will I come short of yours, in regards to my calling. My performance will be spotless."

The priestess's wrinkled stare skims over her figure rigorously, as if for the penultimate time, before she tips her chin softly, once, and acquiesces. “Good.” Then, she turns away, as double doors slide open, revealing other quarters within the sizeable shuttle. Two different Sisters yet appear, stepping in to stand next to Gaius, as the latter prepares to take her leave.

Jessica reckons time has run out. She disquiets internally at her neighbours swiftly covering up, fixing their veils so as to become faceless silhouettes of black guipure. Their landing is imminent, and so, this is as far her path will cross with that of the Sisterhood, for now. “Good luck, Jessica.” Gaius sends her a last look, a hint of a smile, “I have trained you and equipped you to become an exceptional agent of Change. I trust my mentorship will bear many fruits—one of which will ensure the dawn of the Golden Path. Farewell, girl; until we meet again.”

And we will, Jessica swears, is the part left unspoken. But she has no time to consider the matter; for now; their pilot announces the landing at Castle Caladan.

+

Leto is a small ball of nerves, clad in a formal suit—hemmed blood red, to match the colours of his sigils. He's not an easily shaken man; the weight of his Dukedom is credential enough. He's answered his call, and has shown wisedom, extensive skill, and acute proficiency in ruling over his inherited powerhouse. The Red Duke is knowingly appraised across the galaxies for his input in the political game; even by the Emperor—and that, he knows, is a double-edged sword, but even moreso, by the Landsraad. And it is no mince affair, to be put on a pedestal by this faction of powerful men; it may as well be the weight of the heavens clasped off Atlas's shoulders, to be topped onto his own.

But he's found his way to it; he now moderates a respectable, level-headed council, seated amongst trusted, well-seasoned agents. He commands an elite military, full with dexterous fighters. His agro-industrial complex is bountiful across fields—from aquiculture to forestry, and animal husbandry, and the substantial demand for exported goods substitutes in funding for Caladan’s renowned horticulture, and biophilic cityscapes. His people are free from the burden of a military complex, and are communally generative towards the prosperity of their planet. Each of these viewpoints imperative to the prevalence of Caladan, yet indeed met with his drive and effectiveness.

So, yes; ever since his funeral ascension, Leto has indeed been up to the par—and some. And as far as he knows, such was the case for every Atreidae who came before him, up until Agamemnon, and Tantalus himself, who founded the House of Atreus. Therefore, he's not exactly exceptional, in the grand scheme of things. But he's up to the task, he is, and that must count for something—can only be a good augury for the future.

Leto fixes his collar, and sends a look up into the mirror. His dark hair is dressed, curling at his nape, and his beard is freshly trimmed. He's buttoned and zipped into of his many ceremonial sets, which he seldom wears as he spends his days either in his military uniform, or his semi-formal suit. An appropriate grooming was required for the events of today.

After the morning conclave, which had to be exceptionally shortened, it was time to receive precious cargo—as precious as terribly dangerous. The contract of Bene Gesserit concubinage was, according to his Mentat, an advantageous affair. Whereas Leto won't even entertain the whole “safe outlet for sex” aspect of things, he understands how his remaining unmarried, within his position and merits, is a bone to swing in the spatio-political dance. Such prospect of social climbing keeps even the greatest Houses on their toes, humbled and acquiescent.

Therefore, to keep his virtues desirable to the ficklest spirits, the duke is tossed a concubine, to channel his worst impulses out on. Some servile, pleasing flowerpot, with—no doubt—her own agenda to uphold, and unfold. His unfamiliarity with the Sisterhood is at the root of his apprehension—it feels like he is welcoming in some unstoppable catalyst. Nonetheless, he does not cede under mere uncertainty. No; he is going to face the bull and seize it by its horns. While that has gotten his father slain in the literal sense, Leto being a wiser, more prudent man does shelter him from certain kinds of danger. This kind, he wonders yet.

The kind which resembles a midnight shadow, as her silken, windswept figure makes its way off the spacecraft. The Caladanite sun shines over the harbor, where the landing area is located, where the Order’s ship yet awaits to take off. They are surrounded by a range of mountains, furnished with greenery, through which the rays pierce, sliding over the luster of the fine fabrics she is draped in.

As she moves forward, charged with a pair of senior acolytes, who diligently keep their distance, Leto notices Thufir Hawat—his Mentat, stepping to the front of the rostrum. He plasters on a smile, as the sable vision approaches. She stops at the bottom of the perron, as Thufir salutes her with a small bow, from the middle of it.

“House Atreides is gladdened to receive the Sisterhood.” The glib introduction resounds through the harbor, as the faceless acolytes acknowledge the Mentat from a distance, with an almost imperceptible nod. “Welcome to Caladan. I reckon it is a long way from Chapterhouse; we do hope you are well accommodated for the voyage.”

“It is our honour, Thufir Hawat, Siridar Duke Atreides.” Leto’s eyes shift to the dark silhouette of an elder, speaking from beyond a wall of black lace, as the escorting pair proceed in a slow curtsy. “We would hope you'd equally reckon that the pain is more than justified, for we bring you today the object of our agreement.”

All eyes turn to the heap of sumptuous fabrics which stands before the duke. “Justified indeed.” Thufir closures with a tight smile.

Leto peers at the silent figure, trying to catch a glimpse of human features from under her veil; a pale cheek, a frowning brow, a full lip—anything would do at this point to free him from his restlessness. He is unsuccessful in such endeavour, though right on time to consider making the first step toward introductions.

“Welcome to Caladan, my Lady.” The duke addresses her, finally deciding to move from his heightened position. As he walks down the few stairs, he catches her trying to step back and maintain the distance between them; it brings him to an abrupt stop. “I am Leto, the head of the Atreides dukedom, as well as the fief of Caladan. I expect the trip has been pleasant thus far?”

He is unusually met with silence; yet, with the graceful swipe of her nimble limbs, Leto watches her suddenly pull the veil off her face, though it remains pinned into her hair, and now cascades down her back instead. The vision of her now shifts to another layer, and Leto’s eyes meet with the iciest twain of blue. A pair of bottomless glaciers stare back at him, and unfathomably, he cannot seem to free himself from their grasp; cannot seem to break this fragile first contact, nor does he care to, he realizes, bewitched.

Far too quickly, the twin Euclases lower, disappearing beyond fanning lashes, and soon, the top of an austere hairdo replaces the sight, as the girl before him curtsies in turn. A girl, really; from glancing at the elfin features lying on her milky skin, he could not imagine she'd be older than her late teens. He certainly ought to have overviewed this deal more painstakingly—

“The trip was quite comfortable, thank you, Your Grace.” The blunt timbre of her voice echoes swiftly into his ear. “My name is Jessica. It is an honour to meet you.”

Leto attempts another step forward, actively looking for any sign of protest—he perceives none. Once he's close enough, he slowly reaches for her hand. Their fingers touch, and she starts faintly, looking down. He could tell from the shifty eyes, and the plain tension in her body language, that she was holding her breath. He decides to end her supplice and brings her delicate fingers to his lips, sealing a warm kiss against the frost of them. “The honour is mine, my Lady.”

He sees her quickly school her features, as he carefully withdraws. Her eyes avert towards the Mentat, as if she's just processed her surroundings. “It is also a privilege, Thufir Hawat, to come upon the cornerstone of such a prestigious rule. The duke assuredly keeps a gifted elite.”

Leto arches a brow at the shift in conversation; though it isn't lost on him that his Mentat may very well be as cosmically renowned as every Atreidae for which he has been a Right Hand. He watches Thufir nod—nearly enthusiastically, as he crosses his hands behind his back. “It is the ambition of every great Mentat but to serve great Princes.”

The girl—Jessica—blinks at the plaudit, before she turns back to Leto. “I do not doubt the greatness of either.”

When their eyes lock, he finds himself once again vacuumed into the depths of the twin Euclases staring back at him, and he reads in them a stoicism he's yet to encounter beneath such fluttering lashes. Such disarming, fluttering lashes…And such prettiness to her; in her pale cheek, her frowning brow, her full lips. For a second, the sight of her takes his breath away, and he has to blink it off, breaking the contact. “I believe as soon as we are over with the remaining formalities, you're due for a visit of our grounds, then some rest, my Lady.”

Looking away, she exhales softly, and he catches her looking back at her elders, from the corner of her eye. Finally, at his relief, she aquiesces. “As you wish, my Duke."