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#+ often just nonsensical in terms of writing
luveline · 2 months
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hi hello!! I want to say I absolutely adore and love your writing and have for a few years now! I have a steve request (could fit with kbd or not!) (also so self indulgent lol) where reader grew up with a very emotionally distant father and was determined to make her own family so different than the one she grew up with, and sees steve be so kind and loving towards their children and is so happy her kids won’t feel how she does with her own father and thanks him for being wonderful 🫶🏽 sorry so long and personal but i know you would write this so beautifully!!
thank u for requesting! dad!steve x mom!reader, 1.4k
“What do you want to get your sister for her birthday?” 
You can barely hear his whispering, let alone Avery’s response. “We want…” she’s lisping and listing, unfamiliar with her own voice even as her vocabulary grows, “to get her… um, a big teddy bear.” 
“How big?” Steve whispers back. 
You hold Bethie’s face above your shoulder, your arm around her, the other patting the base of her spine. She’s getting heavy, but she’s only little. She can barely speak, only mumble nonsense into your neck as she fights sleep. “Shh, shh,” you shush her gently. “It’s okay, Bethie.” 
Across the landing, Avery and Steve lay on their stomachs in her room. There’s a pad of paper between them and crayons spilled rainbow across the carpet. Steve draws without looking up; he’s a brilliant artist even now he doesn’t have time for it. Avery chokes a purple crayon with each of her fingers and draws a huge jagged line under his work. “What’s that?” he asks. 
“Lightning. I think we should get her a big teddy, like, big as your hands.” 
“That’s not big in terms of teddy bear, honey.” 
“Oh.” 
“What’s the lightning for?” 
“The cloud.” 
“You want me to draw some puddles?” 
She thinks Steve being able to draw things near immediately is as magical as the television, and the radio. Something seemingly out of nothing. She doesn’t understand how often he’d practise, didn’t see his box of sketchbooks, the hundreds of iterations of your face, your hands, the trees lining the street on the way to your first apartment, her baby wrinkles. 
“What else should we get for Beth?” 
“Um.” Avery pauses, lifting her face to Steve’s. An odd feeling swells when he immediately looks up from the paper pad to meet her eyes. He smiles at her. She smiles back. “Why are we smiling?” she asks eventually. 
“I’m just looking at you. You know you’re beautiful.” 
“I don’t know!” she says, immediately flustered. 
“Yes, you do. You’re sooo pretty, like mommy.” He reaches over to chuck her chin gently with his knuckle. “That’s why I’m smiling. Looking at you makes me happy.” 
“Looking at you makes me happy.” 
His chin tucks in gently. “It’s ‘cos we love each other.” 
“Yes,” Avery says, like she’d suggested it herself. “That’s what it is.” 
You feel Beth fall asleep though you can’t see her. She curls into you all warm and soft, her pyjamas and her hair tickling you, her soft snores damp against your shoulder. You press a kiss to her arm.
Laid to bed for the night, you dot another kiss onto Beth’s smooth forehead and turn out her light, shutting the door carefully so as not to make any noise. 
Avery and Steve are still on the floor, though she’s climbed over the pad to hug him. They look funny, both on their tummies, Steve’s long legs out. He’s sort of curling around her, his nose to the side of her neck, his one arm up on an elbow and the other behind her back. 
“I love you too,” he’s saying. 
“A lot.”
“Yeah, Avery. So much they don’t have a word for it.” 
“It’s a big feeling.” 
“Love is the biggest feeling.” 
She laughs as he starts to tip onto his side. One moment she’s on her belly and the next he’s pulled her onto his chest, totally corkscrewed her and then put her right. “Let’s stay here forever,” he says. 
You’re pretty sure your father would’ve had a heart attack rather than confess he liked you. It’s a weird thing to know you’re loved —to be told you’re loved without being told, to expect it because you should— but to feel the absence of it more strongly. Your father never would’ve laid down with you like that. He wouldn’t have kissed you behind the ear, or talked about big feelings without hesitation. He never looked after you like that. 
“Your back will hurt.”
“Avery, my back always hurts.” 
“Not good. You can go to the hospital.” 
“I don’t think I’ll go to hospital, I’ll,” —he feels you watching, and smiles at you as he tips his head to see you— “be okay without that. Maybe I’ll go to the doctor at his office instead.” 
“Okay.” 
“Okay.” He rubs her back. “Thanks, honey.”
Later, after you’ve knelt down to draw with them for a while and Avery’s succumbed to the childhood pain of feeling sleepy, you’re sliding clean towels onto a shelf in the linen closet with Steve beside you choosing new sheets for the next two (or four depending on how busy things get) weeks. It’s not work that needs talking, and after a few years together you start to run out of things to say, but you decide you’ll fill it anyway. 
“Thanks.” 
“For what?” 
“You’re a good dad.”
Steve kisses your cheek, squeezing your arm as he bundles the new linens to his chest and passes back out of the closet. You follow him out. 
“Hey, I mean it,” you say. 
Steve looks at you in surprise. “Oh, sorry. That’s the miscommunication thing, right? I was supposed to say something, not just kiss you.” 
“No, I don’t need you to acknowledge me, Steve.” You laugh softly, “Just need you to know. You’re such a good dad. It means a lot to me that you’re so good because I know they can feel it. The girls.” You clear your throat. 
You hadn’t been expecting to get teary. Heat burns behind your eyes unbidden. 
Steve’s eyebrows jump. “You’re upset?” 
“It’s such a relief to know you’re you.” 
And Steve must understand how you feel about it, his parents stunningly absent for the majority of his teen years and even now. You don’t see them much, but when you do you’re greeted with handshakes and strange looks, like this is a blip in both of your lives. Like somehow your children will grow themselves and Steve can be the man they wanted him to be. He knows what it’s like to be alone and not enough. To miss the mark. To physically feel the space between you and the person who should love you most. 
He puts the linens on the end of the bed before standing in front of you. Your cheek is warm in his hand when he gives it a brief squeeze, your shoulder less so, your hand similarly cold. He threads your fingers together for a playful yank. “What are you thinking about?” he asks seriously. 
“Avery’s never gonna question if you love her.” 
He shakes his head. “Nope.” 
“You’re very emotionally mature.” 
“Wouldn’t say that.” 
“Me neither.” 
He looks tired tonight, hair falling into his eyes, t-shirt ill-fitting, rumpled at the hem, and his voice slightly scratchy as he murmurs, “Loving you makes me who I am, maybe you should be thanking yourself.” His lips twitch. “I should’ve said that at our wedding.” 
“You should’ve, I bet your mom would’ve cried.” 
“I doubt it.” 
He opens his arms invitingly, and you fall into one another for a quick, tight hug. You’d been expecting a longer embrace with a sweeter touch, but you know why he’s doing it this way: he doesn’t want to cry before bed, and the wound of your absent parents is a weary one. It’s taken too much time and energy from you both already. 
“Love you,” he says. 
You weasel your head back to take him in, savouring the stretch of his hands behind your shoulders and his genuine smile. “Biggest feeling in the world,” you say. 
“Liked that one?” he asks, encouraging your face back into his neck. “You gave me a family,” he adds, quieter, “I don’t really get how there are parents walking around who aren’t obsessed with their kids. I love them so much I can’t breathe sometimes. All i want is to make sure they know that… I was looking at Avery earlier and I couldn’t believe she was mine.”
“Steve.” 
“I think she has my two moles on her cheek. That’s crazy.” 
“What?” 
You and Steve creep into her bedroom to investigate. Sleeping, she’s his carbon copy, and sure enough, on her right cheek just adjacent to her lips, she has two small moles just like him. 
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night-raven-tattler · 3 months
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Hello there, I recently became a follower and I love your writing so far, keep up the great work and I hope you’re having a wonderful day
I saw that requests are open so if it’s alright, can I get headcannons of the first years (separate) and shows/movies they’d enjoy watching with the reader?
Thought it’ll be pretty fun and an excuse for me to get recommendations lol, thank you!
Hello, Aesthetic! Thank you for your kind words! This was a bit of a challenge for Mx Tattly, since they are not a huge movie person. However she hopes you still enjoy his takes. They also wrote from the perspective of the Prefect/Yuu having access to some movies from their world of origin. Enjoy!
Movie night, otherworldly edition
Characters: Grim, Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Ortho, Sebek and GN!Reader (separate)
Warnings: food mention (Epel's part)
By opening the document, you agree to Mx Tattly's terms of source confidentiality.
-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
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Grim's preffered genres are: comedy, action, animation, fantasy
Grim trully is a child at heart, and all the colorful characters and scenes from animation have him hooked
He also enjoys a good laugh, especially visual gags
He barely has any attention to spare for a series, so movies are his preffered format
He would never admit it but he's a sucker for found family
Silent movie crier
Loud denier
Some favorites from your world: Home; Bolt; That one Wizard Boy Movie we Don't mention in This Household; he has a weird relationship with Ace Ventura
『••✎••』
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Ace's preffered genres are: horror, thriller, action, adventure
He enjoys gorey stuff and being the guy you hide behind of when the scenes get too much, but he needs time to prepare for psychological horror
Ace is the type to look up spoilers before watching something and he tries to trick you into believing his made up version of the plot
He talks a lot during movies but hates when others do it
While he enjoys a good adventure movie, he hates superhero movies and he thinks they're silly
He prefers movies over series because he likes the format more, but he's down for a short series
Some favorites from your world: The Mummy; Jumanji (he loves making fun of it); American Psycho; Scary Movie
『••✎••』
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Deuce's preffered genres are: action, adventure, animation, family movies
He is pretty easy to please, he'd watch anything that is entertaining
Definitely a Marvel fan
He also loves animation movies, the animation always leaves him awestruck
He likes movies about families and their bonds
Deuce is also surprisingly into medical dramas... but also cop dramas
He is a crier as well but only when he's just with you
Some favorites from your world: Black Panther; The Rookie; A Goofy movie; Police Academy 2
『••✎••』
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Jack's preferred genres are: documentary, adventure, romance, dramas and telenovelas with a bit of nudging
Jack is the type of guy to retain various informations after watching something
He can sometimes memorise entire scenes, and he finds that habit less annoying when he watches documentaries; he likes something informative and motivational
Jack also enjoys some romance movies sometimes, but he is very picky so it's hard for him to find one he actually likes
He does, however, like to point out and comment on the weird courting habits humans have
Jack finds telenovelas and soap operas kind of nonsensical and overly dramatic, but he also gets hooked on the plot pretty quick and soon enough it would become a bit of a guilty pleasure
Some favorites from your world: David Holmes, the boy who lived; the social dilemma; Love, Simon; Yo soy Betty la fea
『••✎••』
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Epel's preferred genres are: comedy, action, western, anything he can mock and make fun of
If you think Ace is bad with his mid watch commentary, Epel is 10 times worse
He mocks things in movies so often he's giving Cinema Sins a run for their money
He won't shut up even if you give him all the snacks, he'll talk while eating
He also has the most colourful, boisterous, ridiculous laughter imaginable (and I say that lovingly), so if the comedy movie is not making you laugh then Epel's laughter is
Epel is not a picky watcher so he can get behind anything that isn't too sappy
If you pull out anything with Vil on the poster though he will dematerialise from your couch
Some favorites from your world: Rush Hour; Desperado; Puss in Boots 2; any Fast and Furious movie (unfortunately)
『••✎••』
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Ortho's preferred genres are: anything he finds intriguing, family movies
If anything, Ortho has a wide palate and can enjoy almost anything
He also knows how a movie ends before he watches it, but it never ruins his enjoyment
He never spoils anyone unless they try to argue with him about the direction of the plot
Most of his interest in movies came from wanting to understand human behavior better, but now he can just use them as a time killer or sleepover material
He also likes watching your reactions to the movies: how often you laugh, how often you cry, how often you reach for snacks
A favorite from your world: Big Hero 6
『••✎••』
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Sebek's preferred genres are: historical films, (period) dramas, musicals with the right nudge
Listen here, musical enjoyers. Here is the most susceptible one to being convinced to join the dark side
One word: Hamilton.
Yes, he'll think the music is nonsensical, BUT he'll also tap his foot to it
AND if you say anything about teaching him something from the soundtrack to surprise Malleus with, he's all ears
He is also very quick to get songs stuck in his head: he's easy prey
All jokes aside, Sebek can be a good watch buddy when his interest is piqued
Not even he can deny when a movie has good plot and characters
He does prefer period dramas, since he has a soft spot for the setting
And historical films: a nerd do be nerding even during movie nights
Some favorites from your world: The Crown, Hamilton, Les Miserables, maybe Oppenheimer but it would be used in his anti-human agenda
『••✎••』
Speaking of Oppenheimer...
Well, let's discuss Barbenheimer.
Everyone went to watch both movies:
Ace went dressed in pink for the both of them
Deuce got confused by the "dresscode" and apologised to you for not knowing about it
Jack and Ortho enjoyed both
Epel insisted he liked Oppenheimer more but he's lying
Sebek cried at the end of Barbie
Grim is the only one who in fully in Oppenheimer's corner
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“The BBC has failed to accurately tell this story – through omission and lack of critical engagement with Israel’s claims – and it has therefore failed to help the public engage with and understand the human rights abuses unfolding in Gaza,” the letter reads. “Thousands of Palestinians have been killed since October 7. When will the number be high enough for our editorial stance to change?”
The BBC journalists said that across British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) platforms, terms like “massacre” and “atrocity”, have been reserved “only for Hamas, framing the group as the only instigator and perpetrator of violence in the region. This is inaccurate but aligns with the BBC’s overall coverage”.
Further critiquing the BBC’s storytelling, the journalists argue that while Palestinians have been asked whether they “condemn Hamas”, the same cannot be said for guests who defend Israel’s actions.
“[They] are not equally asked to ‘condemn’ the actions of the Israeli government, however high the civilian death toll in Gaza.”
The letter also claims that the BBC is failing to provide audiences with important background about Israel’s occupation and the history of Palestinian suffering.
“For Israel’s bombardment to be considered ‘self-defence’, events must begin with the Hamas-led attack,” they said. “News updates and articles neglect to include a line or two of critical historical context – on 75 years of occupation, the Nakba, or the asymmetric death toll across decades.” […]
“The BBC has often called the ongoing conflict ‘complex’. It is no more complex than any other conflict,” the letter reads. “It is our job to cut through rhetoric and misinformation; to explain what is happening and what has led to this.”
In an Oct. 10 directive telling employees how to write about the violence, CTV told them not to use the word “Palestine” and made the politically-charged assertion that “Palestine…does not currently exist.” […]
“While Palestine has observer status at the United Nations, Palestine as a nation does not currently exist. Please use Gaza or the Israeli Occupied West Bank for a geographic locator.” […]
One journalist at Bell Media told The Breach they found the guidance biased.
“The neutral thing to say would have been: ‘We don’t use Palestine in our copy because Canada does not recognize Palestine as a state.’ That’s a fact,” the journalist said. “‘Palestine does not exist,’ is a strong opinion.”
The journalists also said there is a clear bias in how Bell Media treats Palestinian guests and in the editing of stories about Israel. […] Palestinian guests, according to the journalist, are expected to express grief but not political opinions or context about their experiences.
“When it comes to Palestinian guests…they’re essentially brought on to cry,” the journalist said. “That’s all they’re good for.”
Palestinians who are highly critical of Israel are not invited back and clips of their interviews aren’t published on the network’s news websites, the journalist also said.
Stories that provide context about Israel’s occupation or information about pro-Palestine rallies are subjected to days-long, sometimes nonsensical edits, one of the other journalists told The Breach. In some cases, those types of stories have been finished but never published, defying the network’s normal practices.
This journalist said they are already self-censoring, leaving out historical context and the fact that 6,417 Palestinians were killed by Israel in the 15 years leading up to Hamas’ attack on Oct. 7. 
“I just know that they’re not going to let me put that in a story.”
----
For context: "Israel-Hamas Topical Guide" from AP Stylebook (considered news industry standard)
Use Palestine only in the context of Palestine's activities in international bodies to which it has been admitted.
Do not use Palestine or the state of Palestine in other situations, since it is not a fully independent, unified state. For territory, refer specifically to the West Bank or Gaza, or the Palestinian territories in reference to both.
Palestinians are Arabs who live in, or whose ancestors lived in, the geographic area that comprises Israel, the Gaza Strip, the occupied West Bank, and east Jerusalem. These areas were once part of the traditional eastern Mediterranean region of Palestine. See Gaza Strip, Gaza; West Bank; east Jerusalem.
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the7thcrow · 10 months
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Not all that Glitters is Gold -> 10
series pairing: (fem) princess!reader x seonghwa x san x wooyoung. eventual polyamory.
series masterlist | previous chapter
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Part Ten: a relic from the past, confession, and dark magic.
series rating: 16+
series genre: action and adventure. romance. angst. fluff. suggestive. fantasy au.
series warnings: character death, blood and violence, weaponry, injury, suggestive content, mxm content, elements of misogyny, language, monsters. (will only be using chapter specific warnings for things not included on this list.)
summary: as a princess fleeing a royal assassination attempt, you have no choice but to put your trust in a band of three thieves in order to reach the kingdom of kuroku alive. however, amongst magic, deceit, and the bounty hunters that are hot on your trail, you realize that you might have stumbled upon a relationship far more complicated than what meets the eye.
chapter details beneath the cut ->
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wc: 15.3k
extra chapter warnings: panic attack, a non-consensual kiss, non-consensual drug use (but magical? idk?).
chapter summary:
“It is you!” The stranger exclaims, their voice light and feminine.
Feminine and familiar. You narrow your eyes.
“Do I…” You start, swallowing down the bile that has arisen in your throat, as well as the tremble of fear in your voice. “Do I know you?”
a/n: guess who’s back :3 sorry this took me a million years to write, hopefully i can be a bit more consistent in the next coming months. hope you enjoy, and don’t be shy to let me know what you think! love y’all, thanks to everyone who has not abandoned this story after this massive hiatus LMAO <3
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Seonghwa has never believed anger to suit him.
While Woo wears his anger like a loaded cannon, and San - like most other things - buries it until it inevitably rises to the surface, Seonghwa has tried to avoid fury when he can.
After all, anger is often the replacement of a different emotion. It comes easier than understanding, quicker than resolution. It’s the nasty, winding short-cut off the high road, and Seonghwa has learned that the high road is almost always the safer path in the long term.
Anger is ugly. It’s nonsensical and he doesn’t like how it looks on him. It’s why he prefers the cold shoulder to blind rage, sorting out his feelings on his own rather than lashing out on others. It’s the kind thing to do. The empathetic thing to do.
It’s never been overly difficult for him to settle this rage until now.
It festers in his mind every morning, as well as in the night before he falls asleep. Everytime he accidentally catches your eye over breakfast, letting his gaze drift away in hopes that you will think that his eyes were trailing by rather than staring.
He is so unbelievably angry with you, and he hates it.
From the moment the truth was revealed in the forest, it’s as if someone wrapped a hand around his lungs and began to squeeze, then never let go. A hot, burning fire in his chest that’s smoke rises up his throat, choking him with rage. It stings his eyes, fogs his senses. It feels unbeatable, indestructible. Blinding.
He knows that anger is just an emotion. A bad one, one that he’s had to expel from others countless times before. From San, after The Desert Lotus. It’s just another entity, another plague on the body. Settle down, feel it, think better of it, then let it be gone.
And yet now that feels an impossible task. Seonghwa doesn’t know the last time he was so angry. Perhaps it was the night in the kitchen with his mother, learning of the heights of human greed, the one he relives every time he uses his gift to expel the anger from someone else.
He supposes this memory may replace that one.
When he found out the truth about you it was like the last few weeks came crashing down around him. The closeness, the trust and understanding, the mutual respect and admiration.
All lies. All of it. And he feels like such a fucking idiot.
There was no trust, and by the gods, there was certainly no respect. He was a mere pawn in your game, a part of the plan, and all he can do is beat himself up about being too naive to not see it earlier. Woo has always harped on him for being too nice to people, or as the elemental would put it, “not behaving like an actual person, but more like a rock on a walkway that people like to kick around”. Seonghwa thought that Woo was just being grouchy, the pessimist he always is. But hell, maybe he was right.
After all, Seonghwa should have seen it coming. There was so much he could have done. If he had questioned why a beautiful stranger would have so much immediate interest in him in the first place, or why you constantly asked him questions while dismissing any deeper ones about yourself. If he wasn’t so passive about the parasitic emotions practically radiating off of you. If he looked past the ideal he so desperately wanted and dared to dig up the reality of what was underneath.
He’s not an idiot. The reality is that for you, it was never about him. It was about getting to Kuroku. For him it was about the journey, but for you it was always in the name of the destination.
And well, he certainly did his part in getting you there. He shared his gift with you as a token of trust, he took your pain away and made it his own, he vouched for you against Woo’s constant doubt.
All for a girl who’s name he didn’t even know.
The thought makes more anger - ugly, volatile, and oh-so-unflattering - surge within his chest, and he throws a rock into the lake before him. It doesn’t skip as he intended, and instead sinks with a loud plunk.
Seonghwa frowns. He grabs another rock to throw.
After being met with an even louder plunk, he groans, before creeping further up onto the shoreline to grab a flatter rock. His toes dip in the water, which feels colder than yesterday now that he’s no longer fueled by sheer terror and adrenaline.
The coolness brings him back to Maralya, when he and Yunho would sit on the fishing dock. Feet in the water, even though Seonghwa was older, Yunho was the one who had taught him to skip rocks. His half-brother always had a knack for things like that, or well, for everything it seemed. From medical skills, to scaling buildings, to setting a fishing line; Yunho could master whatever he picked up. He must have inherited it from his father, a man Seonghwa doesn’t really remember, as he died when they were young.
Seonghwa doesn’t remember his own father either, as he disappeared on an escapade to The Mainland directly after he was born. His mother told him that his ship was lost at sea, but Seonghwa is pretty sure he just left and never came back.
It doesn’t really matter, he’s never had much of a desire to know the man. After all, the only thing Seonghwa inherited from him was his foolishness. And maybe his nose.
Seonghwa sighs. Picking up another rock, this one flat and polished, he recalls the steps in his mind. Yunho's voice runs through his head as he goes through the form, before bringing his hand back and letting it fly.
Plunk.
He stares at the ripples surrounding the sinking stone for a moment, before sitting down. He must have forgotten a step. It was a long time ago.
He lays back so that his head presses into the sand, the little grains cold and damp against his scalp. It’s familiar. It’s a little like the shore at home, although the sand isn’t as white, and the water’s colder, nor as blue. There’s no sound of hustle and bustle from back in the village, or his mother yelling at him to take a dip in the ocean before coming back inside because he’s covered in sand and he can’t track that into the house.
So maybe it’s not so similar, but he will pretend.
Seonghwa sighs, grabbing a handful of sand, letting it fall between his fingers. It’s times like these, ones where he’s dejected, broken-down, and lonely, that he wants nothing more than to go home. Only then does he remember that there’s no home for him to return to.
He sighs, his anger drifting to sadness, and yet he doesn’t mind. He believes that at the very least, it suits him better.
Footsteps approach from far off behind him, and he knows that it’s you. Woo walks faster, heavier footed, and he likely wouldn’t have heard San until he was closer. Besides, you’ve been walking with a slight limp since the fall, and he can hear it in the thump of every second step.
A part of him wants to ask what happened, what hurts. If you’re okay.
The angry part of him won’t let the other speak.
He hears your steps stutter, coming to a sudden halt from what he assumes is about a dozen feet off. Silence follows, and he wonders what you’re thinking. If you’re nervous to approach him, taking the time to contemplate your words before you say them.
Eventually, you do come closer. “San and Woo want to head towards Bebbanburg,” you call out from behind him. “I said that I’d come get you.”
“Thanks,” Seonghwa says flatly, making no motion to move. He will, of course, but not until you head back to camp. He’d like to avoid the awkwardness of walking in a strained silence, pretending not to notice as you try to meet his eye.
Although when he doesn’t hear you leave, it seems as if he doesn’t have much of a choice.
Sighing, he pushes himself up into a seated position. Glancing back at you, he has to place a hand over his forehead to block out the rising sun blinding his vision.
You stand with your arms wrapped around yourself, watching him with a dampened expression. Your tunic billows in the wind, torn around the waist and covered in dirt and dust. Chewing on your bottom lip as your fingers tap along your arm, you appear on edge. As if you wish to say something.
Seonghwa hates the way he wishes to know what it is. He hates how he wants to smooth your hair that is violently blown by the wind and wipe away the smudge of mud that has hardened against your cheek.
He hates how even now, after everything, he yearns for you.
Perhaps this is how it always would have ended, anyway. Having grown more attached then he ever should, not ready to lose what he knew was never his.
“Seonghwa,” you say finally, although it’s a little strained. Rigid. “About yesterday, by the fire.”
Ah yes, that. You and San hadn’t noticed him at the time, but when neither he or Woo came back to the fire, the two of you went out looking for them. It only took a moment, finding them sitting against the caves outer wall. Quiet and avoidant. Woo had fallen asleep, but Seonghwa had met your gaze. He held it for only a moment, watching your own eyes widen as you realized he’d seen the whole thing. He looked away when your lips parted to speak.
“With San. I hadn’t expected it to happen,” you say, calling loudly over the wind, and yet somehow your voice still seems quiet. Trapped and tight. “I… I don’t regret it. But after everything, it feels unfair to you-”
“I don’t care about you and San,” Seonghwa butts in. Not aggressively, or overly angry, merely factual. After all, that’s not what he’s angry about. He doesn’t care about you and San. That’s your business.
He wants San to be happy. Whatever it takes, the swordsman deserves a bit of peace.
Besides, now that he will not, perhaps San will wipe the mud from your cheek.
“Oh,” you say, followed by a pause. “You just seem upset.”
“I’m not angry about that,” Seonghwa replies, lips pursing together. He swallows hard. “Just about everything you did before it.”
Your expression falls. Mouth dropping open into a small part, your eyes fill with a sudden sense of shame and hurt. Your hands grip your elbows, hugging yourself tighter, even if only slightly.
Your expression settles like stone in his gut, and he knows that what he said has made you hurt. He has made you feel that same pain that tightens in his chest and floods up his throat.
Seonghwa wishes he hadn’t said that.
No matter his anger, no matter the pain, Seonghwa has never wished to pass an entity on to another.
“I’ll meet you back at the cave in a moment,” he says, because he doesn’t want to say anything else that he’ll regret. He doesn’t want to force his gaze from yours while at the same time feeling a pull towards you like a beacon, begging him to take it away. Take it all away. All the horrible entities that radiate from you like a plague, a blackened sickness.
Turning back towards the lake, he waits. When he hears the sound of your footsteps - fading away, not growing louder - he lets out a sigh of relief.
He doesn’t like what this has made him into. The anger that has filled him, strangles him, stops him from drifting towards you like a moth to a flame. Sure to be burned, but the glow will be glorious.
No, anger doesn’t suit him. And yet he wears it, draping over him, akin to a stranger’s jacket.
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If there is any luck to be found following your fall from the cliff, it’s in that at least you’ve found yourselves closer to Bebbanburg.
The journey to the small kingdom only took a few hours, the fact that you had nothing to carry but the clothes on your back having sped up the trek. It was spent in silence.
You know there’s certain to be some of the black-clad men poking around in such a populous city, so upon reaching the kingdom, the first order of business was to purchase you a cloak, as Mingi’s own had remained within a satchel on the horse’s back.
It weighs down on your shoulders, knowing that it’s gone, the final piece of him you had left. You’ve tried to view it as for the better, as the cloak of a Libaiyan Royal Guard could have attracted the attention of the wrong pair of eyes.
Even so, it hurts.
The cloak you wear now isn’t nearly as nice, a tattered brown fabric that’s itchy in the spots where it touches your bare skin, but it only cost a few bronze pieces. Considering that all the group of you have to your name is the pouch of coins attached to San’s waste, you have to know where to ration your spendings.
This is only on the necessities. San is trying to locate a cheap blacksmith to fashion him a new sword. Meanwhile, Woo and Seonghwa are searching if there’s anywhere for your group to stay that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. Bebbanburg is an expensive kingdom, and so long as you find a place with a roof and walls that doesn’t blow through all of your savings, you’ll consider yourselves lucky.
With all the men on their own errands and a new cloak purchased, you’ve had about an hour to kill before now, as you currently make your way to meet them back at the city center. You’ve spent it wandering, peering into shop windows but never making your way inside. You don’t have the money to spend, nor do you want the undivided attention of a shop-keeper when you’re trying to lay low.
You’ve passed a few of your wanted posters strown up about the town, plastered to bulletin boards, poles, and shop windows alike. On top of being newly adorned with a far more accurate portrait of yourself, they’ve also added the detail of your recent scars. Printed along the bottom is the following: “Last spotted travelling with three young men. Potentially dangerous. Approach with caution.”
As an incentive due to what you assume is the elevated danger risk, they’ve increased the reward for your capture or demise to 300,000 gold pieces.
Apparently, someone at the tavern ratted the group of you out. Likely Yeosang and his band of not-so-merry men, or perhaps the poor shop-keeper desperate for a bribe.
Either way, someone is on your tail. Considering the new addition to the posters, that someone is in this city.
You haven’t seen them yet, but you know that it’s the black-clad men. They have to be lurking around here somewhere, they’re just being quiet about it.
You swallow hard, pulling the hood of your cloak further down.
Fortunately, the street’s are bustling with people. Bebbanburg, while not quite as big as the four major kingdoms, is still a hub for tourism. With money to spend, the streets are clean, the buildings well-kept. Despite being a narrow path in the merchant’s district in town, the air smells fresh.
It doesn’t feel quite right, in your opinion. Between the few towns you’ve visited these past few weeks, there was a certain scent to the air that felt more…natural. A strange concoction of smells as different taverns and homes didn’t agree on a pre-set menu for the night, dirt and pebbles aligning the trails as hunters dragged home their latest catch, or the muddy hoof-prints left by horses that stick to the bottoms of your shoes.
Bebbanburg feels too polished. The sort of polished that takes an effort, that works extra hard to rid itself of anything it deems unclean.
Trying not to obsess too much over the fact, you do your best to retrace your steps in order to return to the city center, taking a turn down another street. A slight limp to your step, ankle still not having fully recovered from your fall off the cliff, you count the shop doors that you pass along the alley’s stone wall. You kept count on your way here in order to know which alley to take back.
Counting down the doors, you pass by a butcher’s shop, cafe, and Zarian boutique for rare gems, all of which you’d passed along the way here. Gaze fluttering passively over the alley next to the boutique, you nearly miss the pair of eyes that lock on your own. Cat-like gaze fixated on yours, the bottom half of the figure's face is covered by a black cloth, their head shrouded in a dark cloak.
You pause. Hesitant, you retrace your last few steps, peering back down the alley.
The figure’s cloak follows behind them as they disappear behind a winding turn.
Swallowing down the bile that arises in your throat as an unsettled chill creeps down your spine, you keep moving along your original route. It was just a stranger. You’re paranoid, on edge, searching to find shadows and enemies in places in which they are not there.
Nevermind how something about the stranger's gaze felt oddly…familiar. Although you cannot place from where.
You continue along your original path, turning down the alley that will take you back to the city center. Glancing over your shoulder, you see nobody behind you, just the bustle of people continuing their way down the mainstreet. You mentally scold yourself. You’re being ridiculous, and casting lingering glances as you loiter in one place for too long is only going to attract attention.
When you turn forward, you catch a glimpse of movement, as something disappears behind a wall up ahead of you. “Shit,” you think to yourself, rushing forward as you place your back against the stone wall, peeking an eye out to see if you can spot them.
All you can manage is the tail end of the dark cloak disappearing down another alleyway. You wait a moment, as if contemplating how daring - or foolish - you’re willing to be, before heading after them.
“This is a bad idea,” you whisper to yourself, hand drifting to the hilt of the sword at your waist as you follow after the mysterious figure. However, even if unwise, you’d rather know your enemy and have them right in front of you compared to being stalked like prey. You’ll get slain in a fair fight any day before getting your throat slit from behind.
It’s a morbid thought, something San would likely say during combat practice, and you wonder if you’ve been spending too much time with these men.
Following the stranger, you keep quiet on your feet. Pulling the sword out from its sheath, you tread carefully, slowing your pace as you near the corner that the cloak had disappeared behind. Holding the sword firm in your grasp, you take a deep and shaky breath, before jumping to face your attacker.
Only to find there is nobody there, just another barren alleyway. Another alleyway that leads to nothing but a dead end, a stone wall looming tall before you.
You frown, confused at how this is possible. Your gaze darts around the narrow alleyway, searching for a cloaked figure, but it remains entirely empty.
Letting out a troubled sigh, you resheath your sword and turn back around.
Only to be met face first with the masked stranger.
Your breath dies in your throat, and you instinctively pull an arm back, aiming to strike them. However, as you swing forward, they narrowly dodge your strike, managing to grab your wrist instead. They twist it, not so hard as to dislodge anything, but enough that it disarms you. Then, using their free hand to push you backwards, they press you up against the stone wall. Elbow against your chest and hand gripping your upper arm, their spare hand grips tightly around your other wrist, rending you immobile.
Your chest heaves, not from tiredness but scheer panic. They’ve got you. Your gaze flickers up, to scan the face of your assailant. The person that will turn you in to the black-clad men, or is perhaps one themself.
The strangers' dark eyes meet yours from beneath their thick cloak, black orbs dancing as they move to scan over your face. Cat-like in their shape, with thick eye-lashes and brows.
Then the stranger laughs.
It’s not a menacing laugh, nor one you would expect from someone who is about to kill you. Instead it’s joyous, almost disbelieving.
“It is you!” The stranger exclaims, their voice light and feminine.
Feminine and familiar. You narrow your eyes.
“Do I…” You start, swallowing down the bile that has arisen in your throat, as well as the tremble of fear in your voice. “Do I know you?”
The stranger’s eyebrows furrow together into a look of confusion, before lighting up in realization. “Oh!” They say, before doing the last thing you would have ever expected of removing their hands from you entirely. “Of course!”
The stranger pulls off the hood of their cloak, revealing a head of long, thick red hair. They follow the removal of their hood by doing the same with their mask, and with it, you are hit with a wave of not only relief, but scheer and unadulterated joy.
“Yeji!” You nearly shout, pulling your back from the wall and wrapping your arms around your old laundress.
She chuckles, and then you are both laughing. In happiness, in relief, in sheer and utter disbelief. You pull away, placing both of your hands along her jaw to cup her face. You scan every detail, to ensure that she is real and actually standing before you, not some sort of trick or illusion.
But is her, just as you had seen her last at the castle. Maybe not exactly the same, wearing far different clothes than the modest beige dress she had adorned as your laundress, hair worn loosely, and eyes holding more of an edge than they ever had before.
Still, it is Yeji.
Yeji with the shimmering grin and freckle on her nose. Yeji who you know, and knows you in return. Yeji from your castle. Your home.
Yeji, a relic from the past that has not been destroyed.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack, following me around like that,” you laugh, taking one of your hands and giving her a slap on the shoulder, playful and not hard enough to actually hurt.
“Sorry,” she grins. “I didn’t want to attract any attention on the street. Figured it would be safer to lure you somewhere quiet, and you know, I also wanted to make sure it was actually you first.”
She then scoffs, returning the slap onto your own shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to pull out a sword on me! Where did you even get one of those?”
You consider answering, but a heavy cloud of unanswered questions hangs over the two of you, its presence loud and rattling like thunder. The jovial nature to your reunion cannot last long, not when there’s so much at stake, not when your world has crumbled to ash since you last spoke.
“What are you doing in Bebbanburg?” You ask, before realizing there’s a far more pressing question at hand. “How did you get out of the castle?”
Yeji smiles, placing her hand over one of your own along her cheek. “After what happened with the king in the ball-room, it was chaos,” she explains. “The Dark Army were rounding up and capturing all those who worked in the castle and may have been close to you.”
Your heart seizes at the statement, and your voice is quiet as you speak again. “Did they hurt them?”
“I don’t know,” Yeji replies, tone equally as somber. “A group of us laundresses escaped together using the underground tunnel system. I didn’t see what happened to those they had rounded up, but…”
She swallows hard, eyes pitiful as they meet your own. “But with how The Dark Army were talking, and the screams that followed behind us…I don’t think it would have ended well for them, Princess.”
Your throat swells at her admission, and it becomes more difficult to breathe as your eyes fill with the remnants of tears. Your mind is flooded with the unwelcome image of all of your old servants - your friends, as they had far surpassed their job description - tortured to try and probe them for information regarding you.
You wipe at your eyes with your hands, stuffing down the rising guilt and pain, placing a lid on these horrible thoughts. You will mourn later, when you have the time to properly grieve and honour all that they have lost because of you. For now, you must keep moving, deal with what is right in front of you.
“You keep calling them The Dark Army,” you begin, changing the subject. “Is that a made up title, or something they’ve defined themselves as? Do we know who they are?”
Yeji shakes her head. “Nobody knows who they are, it’s just what we’ve been calling them because of their armour. Not to mention the fact that they are about the sourest men I’ve ever met.”
“You’ve spoken to them?” You ask, scolding yourself for the fear that seizes in your chest at the thought of it. Of them being anywhere near her, or anyone you care about, for that matter.
She nods. “They’re poking around the city. Trying to keep a low profile, because Bebbanburg doesn’t like any semblance of war or conflict contaminating their streets, but they’re here. We try to keep to ourselves by not causing any trouble or disturbances and they mostly leave us alone.”
Your head buzzes at the confirmation that they are here, within the walls and perhaps a mere alley-way over, which is far, far too close.
“You keep saying we,” you note. “There’s more of you?”
Yeji nods, a soft smile grazing her lips. “Lot’s of us. We’ve set up a refugee camp on the outskirts of the city. Bebbanburg doesn’t want us here, because of course they don’t, but at least it’s safe. Not much crime or Anti-Libaiyan extremists in the city, so even if it’s not much, it’s all that we can really ask for.”
If she had told you this a couple weeks ago, you’d have been startled to know that there were Anti-Libaiyan extremists at all. However, having been given insight into the monstrosities your father was capable of, this no longer comes as a surprise, but rather expected.
“Can you take me to them?” You ask, and Yeji nods.
“Of course,” she says, grabbing your hand as she begins to walk back up the alley-way. “Although, I’d recommend keeping a low-profile, seeing that you're alive might cause a little too much excitement. Draw attention.”
You nod in agreement, following behind her through the winding alley-ways. It’s not until you’re almost back on the main city street that you remember why exactly you were trekking through the alleyways in the first place.
“Wait,” you say, stopping. Yeji turns to face you, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “There’s some people I need you to meet first.”
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“Where have you been?” Woo asks as you approach. The three men have gathered around the fountain within the center of the city square, water spouting from the tall and golden statue into a small pond embedded with various coloured jewels along its rim. The falling water casts a veil of mist around them, as well as the various other groups gathered beside it. Many of them are tourists from different kingdoms, which you can recognize by the various types of clothing they wear, such as the vibrant coloured patchwork of the group next to you that is distinctly Zarian. It seems a prime spot to talk, the definition of hiding in plain sight.
“You were supposed to meet us here a half-hour ago,” Woo says with a scowl, before he notices Yeji beside you. His gaze flickers up and down, as if assessing her potential danger. “Who is this?”
You take a deep breath, preparing yourself, before motioning to her. “You guys, this is Yeji.”
She gives them a smile to which none of the men return, and for a moment you stand in silence.
“We’ve heard that one before,” Woo says.
Your face warms with embarrassment, and you clear your throat before beginning to explain. “This is the real Yeji, the girl whose name I used. She was one of my laundresses back at the castle, as well as a close friend.”
Another moment of silence follows, as none of the men appear to know what to say, or how to approach the appearance of a stranger.
Eventually, Seonghwa speaks, tone polite. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, to which Yeji returns the sentiment. Although he isn’t looking at you to see it, you cast Seonghwa a grateful smile all the same.
“This is Seonghwa, San, and Woo,” you say, pointing to each of them in turn. “They have been helping me get to Kuroku.”
“Thank you for aiding Her Highness,” Yeji says, placing a hand on her chest while delivering a curtsy. A sign of respect. Although…exceedingly formal respect.
San’s lips pull together into a stifled smile, and Woo raises an eyebrow.
“You, um, don’t have to do that,” you say, placing a hand on Yeji’s shoulder and gently tugging her upwards. “It’s not really like that.”
“Oh,” she says, straightening herself as her eyebrows raise in surprise. There’s a silence that follows, as well as a sense of discomfort that hangs in the air, as Yeji chews nervously on her lower lip.
And for all the love that you have for her, you know exactly what she’s thinking, as it’s been drilled into her since the moment she began to work at the castle: The demands of Libaiyan proprietary.
She ponders that if the relationship with this group of men escorting you is not formal, then what is it, and how far have you stretched the rules of etiquette that bind you?
You wouldn’t even know how to answer that question even if she asked.
Instead of dwelling on the subject and the lingering discomfort, you turn to Woo and Seonghwa. “Did the two of you find a place for us to stay the night?”
Woo scoffs in annoyance while Seonghwa shakes his head, defeated.
“Not anywhere reasonable,” Seonghwa says. “There’s a few places we can go if nightfall comes, but we honestly might be better off sleeping in the woods. It should be a clear night, and at least it won’t cost us an arm and a leg.”
You frown, not fond of the idea of spending yet another night on the ground, especially without a tarp or blanket to shield you from the elements.
Fortunately, Yeji pipes up from beside you. “If you’re looking for a place to stay, we’ve formed a refuge on the outskirts of the city. I believe we have an extra tent to spare.”
Now this finally causes the men’s expression to shift, the discomfort and wariness on each of their faces replaced with a glimpse of relief.
“Alright,” San says, gaze shifting over to you even as he speaks to Yeji, and his expression is difficult to read. He appears almost bemused. “Lead the way.”
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The refuge, while about as bleak as you expected it to be, fills you with an undeniable sense of glee. Mostly due to how big it is, meaning that even if the mass size of the refuge indicates that there have been hundreds driven from the Libaiyan kingdom, there are also far more people who survived and escaped the castle than you’d originally thought.
Gathered just outside of Bebbanburg’s walls, dozens of the beige and tattered fabric tents are clumped together, creating a sort of maze as people make their way between the narrow passages. Head shrouded beneath your hood, the five of you pass through the different camps, ducking beneath laundry lines hanging between tent poles and maneuvering through the small groups gathered around make-shift fire pits as they roast small rodents and birds for dinner.
You watch their faces, searching amidst them for anger, for loss and resentment. While some are quiet, dark circles of tiredness hanging beneath their eyes, others are not so beaten down. There is the sound of laughter in the air, and a group of children nearly bump into you as they recklessly chase each other through the labyrinth of tents.
You smile. All is not lost.
You’d been so focused on your own survival, of getting to Kuroku alive and fighting to give your kingdom a chance, that you hadn’t realized the fear you had of there being no kingdom to fight for. Of not only the castle being besieged, but the entire kingdom being left in ashes.
Yet, even if this is so, there are still Libaiyans left. There is still a nation, full of life, that will not let themselves be stripped of their pride so easily.
“This way,” Yeji says softly, trying not to draw too much attention to your party. A group of girls wave to her as you pass by, and you recognize some of them as your kitchen maids, although you were never close enough to have learned their names.
The women are seated around a small fire. With the setting sun, they gather closed together, a blanket stretched over them. Or, upon closer look, a Libaiyan flag, its golden sun bright against its stark white background.
There is a man playing the lute sitting beside them. He has light eyes and a soft voice, fingers dancing as he strums the small wooden instrument in tune with his voice.
The man sings a Libaiyan folk song, one about a man arriving home to a small Libaiyan village after fighting many long years at war. The song doesn’t make clear which war exactly, centuries old and deriving from a time of high conflict, but it doesn’t really matter.
After all, the song is less about the war, and more about coming home. The ghosts of his fallen comrades following him, cane in hand to support his leg that will never heal, and his love having left the village to marry another man from the kingdom city.
The song is normally sung in a minor chord. It’s sad and melancholic, painting a tale of loss and grief.
However, the man currently singing has changed its tune to a major chord.
A message of triumph. Of defiance. Of the man’s survival, even after all else is lost and destroyed.
A song of hope.
You want to join them. To listen to this man sing your nation's song, to let his tune of triumph fill not only the air, but your entire body. Your heart, even your soul. Reignite the reason you started this journey, why you couldn’t give up.
These people need you. Your people need you.
Yeji wraps her arm around your wrist, giving you a gentle tug forward as you linger near the fire for a little too long.
“Don’t worry,” she whispers. “You’ll be able to hear his voice late into the night, even from your tent.”
You aren’t sure how to respond, how to depict your gratitude for all of this. For her taking you in and letting you hear these songs that you weren’t so sure you’d ever hear again, for being alive and granting you hope.
All you can do is reach to give her hand a soft squeeze, and hope she understands.
Yeji stops before a small tent, one that doesn’t seem big enough for two men, let alone three. “I know it isn’t much, but I hope it will do.”
“It’ll do,” Seonghwa answers with a smile.
“Especially considering we have no luggage,” Woo grumbles.
If Yeji hears the dissatisfaction in his voice, she doesn’t show it. “My own tent is just over there,” she says, pointing to what is only a few tents over. It’s a bit larger than the one before you, although not by much. She turns to you. “You can stay with me.”
You’re grateful for the sentiment, considering none of the men - except maybe San - would enjoy being forced to share such close quarters with you.
“There’s a table inside, if you’d all like to sit and regroup. I can catch you up on all that has happened since the siege,” Yeji says.
Her gaze flickers over to the three men, and it is hesitant. Curious, as it returns to you. “And you can do the same.”
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“Scorpion beasts, a mimic, and a dragon-basilisk hybrid all in just a few weeks?” Yeji gapes, hands clutching tight around her mug of hot tea, as if she needs something to hold onto. “And you’re alive?”
“I take it your journey here wasn’t so exciting?” San asks, sipping his own mug. He seems in good spirits today, as he willingly engages in conversation with Yeji. Especially compared to Seonghwa - who is more hesitant, likely less willing to jump the gun on trusting a new stranger - and Woo, who sits with his eyes bearing down into the table, not touching his mug even as the tea inside grows cold.
“No, we took the main path down the Arila River, so far less rural,” Yeji explains. “Although it was a good thing you didn’t do the same. There were Dark Army ports all along its bank. We were stopped and searched at every one of them.”
If there’s one thing you’ve learnt from Yeji’s recollection of the besiegement and the time that followed, it’s that the black-clad men are relentless in their pursuit. They want you, at any cost. You only wish you knew who they were, so at least then you’d know why.
“I really am glad you’re alive, Princess,” Yeji says suddenly, hand drifting to rest on your own atop the table. “Libaiya has a chance to be strong again, so long as your blood sits on the throne. You’ll make the perfect Queen.”
You open your mouth to thank her, albeit bashfully, but are cut off as Woo pushes himself from the table. It rattles in protest, although the elemental does not seem to care, as he stomps towards the tent-flap. He does not meet any of your eyes as he disappears beneath it.
“I’m sorry,” Yeji says, tone worried. “Did I say something to-”
“It’s not you,” San reassures her. “He’s just been dealing with a lot lately.”
“I’ll go talk to him,” you say, because you have a feeling about what may be bothering him. Your blood, as Yeji had said. Although to him, it’s more like poison.
“No,” Seonghwa cuts you off, already rising to his feet. “You shouldn’t, I don’t think he’d take it well. I’ll go.”
You want to protest, as Seonghwa does not know about Woo’s past, about the orphanage. The Libaiyan orphanage, and all the horrors that happened there. But the empath is already heading towards the tent flap, and the words die on your lips.
Even so, maybe he is right. Woo is upset, upset about you and your nation, perhaps you are not the one who should attempt to console him. Besides, Seonghwa has always been far better at that.
Yet, as you watch Seonghwa disappear after Woo, you have the sinking feeling it may not go as the empath plans.
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Wooyoung cannot breathe.
Making his way blindly through the darkness of the refuge, the sun having set over the horizon, he pushes past Libaiyan’s as he heads for the exit. They turn and look at him as he shoves past, and he wonders if they know. If they can smell it on him.
“You were his,” they whisper as he walks by, or is that just in his head? “One of his dogs. Our dogs. A machine for use. Worthless.”
The last word is in Warden’s voice, and Wooyoung places a hand over his ears to try and tune it out. The other clutching his chest.
He can’t breathe. By the god’s, he really can’t breathe.
Each short pant is as unsatisfying as the next. He feels dizzy, wanting to summon a ball of flame to guide him, but he can’t seem to move his hands in front of him. He pushes forward, searching for an exit through the mazes of tents.
Then he’s covered in something. It’s thin, engulfing him, and panic rises hot in his chest. They’ve gotten him. Again. It’s happening again. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
It’s only after nobody attempts to drag him away and he gets a whiff of soap that he realizes that what covers him is not a bag, but someone's laundry. With shaky hands, he untangles himself from the fabric, before glancing down at his captor.
It’s a Libaiyan flag.
The bright, golden, and horrible sun stares back at him. The same one hung in the cafeteria, the one he pledged allegiance to three times a day. The one plastered atop the ceiling of his bedroom, watching him every night. The one deckled on Warden’s shoulder, as he tortured them relentlessly, as he murdered Yeonjun.
Wooyoung throws it to the ground, hands still shaking as he walks over it, the dirt on the bottom of his shoe stark against the flag’s white background.
“Woo!” A voice calls from behind him, but it sounds far away. Maybe it’s also just in his head. He keeps walking.
He can hear the sound of the same man singing as when you’d all entered the camp. He has a nice voice as he sings Libaiyan songs. Songs he’s never heard. Songs that were reserved for Libaiyan citizens, not slaves.
Wooyoung’s throat burns with the taste of Libaiyan tea. Only one sip, and it will not leave his tongue.
It tasted like the infirmary tent after Assessment Day in the orphanage. Before Warden got there, but not before Wooyoung got beaten within the sparring ring. They’d given him the tea to calm him down, try and make him forget the burns lacing up and down his arms.
With the taste on his tongue it’s as if he can feel them again, the searing pain starting in his mind and seeping into his skin.
“Woo, hold on!” The voice calls again, closer than the last. This time Wooyoung knows it’s not in his head, as he recognizes it to be Seonghwa. The sound of foot-steps follows behind him, as the empath chases after him.
He does not turn around. He needs to get out of this place.
Wooyoung begins to run.
Tearing through the refuge, he sees Bebbenburg’s outer walls appear ahead of him, the light emitted from the lanterns hung on the outside fortress drawing him in like a beacon.
When he reaches the wall, he makes sure to take a few steps inside and past the gates, to ensure that he is no longer within Libaiyan territory. Here, he is within the Kuroken realm. Safe.
He pauses to catch his breath, less from the running and more from the panic that has seized him. Hands placed on his knees, Wooyoung lets the foggy haze fade from his mind, although it does not relinquish control so easily. His heart continues to race, ears ringing with a constant buzz.
Wooyoung doesn’t know why this is affecting him so horribly. He’s been to the Libaiyan castle since entering the orphanage, having stolen plenty of Libaiyan treasures and heirlooms on their heists within the castle.
Then again, that was in the dark of the night, when there were no songs to be sung or tea to be drunk. When the flags were shrouded in pure shadow, not wrapped around him like bonds of rope.
That was when he was in control. That was when he was taking from them. That was revenge.
That was before he entangled himself with their princess.
“Woo, what the hell?” Seonghwa asks as he approaches, slightly out of breath from chasing down the elemental. “Where are you going?”
“Away,” Wooyoung says, because it is all he can manage. He doesn’t look up at Seonghwa, instead staring at the cobblestone beneath his shoes, blinking blearily as he tries to direct his focus to its stone patch-work.
“Why did you just storm out of there?” Seonghwa asks. He’s not mad. Not yet. He genuinely wishes to know.
“Because of what that woman said,'' Wooyoung answers in his mind. “Because it’s true, she is the Libaiyan throne. Because it is her blood that’s done all of this. That did this to me.”
Wooyoung, of course, does not actually say any of this out loud. Seonghwa won’t understand. He doesn’t know, not only about Wooyoung’s past, but the orphanages in general. He’s from a small town within Zaria’s realm, far away from any news about Libaiyan political treachery.
He won’t get it, and Wooyoung isn’t going to even bother to try and explain it to him, especially when his tongue feels three sizes too large and his heart beats at a million times per minute.
“Leave me alone, Hwa,” he mutters, turning away from Seonghwa and heading deeper into Bebbanburg, hoping the empath will take the hint and piss off.
But he doesn’t, because after all, it’s Seonghwa. The blonde follows after him. “Where are you going to go, Woo? You saw the poster, it’s better to stay together, keep a low profile.”
“Leave me alone, Hwa,” Wooyoung repeats, beginning to walk faster, tone a little more pointed.
“Is this about her?” Seonghwa asks, and now his own tone is rising, annoyed as has to jog to catch up to the elemental. “Look I know you’re mad, I am too. But can’t you just push that aside? We’re almost to Kuroku, then we’ll be past it. We can move on.”
“Right. We’ll get to Kuroku. She’ll leave. San will leave. And then inevitably, you will too.”
After being met with silence, Seonghwa lets out a groan of annoyance, continuing to chase after him.
“Woo, stop!” He calls, reaching out to grab Wooyoung’s arm. Wooyoung slaps his hand away, perhaps a little harder than he should have. “Can’t we just talk about this? Can’t we have an actual conversation for once instead of you shoving me away?”
Wooyoung keeps moving, because no, they can’t. Not right now. Not like this. Not when he can’t think straight.
“I don’t get what you have to be so mad about anyway!”
Wooyoung stops at this, finally turning around to face Seonghwa. “What?”
Seonghwa stares at him for a moment, eyes wide and mouth parted with surprise that Wooyoung actually stopped. Then he frowns, eyebrows furrowing together, as if remembering his annoyance.
“Yes, she lied to you,” Seonghwa starts. “And I know it sucks. But it’s San’s money on the line, and clearly he’s been able to forgive her.”
Seonghwa swallows hard. “And even if I haven’t been able to do the same, even after all she’s done to me I’m willing to swallow my own feelings to get this journey done. For them.”
Them. By that Seonghwa means San and you. You, after all that you have done - to Seonghwa, to San, to Wooyoung himself - he’s still choosing you.
“Well maybe you shouldn’t, Hwa!” Wooyoung says, and now he’s shouting. It’s good. The anger provides him comfort, something familiar to latch onto. “She used you! She used all of us! I know you have this deep-seeded issue of thinking everyone and everything has good in them, but open your eyes! Not all that glitters is fucking gold! A pair of pretty eyes doesn’t repair what she’s done, it doesn’t mean that she isn’t rotten inside!”
“Just as you are too,” a voice reminds him within his mind, but he ignores it.
Seonghwa opens his mouth to cut back, but Wooyoung is not finished. “She lied through her teeth, and you’re really just going to let it slide?  Keep quiet because it’ll make things easier for her? For the sake of the gods, grow a spine!”
“Why do you care so much about what I do?” Seonghwa yells back, taking a step towards Wooyoung. Seonghwa’s fist is clenched at his side, and for a moment Wooyoung thinks that Seonghwa might actually hit him. He almost wishes he would.
“Why do you care if I forgive her? Why do you care so much about whether I let people walk all over me? Why do you care?”
Wooyoung doesn’t know why he does it.
Maybe it’s the way his mind still buzzes from moments prior, hazy and foggy and unable to think of anything beyond his anger. Anything beyond the way his heart pounds rapidly and vision blurs with an anxious haze.
Maybe it’s the way Seonghwa’s words sting, more than Wooyoung wants to admit, and he wishes to prove the man wrong. Show him that it’s not so simple. Win, in a strange and possibly fucked up way, but win nonetheless.
Or maybe, more than anything, it’s the way Seonghwa is looking at him. Big brown eyes scanning his face, full of anger, but also passion. Desperately searching for an answer, as if there will be a solution to the enigma that is Wooyoung hidden somewhere on the elemental’s face.
Wooyoung knows what the answer is that Seonghwa seeks.
It’s the part of himself that Wooyoung has never admitted exists. The part that he has shoved down, smothered, pretended wasn’t there. The part that flutters at the sound of Seonghwa whining at his teasing. The part that stalls when Seonghwa lets his hand fall onto Wooyoung’s shoulder, thinking nothing of it, simply trying to get the elemental's attention or leaning in to point out something in the distance.  
The part that broke the first night you and Seonghwa spent together. Defeated, angry, and beaten down, crawling into his bed that night in a drunken stooper, aching at the thought of the elemental being intimate with someone. Well, someone else.
The part that he once again shoved away the next morning, and had every day before and has every day since.
It’s that part of himself that he’s dejected and ignored that now comes crawling to the surface, invited by Seonghwa’s searching eyes, that unleashes its presence in a way that will make itself known. That will ensure it will no longer be forgotten, that it cannot be ignored or subdued again.
That part of Wooyoung unleashes itself in the form of a kiss.
It’s a horrible one, teeth smashing into teeth as Wooyoung grabs onto the collar of Seonghwa’s tunic and roughly pulls the man into him. In fact, it’s less of a kiss compared to two faces smashing together, Seonghwa clearly not prepared for it, but the message is sent all the same.
Wooyoung holds him there for three seconds, which feel far more like an eternity as they pass by.
Then Wooyoung pushes Seonghwa off of him, letting go of the man’s collar as the blonde stumbles back.
For a moment they stand in silence, and it’s a deafening one. Seonghwa’s hand drifts up to his lips, grazing them, eyes wide as he stares at Wooyoung. He’s clearly in a state of shock, as he says nothing, just stares with his mouth parted open in disbelief.
“There,” Wooyoung breathes. “Do you get it?”
Seonghwa continues to stare at him. Then his eyebrows furrow together, and when he begins to speak, Seonghwa’s tone is incredulous. “Woo, what are you-”
“Forget it,” Wooyoung cuts him off, because he doesn’t want to know what Seonghwa is going to say. He doesn’t want to hear the empath call him crazy, ask him what the hell he’s thinking.
Because Wooyoung doesn’t know the answer to that either. The mind-numbing fog has returned to his head, his heart racing even faster than it had before.
He needs to get out of here.
“Just go back to the tent, Hwa,” Wooyoung says, and then his feet are set in motion. He heads deeper into Bebbanburg, away from the Libaiyan tent. Away from you and San. Away from what he’s done, the irreversible mistake he just made.
He runs away, and this time Seonghwa doesn’t follow him.
“What were you thinking, what were you thinking, what were you thinking?” Wooyoung repeats the question to himself over and over again in his head, trying to make sense of what he’s done.
The look of bewilderment on Seonghwa’s face, followed by incredulity. Shock, then disbelief. Almost angry, and why shouldn’t he be? How could Wooyoung do something like this? Something so blatantly stupid and thoughtless?
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
Wooyoung still cannot come up with an answer, because frankly, he wasn’t thinking. And he still can’t.
He turns down one of the many alley’s surrounding him, head buzzing, not a clue of where he’s going. All he knows is that it’s away, and for now, that is enough for him.
Wooyoung closes his eyes, hand trailing along the wall beside him as he runs. He feels silly, running with his eyes closed, but he cannot bring himself to keep them open. This way, the world around him fades. He can simply be moving, feel the air rush past him, and pretend that nothing happened.
There are no Libaiyan refugees a few alleyways over. He does not care for the Liabiyan princess, nor did he lose San a mere night ago. He did not reveal his feelings to a man he loves and ruin their entire friendship in one fell swoop.
He is merely running in the darkness, chest heaving for air, fingers scraping along the cobblestone wall.
Maybe, if he keeps running like this, he’ll actually have escaped it all.
Or maybe, running like this is not such an acceptable option, as it stops him from noticing the figure that has been following after him.
Wooyoung does not notice he is being followed until it is too late. Until he’s already been shoved sideways, face smacking into the stone wall beside him.
At the very least, the blows knock him from his stupor, and his eyes fly open as he stumbles. Whirling to face his attacker, fire ignites immediately within his hand, dancing in between his fingers.
However, the second he turns, he’s met with a swift punch to the jaw that catches him off guard. Mostly because it does not come from where he can feel the man beside him - who now pins Wooyoung’s wrist to the alley-wall - but from the other side.
It’s not one attacker, but many.
“Shit,” Wooyoung thinks to himself, spitting out the blood that fills his mouth, the metallic taste thick on his tongue and gritty between his teeth. Eyes searching the darkness around him, his attackers are nothing more than blurs within the night, and he gives the one in front of him a swift kick to the groin. The man lets out a long string of curses, and Wooyoung uses the opportunity to try and rush forward.
It’s of no use, as another man (or two, maybe even three?) pins his wrists to the wall.
It’s not the most efficient way to capture a person, as it leaves their legs functional to kick and mouth free to spit, bite, or scream for help.
Unless, of course, you’re capturing an elemental.
Wooyoung tries to summon fire into his hands, and while it manages to dance around his fingers, the inability to move his arms stops him from managing anything greater. He tries to summon the flame with only his mind, staring at his hand with sheer determination. He knows it’s possible, he’s done it before. Once. The night Yeonjun died.
Of course, he didn’t exactly mean to, and apparently it isn’t the sort of thing he can do by will, as his hands remain barren of flame.
Instead, he’s left helpless, pulling against the grips of the men that bind him. His eyes dart amongst the shadows that surround them, and he tally’s roughly ten of them, although he’s certain that there’s more as he hears shouts from down the alley-way.
One of the men’s hands digs into Wooyoung’s hair, pulling his head forward before slamming it back into the stone-wall. Hard.
Stars dance before Wooyoung, and a darkness creeps into the corners of his vision. He continues to kick out in front of him, although each swing is far weaker than the last, as the pain leaves him sluggish.
The man yanks on his hair again, before slamming his head back into the wall once more, and suddenly Wooyoung is on the ground.
He doesn’t remember crumpling, but the stone pathway is cold against his back, so he must have passed out for a moment. He opens his eyes, vision swaying as he tries to make out the men surrounding him.
He can vaguely spot the face of the man above him. Middle-aged, with a dark beard and intense eyes. He speaks to someone beside him, although Wooyoung’s mind is too muddled to make out the actual words.
Likely not thugs then, as they aren’t even bothering to hide their identities. Besides, there’s too many of them to be a regular mugging. Too conspicuous, so it must be targeted.
But if it’s targeted, then who are they?
“W-who?” He asks, because the full sentence is far too much effort. His words are slurred and he sounds drunk. Which to be fair is an awful lot like how he feels.
The man above him doesn’t answer, but instead places a hand on Wooyoung’s throat, silencing him. With his other two hands, the man pins Wooyoung’s wrists to the ground.
No, no, that doesn’t make any sense. He can't have three hands. Which means it must be somebody else pinning his wrists to the ground, as well as another that slips the cloth bag over his head. How many were there again?
By the god’s Wooyoung really can’t think right now.
“Knock him out,” one of the men speaks from above him. Now that Wooyoung can make out.
Then the world goes black.
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“And he seriously didn’t tell you where he was going?” San asks, arms crossed as he leans against the training post outside of the men’s tent. It’s covered in grooves, clearly crafted by a sword, and one in the hands of someone not too pleased. A testament to San’s opinion on Woo not returning to the refuge last night.
“I already told you,” Seonghwa replies. His tone is also frustrated as he sits at an outside table, fingers tapping anxiously in rhythm with his jittering leg. “No. He didn’t.”
“He just took off?” San repeats, and you can understand why Seonghwa is becoming a bit annoyed. It’s also the third time you’ve heard San ask, although you have a feeling the swordsman isn’t actually expecting the answer to change. He simply wants to hear it again, to let him fuel the flame of his annoyance. “Without a word? Without a reason? Out into a city we’re currently being hunted in?”
Seonghwa’s eyes shift to the ground. “Yes.”
“And you let him?”
Seonghwa scowls at this. “What did you want me to do? You know Woo, he’s going to do what he wants no matter what anyone says or thinks.”
Seonghwa has been in a sour mood all morning, and something tells you there may be a little more to Woo leaving than he may be letting on. However, now is not the time to ponder what it might be, nor is it the time to start a fight. You simply need to find him.
“Let’s not start bickering with one another just because Woo’s not around to start it,” you say, attempting to remedy the argument before it can start. Fortunately, neither of the men are overly confrontational, at least not with each other.
“You’re right,” San sighs, turning to Seonghwa. “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed, I know it’s not your fault.”
Seonghwa gives San a sort of half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before staring back down at his shoes. He appears to immediately lose himself in thought, knee bouncing anxiously.
Yeah, something definitely happened last night.
“This isn’t like him,” San says, pulling his sword out from his sheath and spinning it around in his hand. A nervous habit. “Staying out for the night, sure. But he’s always back by the next day. Always.”
With morning long past, the sun high in the sky with the arrival of late noon, San’s statement of “always” is replaced with “until today”, and a sense of uneasiness passes through you.
Something is wrong. You can feel it.
And with both San’s sword spinning in his hand and the sound of Seonghwa’s fingers tapping the table, you know that they can feel it too.
“I think we should go looking for him,” you say, expecting immediate approval. Instead both men look at you, and San shoots Seonghwa a side glance, to which the empath returns.
“What?” You ask, uncomfortable at the fact that it appears they’re both in on something you’re not.
San sighs. “You shouldn’t come.”
“What?” You say, this time with far more anger than confusion. “If Woo’s in danger then of course I’m going to come-”
“If Woo’s in danger then it’s likely because of the men who are looking for you,” San cuts you off, and while his tone is not accusatory, it is pointed.
You prepare a rebuttal, but it dies on your lips. San is right.
If the black-clad men have done something to Woo, then you going looking for him is likely exactly what they would want for you to do. While the stubborn part of you wants to go anyway, put Woo’s safety before your own. Be daring, bold, and perhaps a little stupid, just as Woo is in the face of danger, you know that this is not an option.
You need to get to Kuroku, and if you aren’t yet certain of the danger Woo may be in, you cannot afford to take such blatant risks.
“Alright,” you say, tone defeated as Seonghwa rises to his feet, San making his way towards the path leading outside of the refuge.
You don’t manage the next words until they’ve already left. Leaving you alone, face shrouded by your hood, suddenly aware of the wind’s chill nipping at your skin. The seasons are turning.
“Good luck.”
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They are back sooner than you expected.
You sit at a table with Yeji, playing a game of Skirmish. A traditional Libaiyan game meant for children, due to the fact it has few rules and never really ends, so it can keep them occupied for hours. You didn’t particularly want to play, but Yeji said it might help to keep your mind distracted. You figured it was worth a shot.
It didn’t work.
However, it doesn’t matter, as when both San and Seonghwa approach from down the refuge’s path, the cards are forgotten. Tossing your deck to the side, you give San a look, one that asks: “Any luck?”. Although, you’re fairly certain of the answer, as there is no Woo in tow behind them.
San does not give you a look of his own. In fact, he does nothing. He simply stares back at you, a dead look to his eye.
It’s that look, the emptiness of it, that tells you something has gone wrong.
“What happened?” You ask as he approaches, although San does not reply. Instead he gives Seonghwa a fleeting glance, and the blonde meets it. His own expression is not as empty as San’s. In fact, it is the opposite. Brimming with emotion, Seonghwa’s eyes hold worry, mouth drawn tight, jaw clenched. A look of nothing less than pure fear.
“Seonghwa?” You ask, your own worry settling deep in your chest. Something has gone wrong, but what, and how badly?
The blonde doesn’t answer you with words, instead he moves towards the table. You hadn’t noticed before, but he holds something in his hands. The paper is a light tan colour, the size also familiar, and you recognize it to be one of your wanted posters. Immediately you're confused, as why would Seonghwa show you one of these? You’ve already seen dozens of them plastered all over Bebbanburg.
However, as he lays it down onto the table, the answer is blatantly obvious.
The paper is smeared with blood. The red stark against its light colouring, it doesn’t coat the poster fully, but is rather smothered haphazardly, the semblance of fingerprints notable. It’s testament to a job done quickly, as whoever did this did so with one purpose: to get a message across.
The message is made even more clear by the thick, dark lock of hair tied to the corner of the page.
Woo’s.
Beneath the lock of hair is writing, scrawled in black ink.
The Concursos Mountain Pass.
Three Days.
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Wooyoung awakens to the back of his head pounding in a violent, aching fashion. The world sways in front of him, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is exactly.
However, at the sight of tarps on all sides of him, the tent coated in darkness as only the light of the setting evening sun is able to get through, he remembers.
Right, the Libaiyan refuge.
Wooyoung groans, blinking as he tries to get his eyes to focus, his pounding head making his thoughts difficult to string together.
He moves his hand, attempting to wipe the sweat beading along his forehead, only to realize that he can’t.
His hands are tied.
Eyebrows furrowing together, he looks over his shoulder. The chains that tie his wrists to the chair that he sits in are thick and made of iron. If he tried to melt his bonds with the fire between his fingers, rather than catching fire like rope, they’d heat up and burn his wrists.
“What the…” He croaks out, throat raspy. Who would have tied him to a chair? Surely not Seonghwa or San. Not very likely you, as he couldn't see what good that would do you. Maybe your friend, the Libaiyan patriot? But why?
Wait.
Wooyoung’s brain pauses, mind doing a double-take as he stares at his bonds, noting bruising along his wrist. The massive purple marks are dark against his bronzed skin, and are almost line-shaped, as if someone had been holding him.
No, he’s not in the Libaiyan refuge, he’s somewhere else.
The memories of last night come rushing back to him. Running from the tent. The fight with Seonghwa. The subsequent kiss with Seonghwa.
His capture.
The shock of it is enough to cause Wooyoung to jolt awake, mind finally clearing even if the pain at the back of his head does not subside.
As if sensing Wooyoung’s realization, a man appears from under the tent-flap. He’s older, his face like a worn-glove, leathery and wrinkled in its places most used. His dark hair is cropped short, although his beard remains long, as well as scruffy.
Most notably, he’s dressed entirely in black armour. One of your predators.
“Ah, good. You’re awake,” the man says, and his voice is not as deep as Wooyoung expected.
“Who are you and-”
“Don’t speak. Not everyone has arrived yet,” the man cuts him off dismissively. “Besides, we’ll be the ones asking the questions.”
“Oh, my mistake, I thought-”
Wooyoung doesn’t know why he is surprised by the slap, but he is. Maybe because he hadn’t even had the chance to say the insult he was planning yet. Usually the hit would at least come afterwards.
These men, they aren’t playing around, that is clear.
His cheek stings, and he can imagine the bright red mark appearing along his skin as more men in dark armour appear from under the tent-flap. Wooyoung is surprised by the amount of them that manage to crowd into the space, almost a dozen.Then again, it is a big tent. Mostly empty, other than a small table in the corner, scattered with a variety of knick-knacks and spices that seem non-sensensical. Lunadore pollen, silver beads, Alagor Root, and a bunch of other rare ingredients the Wooyoung does not have time to make sense of, although set him on edge nonetheless.
If they plan to torture him, the table should be full of knives. Hammers. Maybe a few pliers to pull off his fingernails. Not plants.
The man who slapped him - their leader, it seems - clears his throat, and the group of men fall silent. Each of them turn to face Wooyoung, eyes glinting with something dark, something that says that they know more than he does.
Wooyoung makes sure to give each of them in turn a glare.
“I’m sure you know who we are by now,” the man says.
Wooyoung considers playing dumb, maybe earning himself a matching slap on the other cheek. However, he needs information, which means at least for now he must play along.
“You attacked the Libaiyan castle. Killed their king,” Wooyoung answers, meeting the man’s gaze. His eyes are sharp, intimidating, and Wooyoung makes sure not to look away. Not to show any fragility. Even if he has been made into the weakest in the room, he need not show it.
“People have been calling you The Dark Army,” Wooyoung says, and then because he can’t help himself, adds: “Cute name. Very scary. Did you come up with it yourselves?”
The man doesn’t answer his question, but instead smirks. “If you know who we are, I’m sure you also know what we’re looking for.”
You. That’s the answer the man wants. But Wooyoung won’t give that to him. “Power?” He ventures instead. “Glory? Access to the king’s many bejeweled robes?”
The man steps forward, grabbing Wooyoung's face in his hand. His fingers squeeze Wooyoung’s jaw, so much so that it not only hurts, but prevents him from speaking.
“Enough playing coy,” the man says. He still does not seem angry, face blank and tone almost bored as he grips Wooyoung’s face between his fingers. “Tell me where she is.”
He eases his grip just enough to let Wooyoung speak. “Where who is?”
The man’s grip tightens once again, fingernails digging into the elemental’s skin, and Wooyoung forces himself not to wince. “The girl you’ve been running all over Burovia with. The princess turned convict. Ring any bells?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wooyoung manages. At this the man lets go of his jaw, but it’s only to deliver another slap that burns along his cheek. The man grips his jaw again, and Wooyoung struggles to focus on the man’s face, blinking away the stars that dance across his vision.
“Yes, you do,” the man says, and this time his tone is almost soft, gentle as he attempts to coax out an answer. Somehow it’s far more unsettling than the blankness. “Is she with the refugees? At one of the hostels, or even a tavern?”
“I told you, I don’t know,” Wooyoung says through gritted teeth. This time the man does not slap him, but instead grips his hair as he brings Wooyoung face down into his knee. Pain radiates from his nose through the rest of his face, and when the man lifts him back up, it takes Wooyoung a moment to register the man’s face before him through the blurriness.
It’s not until now that Wooyoung realizes the severity of the danger that he is in.
They want him to hand you over to them, and Wooyoung can’t do that.
But why can’t he do that? It would be the easiest thing to do. Nobody would blame him, after everything that you’ve done, especially if it came down to choosing between his own life or yours. San and Seonghwa would understand.
You are the Libaiyan Princess. Your family sent him to the orphanage. Turning you in would rid himself of the volatile confusion that has plagued him, it would fulfill the dream that his younger self wished for every night and morning. So why can’t he do it?
He knows the answer. How he feels towards you has grown beyond hatred. It’s grown beyond mere toleration for San and Seonghwa’s sake. It’s grown beyond the excuses he’s been telling himself for weeks.
He’s not going to hand you over to them to die, no matter what that may mean for himself. Unfortunately, what that may mean for himself is not looking good.
“You’re going to tell us,” the man states, not to persuade, but to simply state as fact. “It’s just a matter of how much you’re willing to put yourself through before you do.”
“Well I have nothing but time,” Wooyoung answers, grinning, and he knows his teeth are bloody. Can feel the grittiness on his teeth, or maybe that’s still from the night before.
The man smiles back. “You have three days.”
Wooyoung raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m just such lovely company?”
“Because that’s how long we’ve given her to come find you.”
Wooyoung pauses at this, and he knows he’s shown a glimpse of weakness. How did they get a message to you? Is he bluffing?
Would you really be stupid enough to come after him?
“Nobody will come,” Wooyoung says, and even he can hear the uncertainty in his voice. Surely you wouldn’t come after him. Not when you’re so close to Kuroku, to San’s freedom. You have to keep going, there’s no way you, San, and Seonghwa could take on a dozen armed and highly trained men, especially considering there’s more of them out there somewhere. It would be pointless, a suicide mission.
But Wooyoung also knows that none of you would leave him behind to die.
“That’s fine,” the man says with a shrug. “Either she comes to us, or we go to her with the information you’ll give us. It doesn’t matter.”
“You aren’t going to be able to torture anything out of me,” Wooyoung says with a scoff, tilting his chin up, defiant. “Pain? Yeah, I’ve been through my share.”
The corner of the man’s lip curves upward, eyes gleaming. “I know. That’s what they told me.”
Wooyoung frowns. They?
The man chuckles at Wooyoung’s weary expression, finally letting go of his hold on the elemental’s jaw. The group of soldiers step back, creating a pathway for him as the man heads over to the table covered with rare ingredients and spices.
The man begins to fiddle around with them, although what exactly he’s doing Wooyoung can’t make out, his vision obscured by the other men standing before him.
“Do you know what they say about those whose body cannot be broken?” The man calls over his shoulder, and Wooyoung catches a glimpse of what is in his hand: a small bowl and mallet, which he uses to grind down the Alagor Root.
“No,” Wooyoung answers, wary.
“Break their mind instead,” the man states, holding up a small vial of purple liquid that Wooyoung cannot identify, before pouring into the bowl. A strange, dark and odorous smoke wafts up from the concoction. It smells like something burning, although what exactly Wooyoung cannot place. That is, until he can. It’s burnt flesh. It reminds him of the infirmary tent, of his scorched arms.
An inkling of fear settles into Wooyoung’s chest as he becomes increasingly aware of the bonds on his wrist. He can’t move, run, fight back, or do anything, really.
For a man with so much power, he’s grown accustomed to never feeling powerless. For a moment, it’s like he’s thirteen again. At Warden’s disposal and no fire to call his own.
The man places the empty vile back down on the table, before grabbing something else Wooyoung cannot see, although he can hear the sizzling noise it makes as he adds it to the bowl.
Wooyoung cannot take the silence any longer, his curiosity - or better, fear - overtaking him. “What are you doing?” He asks.
Instead of answering him, the man begins to mutter something beneath his breath, making a strange circular motion with his hand above the bowl, which he has set back down on the table. Wooyoung cannot make out what he is saying, but the way the words leave his lips is almost rhythmic, like a priest delivering a chant.
Wooyoung scowls, opening his mouth to interrogate the other men around him as to what the hell is going on, but the words die on his tongue. He knows what the man is doing.
It’s part of the Old Faith. Old Magic.
Dark magic.
Wooyoung has never been a devoted servant to the gods. In fact, for all of his life he’s hated them. He hated them as a child for giving him a gift he could not use. He hated them as a teenager for cursing him with the power to destroy everything he held dear. He hates them as an adult for idly standing by as all of the horrible events of his childhood tumbled down one after the other.
However, even with his hatred towards the gods, he’s always considered worshiping them to be far more understandable than the Old Faith. More particularly, the Old Magic aspect.
It’s a breach of order. If the gods blessed the gifted with their powers, then Old Magic defies that. It’s taking from the earth what was not given to you. It’s blasphemous. Immoral and unnatural. At its very core wrong.
Wooyoung tugs at the chains around his wrists, which clatter in protest. Panic begins to rise in his chest, as one thought fills his head: “What the fuck are they going to do to me?”
The man finishes his chant, before digging into his pocket and pulling out a miniature knife. He uses it to create a small cut along the tip of his finger, holding it above the bowl as a drop of blood collects around the wound, before dropping into the potion.
Smiling to himself in satisfaction, the man takes the bowl with him as he heads back towards Wooyoung. Stopping before him, the man takes a moment to meet the elemental’s eyes, that glimmer of darkness potent within his gaze.
Wooyoung does not look away, but by the gods, he wants to.
“Well,” the man says. “Open up.”
Wooyoung keeps his mouth shut, lips pursing together. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, feeling its thump throughout his entire body. He can’t drink that. He isn’t sure what it will do, but he knows that its something horrible.
It will break his mind. That is what the man had said.
And while Wooyoung has always had confidence in his abilities, perhaps even relied on himself more than he should, for the first time that confidence falters.
“So this is what it takes for you to be quiet,” the man jests, earning a few chuckles from the others around him. “Good to know.”
When Wooyoung doesn’t reply, the man nods to a couple of the soldiers beside him. “Open his mouth.”
Four of the men approach him, and Wooyoung fights against the bonds of his chair, even if he knows it’ll be pointless. The chains against his wrists and ankles hold him still, and as two of the men grab his shoulders to stop the chair from rattling, he’s left with nothing but twisting his face away from the men who grab at him.
Hands blur across his vision as he feels one of the men press an arm to his throat. Another digs into his scalp, pulling his hair in order to bring his head back and face upwards. Fingers claw at the crevices of his face, digging beneath his cheekbones, into his ears, scratching along his lips.
It’s overwhelming, but Wooyoung stays focused, repeating over and over again in his mind, “Don’t open your mouth, don’t open your mouth, don’t open your mouth.”
It’s not until the elbow pressing into his throat has been there for a little too long that Wooyoung registers that he needs to breathe. Black lines creeping into the corners of his vision, head beginning to feel foggy, he does his best to ignore it.
Until he can’t any longer. Against his mind’s will, when the man removes his elbow from the elemental’s throat, Wooyoung gasps for air.
The men do not waste the opportunity.
Fingers dig themselves into his mouth, and while he attempts to bite down on them, their force is too strong as the many hands pull back his cheeks. Limbs bound, hair pinned, and face pulled back, he’s left helpless as the man with the bowl approaches him.
As the man lifts the bowl above the elemental’s face, a smile grazes over his lips, and Wooyoung knows that he is enjoying this.
The liquid burns as it pours down his throat, rubbing like sand-paper along his tongue. It tastes familiar. Like stale bread, but worse. Rotten with mold. Wooyoung gags but the man does not stop, not until the final drops fall from the bowl and into his open mouth.
The men do not release him until he swallows the concoction, and he feels it as it settles down into his gut, twisting and turning like cheap whiskey.
Wooyoung attempts to catch his breath, chest heaving and sweat beading along his forehead as he looks at the man before him. He continues to smile that awful, wretched grin, empty bowl in hand.
“See? Now that wasn’t so hard,” the man says, for no other reason but to rub salt in the wound.
Wooyoung spits on his shoes.
The man does nothing, merely takes a few steps back as he continues to watch Wooyoung with an analytical gaze, as if observing whatever the hell is supposed to happen. For a few moments, Wooyoung feels nothing but the tension that hangs in the room as all of the men stare at him. He feels like a monster in a cage, like one of those griffin’s from a traveling circus he saw passing through Gloria many years ago. Undeniably dangerous, but stripped down to a mere display for people to gawk at.
Then he notices it. It doesn’t start as much, more of a feeling in the back of his mind than anything else. An uncomfortable tingling sensation creeping through him, like an itch beneath his skin, little prickles of worry like ants tunneling through his veins.
He blinks, and his vision goes blurry.
The men in front of him transform into foggy statues and he blinks again, but instead of focusing it only gets worse. He swallows hard, only to find his throat has gone dry, the saliva refusing to go down.
Heat settles itself in his gut, rising into his chest as an aching sensation washes through him. Wooyoung lets out a low whine, one that under any other circumstances would humiliate him, but he can’t bring himself to worry about that right now. Not when his body feels as if it’s rejecting him.
“What did you do to me?” Wooyoung asks, and it comes out as a hoarse whisper. The man hums softly, reaching forward to hold Wooyoung’s chin. This time his grip is gentle, and Wooyoung wants to slap it away, but he doesn’t have the strength. In fact, if it weren’t for the man holding his head up, he’s certain his chin would have fallen down to his chest. Maybe it already had, Wooyoung doesn’t remember.
“This is the easy part, Jung Wooyoung,” the man says, and Wooyoung swears that that is the first time the man has said his name. Although the worry is replaced by agony as another ripple of pain rattles through him.
“Remember. You tell me what I want to know, I’ll make it stop,” the man says. “You’d be wise to accept that offer.”
Wooyoung blinks up at him, and he thinks thaf tears stain his eyes, although his vision is too foggy to notice a difference. “And if I don’t?”
“I don’t know,” the man says, giving a soft, condescending thumb-stroke along his cheek. “They always tend to comply.”
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You cannot sleep.
The tent feels crammed, even though you’re well aware that there’s more than enough space. Yeji sleeps soundly, a few feet away and face turned from you as the peaceful sighs of deep slumber escape her lips. It is dark, only the faintest hint of moonlight seeping through the tent’s thin fabric, and yet it feels too bright.
You do not wish to sleep. There are things to be done. This is no time for rest.
They have Woo.
The men you’ve been fearing this entire journey. The ones that ambushed your father, that killed Mingi, that besieged your castle and robbed your life right out from under your feet. The men that have made you paranoid, always keeping one eye over your shoulder, creating wariness with each new city and step you have taken.
The men you have feared would kill you, they have taken him instead.
And somehow that is so much worse.
It’s not something you’d anticipated, always having assumed that if the black-clad men were to find you, you would be the one to face the consequences. The idea that travelling with the three men was putting them in the crossfire of the mysterious army hadn’t occurred to you. After all, it’s your wanted posters on every city street, not theirs.
How stupid you had been, and now Woo is gone. Captured by your family’s assassins, and only the god’s know what sort of danger he is in.
It’s your fault. It’s you they really want, he is just a pawn in their greater game. You’ve been outplayed, and Woo is the one forced to pay the price of your failure.
They could be torturing him for information. You know the sorts of things powerful men do to prisoners, having heard whispers about it in your halls, the dungeons located deep beneath the castle. Using a whip to lash the back until there's more blood left than flesh, spending hours drowning them within a bucket of water, pouring vials of liquid metal along the skin. Maybe one of them is a sadist, and Woo’s face is blistered and burnt beyond repair.
Maybe he’s already dead.
You roll over, eyes accustomed enough to the darkness that you can make out the ceiling of the tent above you. Although really, what you see is Woo, pleading for mercy as one of the black-clad men delivers the final blow. Woo goes silent, his eyes still open, and you know that it is over. He is gone.
Another person you care for, dead.
You cannot just sit here like this and let that happen. However, while you were prepared to head to the Concursos Mountain Pass the moment Seonghwa placed the message down in front of you, both he and San urged caution.
“This is clearly a trap,” San had said, wrapping a hand around your wrist to stop you from heading down the path towards the refuge’s exit. “They’re going to be prepared, which means we need to be. We need to come up with a plan before we do anything.”
“We have three days,” you snapped back, frustrated. “Yeji said the journey is at the very least a full day’s ride. We don’t have the time to sit here and twiddle our thumbs.”
“Then we have a day and a half to come up with something,” San replied, tone calm but also curt. He was not entertaining the possibility of going now, no matter how much anger you added to your glare. “Maybe we can form a group of some of the other refugees and leave together.”
“There’s only two horse’s between the entire refuge,” you cut back. “We cannot make it in time by foot. There’s no chance of us building our own army, if that’s what you're implying.”
“We’ll figure it out,” San said, still not budging. However, beneath his steady gaze, you could see the faintest hint of worry. Of doubt. Of knowing that there may have been no other option but to go alone, although he was not ready to admit it. Not ready to acknowledge the truth that weighed down on each of your shoulders.
The fact that it may come down to Woo’s life, or your own.
Thus, a second truth sat just as heavy. He would choose Woo. They both would.
It’s not until this moment, staring up at the ceiling of the tent, that you realize you would choose Woo too.
You will not have him die for you. You will not have the black-clad men take anything else from you. Not him. Not like this.
If they are to kill you, let it be your own doing. Not ambushed for the money they have placed on your head, or killed silently in an alley-way along the streets of Bebbanburg. You will not be your father, stabbed at his own celebration, unaware of what was coming. If you are to die, let you come to them with your sword in hand, fighting for a man who - even when you haven’t deserved it - fought for you.
Rising to your feet, you pull the blanket off of you, heading towards the tent flap. Stopping in place, you turn back, watching Yeji’s sleeping silhouette, chest rising and falling peacefully.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and it is not only to her, but to all of them. All of the Libaiyan’s uprooted from their homes, left to wander Burovia with no kingdom to call home. They had finally been reunited with their princess, only for you to leave them once more. It is selfish. It is what your father would consider an abandonment of responsibility.
Maybe you are abandoning your royal duty, or perhaps you are fulfilling your duty to another.
Either way, it must be done.
Slipping out from under the tent flap, you can hear San and Seonghwa talking within their own tent, though you cannot make out what they are saying. Good, they're busy. They will likely not notice you’re gone until morning.
Scanning the field, the man continues to sing by the fire, and it is the same song as before. Lute in hand, he serenades the men and women surrounding him, although the number has depleted under the blanket of the night.
As you approach the horse tied to a nearby tent-pole, you sing along quietly beneath your breath, to the words you have known your entire life.
“My love for whom I do come home,”
“I’ve been bathed in scars, both body and soul,”
“And while I’ve returned beneath darkened gloam,”
“Without you this place may never be whole.”
Although, while you may sing his words, unlike the man within the song you will not be so passive.
You will find Woo, and you will bring him home. Even if you do not come back with him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
next chapter.
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blueiight · 8 days
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can i ask your thoughts on the fandom’s heavy focus on louis as an object of desire? it sometimes feels to me like people are more interested in other characters reacting to louis than they are in louis himself. i know the “helen of troy” stuff is a joke but it genuinely seems like he’s often rendered oddly passive in his desirability, like we’re looking at him through the eyes of the other characters even though it’s his story (to be clear: in the fandom, not the actual show). or am i being uncharitable? either way, you always have interesting things to say about fandom reception.
i think the focus of louis as an object of desire arose largely in response to a lot of racially-charged nonsense about show louis, namely, where a loud minority of fans tried to deny the abuse and horror of season 1 and frame louis as the primary antagonist/abuser of his own story. which in of itself had the potential to go somewhere, especially considering the feminized role louis occupies in parts of season 1. unfortunately its spiraled off into its own dead end at this point to where now people, a year and a half removed from the release of s1, can box louis's character arc into this tale of getting all the hot boys to look her way. when this is a horror and tragedy series. romance is part of that, but is a piece of the full picture. classic romance is very much horror tbh but thats just me
if we're discussing the show strictly, majority of louis's relationships are antagonistic. even with his lovers, they love him as much as they seek to control him. 'his love is a small box that he keeps you in', trailer louis saying 'i knew who i was without those pieces [of myself?]' . so on and so forth. the first three episodes of season 1 are about louis's struggle to maintain a link with his mortal community, in the midst of increasing racist tensions against the city leaders, all as he struggles to come to terms with his existence as a vampire and how his relationship to lestat fits in relation to all these pieces of himself. doubly so, there is also the nature of the second interview in present time, and the sort of antagonism between daniel + louis as louis eventually pushes daniel into burning the old tape. the latter half of season 1, episodes 4-7 is squarely about the triad of lestat, louis, and claudia, how lestat increasingly tightens his hold over them both, claudia breaking them free of it, and louis's response to such. doubly so, daniel becomes more hostile the less he knows, and the more louis's composed 'master of his instincts' personage collapses to show the broken man thats underneath. armand comes in at the end bc the interview has reached a breaking point once more [as it did in the 1970s]. i know, im looking too hard into the meme, but so much of where louis errs, where his memory falters, where history is completely revised, has to do with the question of claudia. even book interview foundationally was about this grief, though not nearly with the level of depth+ gravity the show has added to the story.
where focusing on louis as an 'object of desire' most impedes analysis has to do with claudia as well, bc if u see louis as that solely, then what is claudia to u if not a 'child interfering in [louis's] romantic affairs'? why are people already seeking to write claudia off as a wayward child unduly 'taking out her anger on louis', when it was louis at the end of season 1 who strangled her against the wall and refused to let her burn lestat? when its louis in the trailer thats throwing claudia's words from season 1 back at her, evading her questions in the cafe? when claudia is having to dress as a baby doll and advertise with a sandwich board for a theater + a coven-master that all want her dead?
i think this is by nature of the fact that iwtv is canonly gay and isnt afraid of showing that, and modern fandom is mainly interested in romance. claudia's relationship to louis is secondary, if not tertiary, to all 'camps' of this tiny tiny fandom bc she is clearly established in s1 as not being a viable romantic option for louis, despite claudia's perspective and her story taking up the second half of the first season, and will continue to be important in the second season. the 'helen of troy' fixation on his desirability in relation to romantically viable vampires [or even men] seems to be another means by which fans can ignore this part of the story, just as the mutual abuse nonsense about louis being clarence thomas the third self hating black man who stole lestat's lunchables and is 'just as bad as the rest' drowned out and continues to drown out any other conversation for the past year and a half. it is very difficult to have conversations on this character precisely bc of this state of fandom, where many people seek to crack the whip over a fictional character for not being mother teresa and having a complex response to trauma, then instead of discussing that, some seek to fixate on the fact that mother teresa can be sexy, actually. when thats not the point. why is modern louis so full of grief and all but suicidal in dubai, if not for the fact that claudia is permanently dead, he still lives, he regrets something, and wants to find the truth under it all? the jokes are cute and all, but lets put our thinking caps on.
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genshin-side-piece · 1 year
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The Manicurist
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Warnings: Minors DNI, 18+, Yandere themes, Yandere Behavior, Sexual Themes, Power Imbalance, Dark themes, My bad writing, Anything Else I Missed
Pantalone works with his hands.
Whether it's writing contracts or committing murder in the name of the Fatui, the man uses his hands a lot. As such, he tends to have issues with them on a regular basis. He suffers from cramps and fatigue due to spending most of his days with a pen in his hand. He’s found relief with medicinal stretches, but things get worse for him when the cold sets in for the winter. The touch of arthritis he’s developed as he’s gotten older will often flair up, forcing him to rely on his assistants to help him with the mundane things such as paperwork.
Being the high maintenance, rich bitch that he is, Pantalone has a team to keep him looking his best 24/7. He has an image to maintain. The last thing that should happen is that his hair should be a mess or archons forbid, he’s wearing last season's silks. He demands perfection, even if he’s a little too busy to notice when it doesn’t happen.
His hands though. He’s funny about them. Most of the staff aren’t allowed to touch them. Only his personal servant and maybe one assistant have actually seen the bare skin that exists beneath his gloves. The rest joke that to see, let alone touch the hands of the regrator is akin to seeing the face of the gods. The divinity of them is so assured, that some staff even spread rumors that he has a Midas touch and he hides hands, lest he turns everything he touches into gold. Others say he is the reaper of souls. One touch and you’ll fall stone dead.
It’s all nonsense, but Pantalone does little to stop it. There are worse things to be known for.
Because of his finicky nature surrounding his hands, the position of personal manicurist is often vacant. You’d heard the rumors surrounding the job. He had chewed the past candidates up and spit them out faster than a bad steak. But that didn’t deter you. A few inquiries into your predecessors had garnered key information. One had been let go due to extensive gossip. Another, insider trading. The list went on and on in terms of faults and failings, all while one constant seemed to emerge. None of the firings seemed to be skill based. If getting the job and then keeping it meant you had to be the sole of discretion, then you were more than ready to apply for it.
To your surprise, he takes you up on your application. It must have been a slow day in his office when it had arrived, because you hear back on it that afternoon. You’re summoned to his office the next day, where his personal assistant conducts the interview. From there, your skills are tested, retested, and looked into. His staff is thorough with their investigation. By the end, it feels like you’ve been flayed alive, but it’s worth it. At least that’s what you tell yourself when the offer letter arrives a week later.
The position itself isn’t a bad one. Being at his beck and call whenever he gets a hangnail isn't ideal, but you aren't one to turn down his money. Most mornings you find yourself seated next to him, silently filing his nails while he takes meeting after meeting. It’s not exactly satisfying, but it beats doing nails out of that crummy apartment you had before this. Slowly your mind began to drift further and you quickly stopped paying attention to what was going on around you. The discussion surrounding the economic distress in Mondstadt bored you to tears. You could have been anywhere but in Pantalone’s office at that moment, you would have been. Much to your own amusement, your mind decided to do just that. It started with going over the list of supplies you needed to give Pantalone’s assistant. You’d been carrying the silly piece of paper around with you for days, but neither you or the assistant had really had a free moment to discuss it. Pantalone had kept you both of your toes for nothing more than his own amusement. It was annoying, but you made a mental note to corner his assistant after this meeting. Celestia forbid you run out of Pantalone’s favorite cuticle oil and have to replace it with the generic stuff. How would he ever survive the indignity of it?
As you continued to work, you could feel the tension in his hands. If you had been paying attention like you were supposed to, you would have left it alone. But you hadn’t been and you didn’t. Instead, you wrapped your fingers around his and pushed your thumbs up into his palm in a circular motion in the hope to relieve some of the strain in the core of his hand. The soft sound that came from directly above your head snapped you out of your reverie. You stopped moving, your eyes falling on your oh so obvious blunder. You had been hired to do his nails. Just his nails. You had been meticulously instructed on how to do them and all that was permitted while doing them. Massages were not part of that list.
Your hands immediately released his and fell to your lap. Archons what had you done? You moved to apologize, but you stopped yourself before you ever even started. You couldn’t apologize. Pantalone’s one rule concerning his staff was that during meetings, they were to be seen and not heard. While you doubted any of the other attendees would really notice a mumbled apology over their terse voices, the point was Pantalone would notice and he would not approve. So you sat there, like an idiot. Power was everything to Pantalone. He exercised it with frightening regularity when it came to his servants. Your entire body shook at the endless possibilities of how he would choose to exercise it on you. Unlike the kitchen maids who messed up his food or the footman who sold his lesser secrets, you knew things. You had witnessed the assassination orders and secret plots to overthrow the governments of Teyvat. You had seen how dirty Pantalone’s hands really were. Firing you was simply not an option for him. That realization made your mind spin. In fact, you were so wrapped up in what he could do to you, that you completely missed his fingers gently brushing away the tears that fallen onto your cheeks.
By the time the meeting ends and the attendees are gone, you’re practically on your knees with regret. But he isn’t angry. Far from it actually. He liked your little snafu. He wants more of it. You’re asked if you think it would help with the horrible hand cramps he has and you’re all too quick to reply yes. He asks you about his other maladies as well. Can you help with those? Again, you answer yes. There are oils that will help with his arthritis, lotions for his dry skin. You even know a way to fix that one nail of his that likes to split when it gets too long. You offer them all to him in the hope that it will stay the hand of punishment that you thought was coming. It does. He smiles at you, telling you to advise his assistant of what you need. He expects all of it in due course, but for now, do that thing with your thumbs again. He says he hasn’t felt pleasure like that in years. Unbeknownst to you, his mind begins to wonder exactly how good those hands of yours can make other parts of him feel. He begins to wonder just how good you could make him feel.
Your relationship with him begins to change. It started as strictly professional. He provided you with a job and in turn, you provided him with a service. You had never worried much about your looks. A uniform and dress code had been provided for you on your first day. You think nothing of it when the laundress gives you a different one. It was more revealing than the last one, but you doubted he was really looking anyway. Pantalone cared more about you being good at your job than how much of your chest he could see thanks to the low cut of your uniform. You tell yourself he likes you because you’re calm, quiet, and diligent in your work. His hand resting on your hip, or his fingers toying with your hair is nothing. He’s playful when he’s in a good mood. Pantalone's favorite hobby is to tease and you know you’re the perfect target for it. He’s become an expert in making you blush.
Sometimes he worries about you though. He worries you’re not what you appear to be. That you know too much and that it’s a matter of time before it all comes crashing down. The result of his worries are that you are watched more than anyone else. Your room is often searched on a regular basis and he tends to test you more than the rest of his staff. He's fed you with trading tips, gossip, and fake Fatui secrets more than once, only to never have it get back to him. The fact that you pass every single time endears you to him. He finds it relief that out of everyone around him, he can rely on you to do as you're told.
The results of his diligence surrounding you yields an unexpected result. He comes to know you far better than any of his other servants. He’s aware of the boring things like your background and your family situation. He doesn’t find those parts terribly interesting. What he prefers are things like your perfume/cologne, what type of underwear you like, how you sound when you touch yourself. It’s terribly untoward to want to know that information. Pantalone knows that, but he doesn’t care. He’s gone past the point of no return where you’re concerned. He makes your life his business, even if he shouldn’t.
Eventually though, it all becomes too much. You do your best to ignore his less than palatable qualities, telling yourself others had it worse. But that didn’t mean you didn’t find yourself praying to the local archon about what you should do. You knew he wasn’t the most wonderful of people, but he pays you well enough to not mind or so he says. You try to grin and bear it, even if it grinds you mental health to dust, you try. But there comes a point where you can’t. When you have enough and ask to leave. Your request is denied. He advises you to reconsider. Pantalone is a powerful man and powerful men are more than capable of changing people’s minds should they need too. He should hate to have to employ such tactics with you. He doesn’t make a specific threat, but the implication is there. Your family, your friends, even you are all in his grasp. None of you would be safe from his wrath should you decide to invoke it. When you waiver, he switches tactics and softens his words. Pantalone tells you that you’re the best he’s ever had, that he can’t do without you. He needs you. It does little to convince you.
Pantalone purposefully ignores the main issue, which is his ever increasing hold on your life. He knows he’s been aggressive when it comes to you. The flirting, the nightly massages in his bed, the complete replacement of all your undergarments. It’s all too much for you. He’s too close. He respects that you want to be professional. He admires it. How many of his employees would jump at the chance to be in your shoes? How many would take advantage of his good will and fleece him for all they could? You? You just want to do your job. It’s a comforting thought. Too bad he had other plans for you.
In his effort to keep you, he offers a solution to one of your many woes. If his business dealings are a problem, then he understands. His work isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world and you sitting at his side 8 hours a day like the pet he thought you to be was a poor use of your time. Even the most loyal of dogs needs space, and so do you. He suggests that you come to him after hours, in the mornings and the evenings, as a way to give you a break during the day.
At first it’s a welcome change. His office had become a suffocating place. The issue had been made worse with the knowledge that your entire life had become his without you even knowing it. Now that you didn’t have to be in there, it is your hope that things can go back to how they were at the start. You believed that, until you walked in on him in a specific state of undress. The first time it happened, you thought it was an accident. You averted your eyes, apologies spilling from your lips as you hoped to appease him. He’d merely laughed off, telling you he was sure he could find a way for you to make it up to him. The fifteenth time it happened, it was all too clear what his motives really were. The fact that he insisted on a pedicure while wrapped in nothing but a towel had been mortifying. He only added to your humiliation by spreading his legs so you would have the perfect view of his semi erect c*ck while you worked. Afterwards, you were compensated for your trouble in the form of a small necklace and a half hearted apology. He assures you it won’t happen again, even though you both know it will. When it does, his feet have your full attention. He thinks it’s cute how you blush. How you try to conduct yourself with some level of decorum despite his c*ck being in your direct field of vision. It’s such a shame you’re so uncomfortable with it all. Perhaps it’s just a matter of being shown things can only get worse, especially for those who are chosen to occupy Pantalone’s private life.
He starts slow. That necklace he gave you as an apology, he wants you to wear it wherever you go. Since you aren’t in his office anymore, the uniform standards can be relaxed. Your hair doesn’t have to be so nicely coiffed. He’d like you to leave it undone or down. Your uniform seems uncomfortable, perhaps you should loosen it or better yet, stop wearing it. After all, he’s bought you some very nice things to wear underneath of it. Such a shame he never gets to see them. He’d like you to change that. Oh, you picked that for today, tsk tsk. How did something so modest get in the mix? Here, let him help you fix that. In fact, you’re such a mess when it comes to your normal outfits. Not to worry, he’ll decide what you wear for him from now on. Oh, but you’re so far away. Your room is on the other side of the house, Pantalone knows just how to fix that.
You want to scream. You want to run.
He knows it’s coming. Pantalone knows you well enough to know that your first instinct will be to run. He lets you try. It’s amusing to watch. How clever you think you are for stashing away one of the maids uniforms when you think he isn’t looking. How ingenious of you to stash your meager belongings near your chosen escape route. Pantalone almost had them moved, just to mess with you. But he opted not to. The game was more fun if you thought you were catching him off guard, at least until you actually managed to catch him off guard.
Pantalone had several key events coming up. The house would be quiet, the guards would be busy, he would be distracted. It would be the perfect time to make your escape. What a fool you made of him. He had never considered that you would choose to leave on a normal day, in broad daylight no less. It made sense though. Who would question one of the maids leaving the house, especially when it was at the height of the day, when Pantalone had neither the time nor the inclination to chase after you.
It’s late evening before anyone notices you’re gone. By then it’s far too late to launch a search. Your tracks are well and truly hidden by the night’s sky. Come the morning, the Gods blessed you further by sending a torrential downpour to erase any further traces of you. Pantalone isn’t one to be swayed by time or weather though. He’s a patient man. What kind of Harbinger would he be if he didn’t know how to hunt someone as harmless as you? It may take him a day, it may take him a year, but he will find you. When he does, well he has a nice golden cage all prepared, just for you.
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neomujinjja · 5 months
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Lifetime of Moments
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Pairing: Non-idol!Anton x reader
Genre: fluff, slight angst
Warning: not edited, very long, children*, major character death
Synopsis: Anton retells the story of him and his life partner through the important moments of their time together
Note: this is heavily inspired by the movie 'A man named Otto'. * I don't mention pregnancy or bringing children back from the hospital to ensure gender neutrality and be inclusive. I also use the abbreviation P/T to stand for Parental Term. But I wanted to give a warning either way for people.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
"I'm sorry!" a voice rushed out, the owner not sparing a look back towards Anton. They seemed to be in a rush, a book falling out of their arms.
"Oh! You dropped your book." Anton called out but it seemed as the person couldn't hear him. The boy picked up the book and ran after its reader. Luckily, Anton hadn't lost them in the small crowd of people. He reached out to tap their shoulder as they stopped at a cross walk. "Hey, you dropped this back in the cafe." he explained as he handing the item over. The two's figures brushing over one another's.
"Thank you!~ I'm halfway through and I would hate not knowing how it ends," They smiled at Anton, looking into his eyes. And he swears that they were the prettiest person that he's ever seen. "You're my hero! Is there a chance that I could get your name?" they inquired, beginning to rock back and forth on their heels. "Mine's Y/N".
"I'm Anton. Lee Anton." He replied, returning a shy smile of his own.
"Well, it was nice meeting you Anton. Maybe we'll see each other again one day" Y/N said. Anton was enamored with the way his name came out of their mouth. They gave him a thumbs up before crossing to the other side of the street, weaving their way through the mass of people.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Anton began hanging around the cafe more often after his encounter with Y/N. It wasn't just because he wanted to see them again, it was convenient cause the cafe was close to Anton's college and gym. The perfect spot to wait for classes and get something before practice. If Anton happened to bump into you there then that was a bonus.
He was waiting in line when he received a tap on his shoulder. "I thought that was you, Anton." Y/N said giving the male in front of them a big grin.
"Hi, Y/N" he greeted breathily, Y/N looked breath-taking despite wearing a hoodie and sweats. Anton admittedly was surprised that they had remembered him and his name.
"I'm sorry for rushing off without properly thanking you last time. Let me make it up to you," Y/N told him. Anton began shaking his head in protest. It wasn't a big deal to him and he was happy just knowing that they remembered him. "Nonsense, let me take you to dinner. It's the least I could do for my hero" They cut off any of Anton's protest as they pulled out a notebook. He watched them write a series of numbers before then ripping the page. "That's my number, we can discuss where and when later."
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Anton paid his fair before quickly leaving the cab. He was running behind but he hopefully hadn't kept them waiting long. Anton had texted you but he hadn't checked his phone for a response. A breathe of relief left him at the sight of Y/N waiting outside the agreed upon restaurant. "I'm glad you're still here!"
"I told you, I was taking you out. If anything I should've been worried that you were gonna bail." They responded opening the door for the male. The place seemed relatively fancy but not so that eating would break the bank. "I hope you're into Italian food, Mr. Anton cause this is the fanciest I can afford" Y/N joked as the pair walked into the restaurant. Anton felt so comfortable in Y/N's presence, he was able to joke and laugh freely with them. It was as if he could talk with them for hours.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Anton felt like he was on cloud 9 and was buzzing from the energy in the crowd. The male had broken a personal record at the swim meet just minutes before. He and Y/N walked hand-in-hand out of the stadium. "Anton," Y/N pulled him to the side, away from the crowd. They took both of his hands in theirs and swung them between the pair. "Will you marry me?" They asked the man in front of them. "We've been together for 4 years, and I know I love you and want to be together with you for the rest of my life." Y/N continued, rubbing circles on the back of Anton's hands.
Anton pulled them into a hug, bringing their heads together. "Of course, I want to marry you" he responded.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
"This is the last one" Y/N said as they set the last box down.
"And now it's officially our place" Anton said back as he wrapped his arms around them. Y/N hummed in agreement and leaned back onto their husband. "Imagine what it'll be like once we're all settled in." The pair swayed as they took a break before they'd begin unpacking.
"Where should we start first? The Kitchen...The Living Room?" Y/N asks turning to face the male. "The bedroom?" They continued as they jokingly wiggled their eyebrows at Anton. He laughs and plants a kiss onto their forehead.
"Let's start in the bedroom and then work towards the kitchen and living room" The male proposes. The duo separate and begin unpacking the boxes.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Ushering in, the pair quietly and tiredly walked through the door. Y/N makes their way towards the couch and sets the baby carrier down. They take out their son and place him in the bouncer. Anton joins after putting their bags into the couple's laundry room. "He's so small and precious" Y/N whispers as they looked over their child.
"He's all ours to love" Anton responds bringing his partner closer to his side. Sniffling was heard making the male turn. "Why are you crying?" Anton asked as he wiped their tears away. "Are you okay?" He continued with worry in his voice.
"I'm okay" They nodded, sniffling some more. "We have a baby. We're parents." Y/N says taking Anton's hands in theirs.
The male laughed "Yeah, we sure are". He pulled his partner into a hug.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
"How was the zoo, you guys?" Y/N asked as Anton and the boys walked in. They got an arm full of Teo, their oldest son, once he was fully inside.
"P/T we saw so many animals. And there was even an animal that was like Kori. It stayed on its parent's back" He tells you excitedly about the animals the three saw at the zoo.
"A Koala" Anton informed the young boy as he took his second son out of their sling. "Did you tell P/T about your favorite exhibition yet?" He asks the toddler as he lets the baby onto the play mat. Anton walks over to his partner, giving them a peck on the lips despite Teo's protest.
"Appa! You can't give P/T a kiss before I give them one!" the young boy says pushing his dad away. Teo wrapped his tiny arms around his other parent and begins placing kisses on their face. Laughter came out from the adult couple at the toddler's actions.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Anton turns and reaches out to his partner's side. He opens his eyes when he doesn't feel anything. The male gets up out of the bed, puts his house shoes on and begins looking around their home. Anton checks on the boys' room after looking in the bathroom and the kitchen-living room combo with no avail. Teo and Kori are both deep asleep with tiny snores coming out of their mouth. He closes the door softly then proceeds to the nursery. There he finds Y/N in the rocking chair with their youngest June. Anton lets out a sigh of relief upon the sight. He walks towards his partner and their child. "Y/N, come back to bed. Let's put Junie back in her crib" The male whispers rubbing their back.
"Did I fall asleep?" Y/N asks groggily with a confused look on their face. Anton nods as he helps them get up from the rocking chair. The duo quietly set June back in her crib, double checking the monitor before heading out of the room. He rubs Y/N's back as the couple walk back to their room. They get into the bed and Anton cuddles into his partner. Now he can fall back asleep knowing that all of his family is safe.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Y/N and Anton sit outside, enjoying the fresh evening air. "It's quiet, isn't it?" Y/N says after a moment. "With all of the kids officially out, it's quiet" They continued as they sipped their tea.
"It's odd, right? We haven't had a quiet moment to yourselves since we brought Teo home" Anton says with a laugh. He grabs his partner's hand, over the years they've both gained wrinkles.
"Should we call them?" Y/N jokes and the duo laugh. With a sigh, Y/N continues "I understand how our parents felt when we moved out".
Anton hums before shaking his head. "No, we can bother them some other time. Let's just enjoy the silence for now."
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Anton held his partner's hand as they laid in the bed. The low hum of the machines in the background. "Anton..." Y/N spoke lowly, their voice sounded parched and croaky.
"Yes, Y/N?" He responded with his full attention. Anton gripped tighter at his spouse's hand with love in his eyes.
"I don't want to leave you and the kids. We were supposed to be together for the rest of our lives." Y/N said looking into Anton's eyes. He tries to interrupt but they stop him from speaking. "I'm sorry Anton. I'm gonna have to leave first" they continued before turning to their children. "Take care of your Appa for me. I love you, my babies and I'm so proud to have raised the three of you. You've all done such great things with your life, and I know you'll continue to do so." Y/N tells them before a coughing fit starts.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
"Y/N was the love of my life. There was no one else like them. I pretty much fell in love with them as soon as I first met them." Anton pauses with a sigh and chuckle.
"Mr. Lee, that sweet. Did you think you'd end up dating and marrying them too?" the home nurse asked the elderly man.
"No," He shook his head "I didn't. I always thought of myself as a lucky man to be with them. I was just happy that Y/N wanted to be around me." Anton says with a smile on his face. The home nurse also smiled at the man's statement.
"I wish that I can have a love like yours one day, Mr. Lee" She tells him. She's had been helping take care of the elderly man for a few years now. She had seen the pictures and heard a few stories but today she asked about Mr. Lee's love life with his spouse. The home nurse listened and watched as the man eyes and voice were full of love as he spoke about his life partner. Anton laughs and smiles as he wishes the home nurse luck. "Do you miss them, Mr. Lee?" she asks with curiosity.
Anton hums and nods before answering "Everyday".
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hedgehog-moss · 2 years
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i absolutely loved your recent explanation of french to english and english to french translations! sometimes, i read a book translated into english and you can just tell with the way sentences are traslated that they were written in another language first e.g. 'praising the portentous architecture of the sky with trite formulas' from elena ferrante's book (trans from italian).
not diminishing native english writers but that sentence stood out to me as like "oh okay, i dont know if a native english writer would have written that but, from my understanding of italian, that's been directly translated", it was very interesting if you understand what i'm trying to say. thank you.
You my friend are a sourceist ! :) As we call people who enjoy “feeling” another language right underneath the surface of a translation.
There’s a whole rivalry between translators who favour “sourcières” vs. “ciblistes” translations (as we say in French). Literally it’s sourceist vs. targetist, but English prefers verbs so I think you’d call it foreignising vs. domesticating translations. Basically it’s whether you prioritise the source language (preserving as much of its specificities as possible, even if it means “foreignising” your own language a little, writing in a way that will feel a bit unnatural to your reader) or prioritise the target language (“domesticating” the original text to make it more familiar to your reader, like when American publishing houses re-publish British books and change “Mum” to “Mom”). It’s often simplified as, are you more loyal to the author you’re translating, or to the reader you’re translating for. Most translators will say you need to find the right balance between the two extremes (but most translators are secretly targetists) (that’s my impression anyway.)
Both methods can lead to awful translations when you go too far in one direction—I remember making a post a couple of years ago about a translated book I was reading that was set in Kazakhstan, in which a character (who was supposed to be speaking Kazakh in the context of the story) said “We can’t invite every Tom, Dick and Harry.” That’s domestication gone too far—it was so jarring and nonsensical in a setting where all the characters had names like Kazangap and Sabitzhan!
But foreignising can also go too far—it’s difficult to do it well because you need to make sure the foreign phrases, concepts or connotations you preserve don’t clash with your own language’s concepts or connotations (or writing style preferences). It happens infuriatingly often in French books translated from US English that the translator keeps the word “college” to mean “university”. I don’t know why this stupid mistake is so common, they’ve got to be doing it on purpose, do they think it makes the book feel more American? But it just confuses the reader because collège in France is middle school. The word already exists!!! and it brings to mind 11-14 year-old kids so it’s really jarring and takes you out of the story when you need to remember every time that the “collège” students here are older teenagers. There are times when calquing foreign words or phrases in your translation is a bold, interesting choice—but not when it removes something (meaning, clarity, connotations) from your language.
It does work when it adds something—novelty or poetry or a connotation that tells you something about another culture without clashing with your own. Like in your example, if you calque an interesting turn of phrase that feels natural in one language and less so in another (but more poetic, intriguing, etc), then your language gains something. I like when translators do this with terms of endearment, like preserving “my little lizard” or w/e instead of replacing it with kitten or your cultural equivalent—if I’m reading a book set in another culture, I’m delighted to learn what silly things people in that culture call their kids or SOs. But it doesn’t work if it removes something from your language—for example if a character in a French novel calls a boy a term of endearment that’s masculine in French but feminine in Spanish, better change it to something else so you don’t confuse the Spanish reader / make them wonder if the boy is being teased or what—you’re asking them to remove meaning / connotations from their language to replace them with something else and the clash just takes you out of the story.
So it’s always a balancing act between your love and respect for the original language / culture / author’s writing style, and your duty to the reader, who needs something familiar enough to be intelligible and pleasant to read. (But at a certain point domesticating your translation too much suggests a lack of respect for your reader’s ability to handle unfamiliar concepts and their curiosity about other cultures.)
I remember reading an article by a translator of, I think, Uyghur, who wanted to keep the phrase “like a third-day moon” to describe a finely curved eyebrow. That's a foreignising translation if your culture isn’t familiar with the lunar calendar and the typical reader is clueless about what the moon looks like on the third day of the lunar month—but if they can guess from context that it’s a delicate eyebrow, it’s not the jarring sort of foreignising that takes you out of the story because you can’t figure out the connotation or it makes no sense in your language; it’s the kind that makes you go “oh, interesting phrasing” and might teach you something (but in a subtle way!) about the kind of culture that would use it. It’s one of the joys of reading translated literature, to discover details of another culture almost without noticing, without having them explained to you in so many words. You’re just absorbing them by osmosis by being immersed in a story in which the translator managed to preserve the right kind & the right amount of surprising little turns of phrase.
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annonymouslyannoying · 2 months
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Elite Commander Poki redesign and Invader Training Headcanons. (Futher info under cut)
Elite Commander Poki was Almighty Tallest Miyuki's second in command and most trusted advisor- As such she continues to wear the Irken Elite Miyuki Branding even after her death.
Her reassigning following the Initiation of Red and Purple involved the training of worthy soldiers to become Invaders for the upcoming Operation Impending Doom.
Much like Irken Slave Drivers and other Irkens in commanding positions, she wears a suit that makes her appear taller than she really is.
She's a no nonsense drill sergeant type- but below the surface she still hasn't gotten over Miyuki's death and often sees her failing students as a disgrace to her awesome legacy.
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Contrary to what you might think, Irken defects are actually quite common.
The Control Brain's Irken Bioengineering Program contains an intentional margin of error- Allowing new or odd genetic properties to emerge and potentially be added into the base database for wide spread implementation.
The term "defect" however is reserved for specimens with genetic irregularities that are seen as problematic to the overall objective of the Empire.
But seeing as how defect Irkens are relatively common, it's no surprise that there were quite a few of them who were trained to be Invaders.
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These 4 are proper defects in the sense that their irregularities are not seen as particularly useful.
Zim
•Intense and obessive thought patterns, for lack of a better word, Irken neurodivergency. Brilliant in some respects, but moronic in others.
•Capable of parental love from both ends of the spectrum. Looks up to his leaders much like one would a distant parent, and shows intense affection for his minions.
(This is very odd as most Irkens just see their helpers as tools and affection is looked down upon.)
•Selective hearing and auditory processing problems.
Skoodge
•Capable of romantic love and friendship. He is hated for this and seen as "soft"
•In love with ZIM specifically. He has such terrible taste that it counts as a separate defect.
•On the heavier side. He is seen as ugly for this but it actually makes him much more resilient to physical damage and can go without his Pak for much longer than 10 minutes.
(This is me attempting to justify that time they forgot to draw his Pak for a whole episode lmao)
Grinn
•Warped antennae. This distorts her senses and makes her very irritable to certain noises.
•A natural aversion to taking orders and a frequent questioner of the Empire's System.
•Covered in horrible red blemishes. She has an overactive immune system that manifests in extreme bodily reactions to minor stimuli.
(This is one of the worst defects to have when you drop out of the Invader Program and work in a literal garbage chute)
•Writes poetry
Skutch
•Actually evil. Like. Even by Irken standards.
•Will set things on fire for seemingly no reason.
•Rarely ever speaks and when he does it's incredibly vulgar. The only Irken that says Fuck.
•Has no soul, wants or desires. He only lives for the mild fascination elicited from watching the life drain from a living thing's eyes.
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These 4 are seen to have more useful defects- Or in other words, they're "Gifted" Irkens. Okay not Gustavo but because he's tall he managed to not get lumped in with the last 4.
Grenty
•Intense regenerative properties. In fact, she struggles to control it properly and will just randomly grow new limbs.
Her regeneration is so good that she is essentially impervious to damage so long as her Pak remains intact.
•Irregular blood viscosity. Needs to be regulated with a patch.
•Overbite.
Mote
•Likes smooth Jazz
•Oversized antennae- He has insanely good sense of his surroundings and is tormented by having to accidentally hear everyone's horrible secrets he never wanted to know.
•Very frail
Fleep
•Abnormally physically powerful. She could break the arms of every other trainee here.
•Sort of capable of friendship but only the kind shared between High School Prom Queens and their evil lackeys.
•Otherwise very competent and professional.
Gustavo
•I hate Gustavo
•He's really friendly and normal by human standards but an UTTER FREAK by Irken standards.
•Joined the Invader program because he wants something to fall back on when he becomes a freelance advertising consultant.
•Gustavo must die.
•Is tall enough that the bias of the system has prevented him from being killed. (Unfortunately)
ALSO WORTH NOTING-
Zim is responsible for the deaths of most of the people here- The only ones to survive his Operation Impending Doom screw up were Skoodge, Skutch, and Grinn.
(Grinn never became a real Invader, Skoodge is basically immortal, and even Zim knows not to mess with Skutch.)
I imagine that most of the Invaders assigned to Operation Impending Doom 2 were from the generation after Zim and were still in training during the first operation.
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Bonus content of Skutch setting fire to the wildlife
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aroaceleovaldez · 2 months
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hey! hope this isn't weird but i wanted to know why you think artemis wasn't up to standards even in the original pjo series. you reblogged from me and so i had front row to your tags on the post about zeus jaja i've not seen people talk a lot about her and it got me interested as i'm a classics student!
- @zoebelladona 🌙
HELLO OH BOY okay so I have half a rant already about Artemis in terms of Rick and general aphobic tropes in the series. see: that open letter on twitter. i still need to transfer that to tumblr. fun fact: Rick replied to that post but deleted his reply at some point. probably because two replies after he replied to my post and word-of-god confirmed Reyna to be ace-coded he left social media for a bit.
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Fun times! Anyways.
The thing I dislike about Artemis as she's depicted in the series, besides her constantly appearing as a teenager and the aphobic tropes with that [see: open letter linked above] - which on some level is slightly more excusable than other examples given she's a goddess of young women, but given how he writes Athena, Hestia, and the Hunt instead leaves a bad taste in my mouth - and other similar aphobic tropes with her, is her whole weird anti-men thing (which is also, in itself, also an aphobic trope in this particular circumstance). I understand TTC was written in 2007 so that flavor of radical feminism that Artemis and the Hunt is clearly supposed to be was only just coming into major public awareness and the flaws in the ideology (and the inherent bigotry, particularly transphobia and racism that often comes with it) weren't as well recognized at the time. But in hindsight it leaves a really bad taste in my mouth for obvious reasons and is one of the things from the first series that severely aged poorly in my opinion, and I greatly dislike that in every subsequent retcon of the Hunt for other reasons Rick more or less retains that aspect.
Secondly... it doesn't make sense from a mythological standpoint? Because there are multiple examples of men being Hunters in Artemis' retinue. Even ignoring Orion, no matter how you go about shaking that stick (which for the record I really dislike how Rick retconned him in the series/wrote him in HoO), Hippolytus is a very notable example. Literally his big whole original shtick was he joined the Hunt because he didn't like romance and Aphrodite got so pissed about him not needing her (romance) that she killed him. And even when Aphrodite was trying to ruin his life he held on to his virtues and vow to Artemis (refusing advances even when his life was on the line). He is otherwise totally chill and devoted to Artemis. Some versions of his myth has Artemis have him resurrected after he dies (by Asclepius, which is why Asclepius is punished for reviving the dead). This also obviously doesn't address the major glaring logical flaw in Artemis hating all men which is... Apollo. Especially within the series he seems to be an exception for no reason, despite Artemis also very overtly having a "brothers are not an exception to the no-men rule." And from a modern queer standpoint, it obviously begs the question of stuff like gender identity within the Hunt and if you bring back the radfem stuff it gets real bad vibes real fast. Which also sucks when you particularly look at historical/mythological descriptions of Apollo and Artemis and how they very poignantly encompass defying gender roles and expectations particularly within their cultural contexts.
And every time Rick tries to retcon the Hunt, he somehow manages to make it kind of worse, particularly with the oath. I have a whole personal thing for how I think to best rectify all that nonsense in a way that isn't horrible and is related to some of Artemis' aspects in a more sensible way (buried somewhere in this monster of a post. Honestly i'd just recommend ctrl + f search "Hunters" on that post and it should be somewhere near the first ping there). In there I also go into some of my other thoughts for the general meh way the Hunt is written in the series, mostly being aphobic tropes and random death fodder.
So yeah. Basically, tl;dr: I am personally not a huge fan of how Artemis in the series is halfway to being a terf and chock-full of aphobic tropes. And I need Rick to stop retconning things into the ground.
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hockeyboysimagines · 3 months
Note
can u do 1 and 17 of the smutty prompts with vince dunn please 🙏🙏 ur writing is so good
I got a little carried away, but here you are anon. I hope you like it🤍
There was nothing to be ashamed about in terms of lack of sexual experience. You’d been preaching it for years, mostly to convince yourself that you actually believed it, but also because you wanted to make it seem like you willingly didn’t have any.
That was not the case.
It was a you problem more than anything else. You just could not find anyone who got you going and the only person who would was emotionally unavailable.
You knew Vince well, through Jordan and Lauren Eberle, that you guys had become fairly good friends. In the past year you’d been hanging out quite a bit and while you liked him a lot, he was a walking red flag.
Not that he was a bad guy, he was in fact the opposite. You’d not met many people as sweet and caring as he was. And that was exactly the problem.
It was damn near impossible to dislike him and even if he had been a colossal douche, you still wanted him. You’d never made a move, for fear that he’d recoil like you were some kind of repulsive bug. Guys like him didn’t bother with girls like you.
But you were jarred from your thoughts when Vince himself materialized at your elbow with a small smile “Hey! When did you get here?”
“Just a little bit ago I-“
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I need a beer pong partner, come on-“
He grabbed your hand and you sucked in a sharp breath as he towed you through the people in the Eberle’s back yard to where two pong tables had been set up. The last time they’d had a gathering, you and Vince won 9 straight games and you’d regretted all of them the next morning.
“No way!” Jared yelled pointing at you “I’m not playing against her! That’s an automatic loss.”
“Ah! No backing out now!” Vince picked up the ball and chucked it at him.
It was a loss, and a humiliating one at that. If there was one thing in life you dominated at, it was beer pong. After your third win, your party mood completely died and all you wanted to do was leave. You tapped Vince on the arm “Hey I’m gonna head out.”
His smile dropped and he slouched “What? Why?”
You shrugged and jingled your keys “Just not feeling it is all. I’m tired.”
“Well. I’ll come with you.”
“No you don’t have to just stay-“
“Nah. I wanna hang out. Come on.” He once again reached for your hand and you felt a little flutter as his fingers intertwined with yours. This was extremely unusual for you and you felt a little uncomfortable. It wasn’t often that guys held your hand and you couldn’t really even remember the last time.
“So what do you wanna do?” He asked as you walked to your car. You glanced at him and then down at your hand, which he was still holding and took a breath.
Hes drunk. It doesn’t mean anything you said in your head, hoping he couldn’t see the redness pooling in your cheeks.
“Oh idk, whatever.”
You guys ended up in his apartment, seated in front of the sofa and two large windows that overlooked Seattle.
“Are you okay?” He asked handing you a glass.
“Yeah why?”
He frowned “It seems like something is bothering you. You can talk to me you know.”
“It’s fine. It’s a ‘me’ problem.”
“Come on. We’re friends, tell me.” He leaned forward a little “Maybe I can help.”
You chuckled “No I don’t think so. It’s just-I don’t know. Gets old being single.”
“That’s what’s bothering you? Being single? I thought you didn’t want a boyfriend, or is that not what you said?” He furrowed his eyebrows in thought “I kind of remember you being in the ‘no sec’ mindset or am I wrong?”
“I didn’t say I was against sex. I just said I wasn’t having any, and not because I don’t want to.”
“I don’t follow.” He shook his head and took a sip of his drink “If you want to have it you should, and don’t come at me with any nonsense about guys not wanting to date you, because it’s not true.”
“That’s not the problem. I don’t want to date them therefore I’m not having sex.”
He paused eyebrows raising as he glanced at you “Wait are you a virgin?”
“No I’m not a virgin, I’m just not…experienced is all.”
He stared at you blankly “But like…what do you mean?”
Your face was burning from the alcohol but mostly the embarrassment of having this conversation with anyone but especially him.
“I’ve had sex okay. Once and-“
His mouth fell open and he let out a breath “Once? Bullshit.”
You shook your head “No really but it-“
“Lemme guess.” He said holding up a hand with an eye roll “There was no orgasm.”
You looked at your feet and shook your head responding with a very small “No.”
He shook his head “Fucking figures.”
“What?”
“Just a guy thing. Most guys don’t really give a shit if their partner orgasms or not, just themselves. And it pisses me off that someone treated you that way. If you were my girl, I’d make sure you did every time.”
You coughed and crossed your legs “Well. As nice as that is it’s not your problem it’s mine.”
“I mean.” He looked out the window “It could be my problem. If you want it to be.”
When you didn’t answer he continued “Maybe i could give you your first.”
Your mouth fell open “I’m sorry what?”
“Why not? We’re friends. You’re hot.”
“You think I’m hot?”
“I have eyes don’t I? Of course I think you’re hot.” He rested a hand on your leg and leaned forward “And I wanna do this.”
You glanced at the large floor to ceiling windows and then back at him “Really? right here? you know people are going to see us...”
“So? Let them look.” He leaned forward suddenly, lips pushing right up against yours. You froze for a minute, shocked, until you felt his tongue swipe across your lower lip, and you melted like butter, kissing him like you’d never kissed a guy before. You felt dazed as one of his hands came up to thread through your hair. There was nothing that you’d experienced that even came close to kissing Vince. In fact you were so distracted by it you didn’t even realize that he was leaning you back on the sofa, tugging at your shirt. In no time, he had you down to nothing, right in front of the windows, where you were sure all of Seattle could see, but you didn’t care. Your breath felt heavy as he shed his boxers and settled himself between your legs, pressing a kiss to the base of your throat.
“Ready?” He breathed in your ear.
Unable to speak you nodded, eyes sliding closed as he eased in. You let out a long breath you didn’t know you’d been holding in as a wave of pleasure swept through you, and your head fell back as you arched up off the bed.
He pulled out and pushed back in, soon finding a rhythm. Your whole body felt like it was a live wire, nearly ready to catch fire. He bottomed out, and you let out a strangled moan, tensing up momentarily at the small ache of pain, and then loosening up again.
“You’re doing so good love” he said leaning down to kiss you again.
You felt a warmth begin to pool in your abdomen and your body started to shake. He smiled widely and started to push faster.
An orgasm, or at least you thought that’s what it was, washed over you in waves of euphoria and your eyes closed and you let out a long, low, throaty noise as it did, nails digging into his shoulders. His breath was warm on your neck as his pushes slowed down, and his head fell forward. You were a sweaty, shaky mess as he pulled out and leaned back, handing you a blanket to cover yourself with.
“So?” He asked smiling at you “How was your very first orgasm?”
You opened your mouth and then closed it finding the words after a minute “It was great, but I think my second one could be even better.”
Vince smiled and leaned forward to kiss you.
Maybe being inexperienced wasn’t so bad after all.
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eightmandibles · 6 months
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Mawaru Penguindrum Phrases Breakdown
I've written a big long post breaking down some of the repeated phrases of the show Mawaru Penguindrum because rewatching it a year ago gave me brainrot. Hope those who r interested enjoy.
Alright this has been occupying my brain for so long it should've started paying rent so I've decided to finally write it all up. Some of these are my own thoughts, but a lot of these are pieces of interpretations that are floating out there on the web. I just didn’t find any one place that compiles them all and puts them together.
Mawaru Penguindrum is the first Ikuhara show I ever watched and something about it really changed my brain forever even though I didn’t really understand what I was watching the first time through (because I was in middle school). I love its surreality and the density of its visual metaphors that all feed into each other has me like an insane person complete with a red string conspiracy board (that will be a section later). It’s show that challenges the viewers to piece together concepts and leaves questions for them to answer on their own, some intended and some probably not as much. I admire the ambition and the commitment to exist in a space that's between trite judgements of black and white, good and evil, and to trust the viewer to really engage with the work.
In this blog post I’m going to break down some of the major catchphrases of the show because they exemplify how the visual/thematic density rewards viewers who spend the time to really engage with the material. It also personally fascinates me as someone who enjoys these puzzle box-type themes and narratives that have the answers staring you right in the face from the beginning, but you just didn’t have the tools to understand what you were being cryptically told.
MAWARU PENGUINDRUM
We gotta start from the beginning and break down the title first of course.
MAWARU: spinning, turning, rotating - which brings themes like revolution and cycles to mind
It’s probably also nod to Revolutionary Girl Utena (though both shows share a lot of themes in examining and trying to challenge or examine societal norms, structures, and cycles).
PENGUINDRUM:
First layer of understanding: the physical diary that the Kanba and Shoma must find (actually it’d be more accurate the say the first layer is just being like “this is a nonsense word” but I digress)
Let’s do another layer of breakdowns -
PENGUIN: Flightless birds that belong neither to the land or the sea - chosen to represent the idea of the “unchosen.” Those in Antarctica need to rely on their community to survive in their harsh environment, huddling and rotating (mawaru…) to keep everyone warm.
There’s a common rumor out there that Ikuhara said penguins were also chosen because it sounds like “pingguo” which is apple in Chinese. Honestly I believe it because he seems to be the kind of person to say stuff like that, but also I’ve never found a source on this.
DRUM: An instrument that keeps a steady beat…like a heartbeat…badum tss. The apple in the show always being red reinforces this association.
Second layer of understanding: When the diary is lost, what the “penguindrum” is exactly becomes more nebulous and we start operating in a metaphor-as-reality world. In terms of visual representation in the show, the “penguindrum” is the “apple” the siblings have been sharing among themselves.
The Penguindrum being represented by an apple means there’s a lot of associations tied into its image. In the show, apples are a visual metaphor for being "chosen". Classically, apples are also the fruit of original sin (like fate…not to jump ahead but remember this for later) - which ties into the concept of “punishment” that Himari's fate is framed as.
Because of the breakdown from earlier (and also all the chest puncturing imagery in the show lol), we can also understand the Penguindrum to be associated with the heart - often in turn associated with love, which is a very loaded concept to dig through, especially as presented in the show (romantic, platonic, and/or familial connections; sacrifice, community, etc.)
Taking these all together, a third layer of interpretation is that Mawaru Penguindrum refers to the cycle (Mawaru) of sharing bonds/fate/connection/love (Penguindrum) between the show’s characters.
SURVIVAL STRATEGY
This phrase is what signals the Princess of the Crystal's presence and initiates the transformation sequence that takes the brothers into a surreal world.
The common reading of this is again the reference of penguins needing to huddle together to survive the cold of Antarctica. They rotate who bears the cold wind of the outside circle in order for the whole flock to survive. Basically, we need the help and support of each other to survive the cold winds of an uncaring society.
While thinking on this phrase, I was struck by how every character’s drive in the show can be explained as “survival strategies” they learned as children. Perhaps it’s a bit of a stretch to apply it in the way this phrase is used in psychology, but I do think it at least refers to the ideology characters take on as children due to their traumatic childhood events or from flawed role models.
Ringo’s “survival strategy” is the most explicitly stated in the show: in episode 6, she believes her parents are on the verge of divorce because she is not Momoka - therefore to keep her family together she resolves to become Momoka. 
The origin of Kanba and Himari’s core approaches to life appear in the flashbacks of episodes 5 and 9 respectively. The Takakura parents each protect the two adopted children from injury by glass, a nod to their original unchosen fate. In doing so, they’re set up as the direct masculine and feminine role models that the two children learn from and model themselves on. I’m not sure it’s accurate to say that the lessons they internalize are strictly “wrong,” because I don’t think Penguindrum is interested in discussing characters like that, but they definitely are flawed.
Shoma deals with guilt from his family’s “sin” and grapples with the idea of taking responsibility for his parents’ actions.
Tabuki and Yuri still believe themselves to be “unloved children” and that’s why they keep pursuing Momoka or seeking revenge for her. They struggle to believe there’s a place in the world for them without their savior there.
Masako is a pretty clear one as well - she internalizes her grandfather’s habits and beliefs in order to try and fit in, even if it never earned her any respect in his eyes.
The childhood of the characters in the show informed how they viewed the society they grew up in, and what they needed to do or become in order to survive.
YOU WHO WILL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING, FIND THE PENGUINDRUM
Honestly I’m obsessed with the phrases that first sound like absolute nonsense, but cool absolute nonsense. This is the phrase that made me want to write this blog post in the first place.
The phrase is the call-to-action by the mysterious Princess of the Crystal. On first viewing, we can interpret so little of this sentence it’s really just a tool to sound cool and give us a snapshot of the Princess of the Crystal’s personality - haughty, cryptic, and generally unhelpful. It gives Kanba and Shoma a goal, even though neither us nor them understand what the hell it is.
YOU WHO WILL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING
As the show goes on, the themes and concepts around being a chosen or unchosen child arise. Those who are unchosen and unloved go to the Child Broiler to be turned into glass. This is semi-metaphorical and semi-literal (diegetic might be an appropriate word in a weird way) - metaphorically it can be interpreted as becoming a forgettable, blandly molded member of society, though being processed is acknowledged more like death in the show. In some ways that’s still accurate.
Each of the siblings started without an apple, literally-metaphorically starving of love and unchosen - originally they were fated to never amount to anything.
FIND THE PENGUINDRUM
Obviously this initially refers to the diary in the show, but as we broke down earlier PENGUINDRUM eventually takes on a more loaded meaning akin to love, bond, and connection.
So over the course of watching the show, the phrase transforms from a one-sided order and condemnation to a call to action. Put all together with a little more elaboration: You who were unchosen and unloved from the beginning, in order to survive in this harsh world you must find love and connection with people to share your life with, through good and bad.
I COME FROM THE DESTINATION OF YOUR FATE
Time to bust out the conspiracy red string board, literally-metaphorically.
The Red Line is the literal, metaphorical, and thematic spine of the show. There are two big starting categories for viewing The Red Line in the show, which then mix together to create new meanings as the show references it through imagery and dialogue.
First up, the Red Line refers to an actual train line that the entire show takes place upon, the Tokyo Metro Marunouchi line. The entire show is structured around the train line which starts with the Ogikubo Station and ends at Ikebukuro, with important locations being linked with the actual train stops. It was one of the train lines attacked in real life as part of the Tokyo subway sarin attack in 1995 which the Pingu group’s terrorist attack in the show is a very transparent reference to. This single point in time in 1995 is the origin of almost everything in Mawaru Penguindrum, and in fact almost half the cast is born on the exact day the Pingu group attacks, just to emphasize how closely their fates are tied to the attack.
Second, the Red Line can be seen as a representation of fate, as in the red string of fate. Fate and destiny are concepts brought up over and over again, with Shoma and Ringo having their own monologues about it in the first two episodes (and Kanba having his much later). The visualization of the red string of fate can also be seen in the ending animations.
Somewhere in between is the Red Line as the metaphor of a train to visualize fate. Fate is something that can’t be changed - just like how trains run on fixed tracks with fixed destinations. Of course this is challenged in the show - Momoka even uses the metaphor of changing train tracks to explain her ability.
Now, fate has its own set of associations, such as: destiny, love, connection, bond (hmm familiar), as well as superstitions like fated meetings, fated demises, divine determination.
These can start branching off into concepts like blessings, sins, retribution, and karma (cue the Fate monologues again). And now we start getting back into the idea of cycles: downward spirals of getting what one deserves for their actions, passing on one’s sins to those after you - or virtuous cycles of doing good deeds and passing love and care forward.
Often in discussions of fate, familiar questions arise. Does the beginning determine the end? Is the end fated from the beginning? And so the Red Line becomes the Red Circle, another visual device seen throughout the show. It’s all over the motion graphics of the show and appears around the train stations as well as around ‘95’, referencing the originating incident of it all - the beginning of the Takakura family that determined their end.
What I love about this use of the Red Line is that however you progress your understanding of the its importance to the show, it all helps you further understand any concept Mawaru Penguindrum is discussing. This coherence and repetition of visual metaphors is what allows the show to feel more texturally and thematically cohesive even when it starts getting loose in a plot sense.
(Going back to the initial phrase, I COME FROM THE DESTINATION OF YOUR FATE is said by the Princess of the Crystal in her introduction monologue. It likely lampshades the predetermined ending that the Takakura brothers are so desperately trying to avoid. But also, there is a much funnier, much more literal interpretation I enjoy - Ikebukuro, the last stop on the train line, is where the aquarium the siblings visit is. It’s also where the brothers bought the novelty penguin hat for Himari. So the Princess of the Crystal literally came from the destination (last stop) of your fate (the red line)!)
LET’S SHARE THE FRUIT OF FATE
This turns out to be the secret key phrase needed to activate the diary in order to change the tracks of fate, which Ringo uses at the end of the show in order to prevent another train attack from succeeding.
It’s probably not too hard to piece together what the fruit of fate is after all of this. In a sense, this phrase is just a repeat of Mawaru Penguindrum, just as an actual sentence with a bit more coherence.
I’ll bear your burdens and you’ll bear mine, and in doing so, let us forever be connected.
Wow, finally expunged these thoughts from my brain. Maybe somewhere in me there's still something left for a discussion on how the show uses repeated imagery and visual metaphor to communicate information and associations to the viewer that are vital to actually understanding what's going on because it's a narrative that half exists a non-literal thematic space but for now:
Thanks for reading!
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sirfrogsworth · 11 months
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I have two best friends.
Which is not an apt description.
Best friends is too small a term to describe what they are to me.
Chosen family. Ride or die. People I would drop everything for if they needed me. People I would protect with my last breath. People who know embarrassing details they will take to the grave.
Now that my mom and dad are gone, they are my lifelong companions. I trust them with my life.
I talk about Katrina all the time. But I tend to keep my friendship with Delling a little more private. I don't love either of them any more or less. There is no ranking system for my besties. But Katrina and I are basically like an old school comedy duo, so we have a lot more shenanigans to share. Shenanigans are easy content for a blog.
Delling is disabled like me. We have a lot of the same consequences from our health issues. Extreme fatigue most of all. Delling was unable to get disability benefits though, so they have to work a 9 to 5 job. And it exhausts them to the limit. They often will work and go straight to bed. If it were possible, I would talk to Delling every single day like I do with Katrina, but circumstances don't always allow for that.
So we have less shenanigans, but the same amount of love.
I'm also a little more protective of Delling at the moment. They are trans and for some reason a large portion of the "very online" people have decided to hate my best friend. And sometimes I worry about drawing attention towards Delling from the few trolls who still hate follow me.
Delling is almost always in my thoughts when I write about trans issues or argue with transphobes on Twitter. But I refuse to invoke "I HAVE A TRANS FRIEND" most of the time. For one, I don't advocate for trans people just because I have a trans friend. Though it does make the emotions I feel very intense sometimes. A lot of tears and anger. But I also don't want to sound like those conservatives who justify everything they say because they have a friend from a marginalized group.
There are certainly times people will be like, "Why would you mutilate someone and cut off healthy breasts??" and I wanna be like "Delling is much happier without boobies and I can see a huge difference since their surgery and you don't know what the fuck you are talking about with that mutilation nonsense. FIGHT ME!"
But I don't think I need to announce my bestie's private top surgery details just to win an argument on Twitter.
I'm just really happy for them and I am glad it helped. They struggled to get the surgery for so long and fought like hell to make it happen. People acting like it is this horrible thing make me so angry. When it finally happened it was... a relief. A weight lifted off their shoulders... err... chest.
After my dad died, Katrina was unable to get away from Florida to help me out. She was dealing with her disabled dog, Lucy, and her end-of-life care. That just isn't something you can ask someone else to look after for a few days. So Delling got permission to do remote work and drove down from the top of the country to help me. They came on the weekend of my dad's service and stayed a few days after to help me get the house sorted.
I'm honestly not sure I could have made it through that experience on my own. During the service, Delling just clung to my side as I tried to act normal when long-lost relatives offered similar grief platitudes over and over. And I kept introducing Delling and saying they were from the wrong state for some reason. I do actually know where Delling lives, but I guess my brain was not functioning in that situation.
Delling also helped me finish my eulogy literally hours before I gave it. And they helped me print out a bunch of photos of my dad that almost no one looked at. I'm so glad we spent all morning frantically doing that. *sigh* Though I'm hoping the photos will come in handy when I do an online memorial for my parents, so it was not all for naught.
There was a moment when a certain someone gave an impromptu speech at the end of the service about how she let my dad see his granddaughter for a couple of hours a year ago and how special that was, and Delling tightly squeezed my hand to help channel away my anger.
Ya know, those totally normal *yearly* visits all grandpas get to have.
Sometimes friends just know, ya know?
Delling and I also revamped the kitchen for my needs, which I have already turned into absolute chaos. And we had a fun shopping trip to Sam's where I bought tender beef jerky that was the toughest to chew jerky I've ever experienced. I guess the "tender" on the label was sarcastic.
All I know is that casually shopping with my friend was this beautiful bonding adventure where we just got to hang out and be together. It's weird the experiences that stick with you. Trying to pick out wholesale sushi with my bestie will be a treasured memory for the rest of my days. And I think that is kinda perfect in its simplicity.
There are not enough thank yous in the world for what Delling did for me. I wish they could have stayed a few months instead of a few days. I miss having them here in person. But they had a foster bunny to take care of and a job and a family. So I had to give Delling back to the top of the country.
I just wanted to write this in appreciation of my other best bestie. I love them more than anything. And I can't tell you all how special it feels to have someone who will drop everything, drive across the country (through tornado weather, no less), and keep you company during a very lonely time.
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la-pheacienne · 25 days
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There is something that has always rubbed the wrong way about the terms of the hotd/fire and blood discourse and particularly how political it always is. Misogyny accusations are super popular and they are being thrown by both sides because they are faster, they are catchy and it's a lot easier to do that than sit down and talk about themes, narrative and consistency under a neutral light. The problem is they often get in the way of a more in depth analysis of media and I say that to myself first and foremost because I do it too. When I say misogyny accusations, I am not only talking about literal accusations (aka if you support team green/black you are a misogynist), I also include all the takes that resemble the following: "my take is better/more accurate than yours because it is more politically progressive/radical/revolutionary/healthy/enlightened/yadayada than yours". Both sides use this, and they use this A LOT. It is almost impossible to take part in discourse over fire and blood/hotd/asoiaf without including this perspective. I'm not saying we should abolish this perspective and never talk about it again, it is always interesting to take this into account. But let's pause for a second and just try to put this on the side just for a little bit. What are we left with? Oh yeah. We are left with the raw materials of the story. Let's talk about that, and only that, just for a little while.
Yes, fire and blood includes a dichotomy between a good woman and a bad woman (although it doesn't exactly do that and this is a very simplistic way of looking at the story). Yes this dichotomy is an old concept. Yes the wicked stepmother is an old concept as well, rooted in ancient patriarcal societal norms and dynamics we are all more or less familiar with, some less than others.
Is this dynamic, which is at the core of fire and blood, politically progressive/radical/subversive? Probably not (huge objection there but I said I will not talk about politics in this post).
Is it a better story than hotd? Yes. It is.
Does it make more sense than hotd? Yes. It does.
I am sorry. There is absolutely no way hotd has more sense than fire and blood. Even if one qualifies it as a more inspired, progressive, unexpected, intresting retelling/revisiting of the original, this will never, ever make it a good story in an organic way.
There is absolutely no way to seriously, unironically argue that going from "we play an ugly game. i see you have the determination to win it" to Alicent usurping Rhaenyra because of a misunderstanding in the span of one episode is a better narrative and makes more sense than whatever happened in fire and blood. It makes Alicent a victim of circumstances, it breaks the dichotomy or the wicked stepmother trope or whatever you want it to break, and all that is cool, but it doesn't make a better story than the one we got in fire and blood.
There is absolutely no way to seriously claim that Alicent being sexually harassed by her servant makes a better story than her controlling her servant. It is not something that would actually happen in real life under any circumstances whatsoever. It is extremely forced, weird and overall nonsensical (not to mention politically problematic for 100 reasons because again, I will not talk politics in this post). The average viewer that does not wish to write essays about how politically enlightened it is to "break the dichotomy" will look at this scene and say "what the fuck is that". Would showing Alicent owning her role as QUEEN and playing the game be reminiscent of Cersei and thus "repetitive"? Yes. Would it make a better story? Yes. I'm sorry, but it is the truth.
There is absolutely no fucking way to make the page scene make sense. It will never make sense. A ruler that has just been usurped has the chance to execute the traitor and doesn't do it because the traitor shows her a page of a book. Right. She has just lost her baby because of them, she has lost her father, she has lost her throne, she has lost everything that was important to the life she has been sharing for ages with a man and their 20 children but a page would matter to her more than all of these things put together. Right. You can call this an uber sophisticated/inspired lesbian drama/women being caught in the crossfire of men's wars or whatever you want it to call it but it will never, ever be a better moment than "Tell my half-brother I'll have my throne or I'll have his head". It will never be a better story, not because it is more or less politically conservative/progessive, but for the simple reason that it is nonsensical. Whether a story makes sense or not has absolutely nothing to do with ideology. This particular moment does not resonate with basic human experience, it does not resonate with how female rulers behaved in history. It is bad, very bad writing. Daemon's "the fuck is this" is the only logical reaction to this and it is the reaction shared by the average viewer. Indeed, the fuck is this.
Thing is, you might wanna twist the raw materials of a story you consider boring/conservative/repetitive but that will never make for a better story, because there is no truth in it. """Wicked stepmothers""" existed and still exist. Good women vs bad women exist because good people vs bad people exist and women are people. Their honest confrontation rings true to the viewer in a way hotd's narrative never will. Because it makes sense. It is organic. It has a truth hotd doesn't have. And again I use this supposed dichotomy of fire and blood with a huge asterisk because Rhaenyra is not that pure perfect unfallible character. Alicent being Alicent would perhaps be a repetitive Cersei copy but she would still make a better character than whatever we got. She would perhaps have less importance in the narrative but it's okay because the story doesn't need Alicent to have that much of an importance. It is a good story regardless.
You can preach about how inspired/progressive it is to have women be forcefully carried in the middle of a men's war that they never wanted but that will never make it a better story than a Targaryen woman fighting with her half-brothers for her throne, her life and the life of her children and her husband she has spent a lifetime with.
I got this from David Mamet, On directing film, p. 60 and I think it applies well.
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takearisk-ao3 · 8 months
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written for #SeveralSunlitDaylights & @corneliaavenue-ao3 <3 day 2: fearless
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Ginny should not have taken divination. 
The regret had blossomed steadily over the few short weeks since term started. Firstly, their classroom at the top of the North Tower was hot. And stifling. And class always took place right after lunch. Which just left Ginny longing for a nap. 
Secondly, she was the only third year Gryffindor in the class. Her housemates apparently preferred electives in Arithmancy or Muggle Studies over the art of the Unfogging the Future. But no one had bothered to tell her. 
Thirdly, because she hadn't immediately had a familiar face to sit with, she'd chosen to share a table with Luna Lovegood. Ginny knew Luna lived near the same village as the Burrow, and their parents seemed on friendly enough terms, even if they didn't socialize, but that soon turned out to be a mistake. Because Luna was passionate about Divination. This left Ginny forced to listen to odd predictions about conspiracy theories and cryptids she'd never heard of. Which brought Professor Trelawney over to their workstation, often. Trelawney seemed to thrive on the weird and dramatic, which Luna supplied in droves. 
Ginny was well on her way to thinking they were both utter quacks.
And lastly, because all Divination turned out to be was destiny, and fate, and grand design. Ginny was sick to death of feeling called to a higher purpose, like she was meant for something... 
Or someone. 
This year was supposed to be different. Ginny had turned over a new leaf. She was starting fresh. And she was finished daydreaming about getting kissed in the rain. She wasn't supposed to be feeding her yearning with more nonsense about predetermination and things written in the stars. All of that was just girlhood fantasy. 
Except Ginny's stupid tea leaves, and her stupid text book, and her stupid partner, and her stupid sodding professor kept predicting 'a great but tragic love' in her future. 
It was not helping her aforementioned resolve to put her past foolishness behind her. 
"This is interesting," Luna lilted from across the table and tipped Ginny's cup back and forth as she examined it intently. Ginny prepared for a comment that would decidedly not be interesting. "It could be a triangle, meaning a creative spirit, but if I flip it over, it looks more like a bouquet. A grand gesture."
Ginny resisted the urge to roll her eyes and instead focused on the dregs at the bottom of Luna's cup. 
"It could be both, I suppose," Luna continued, oblivious to Ginny's disdain. "A combination of the two? Perhaps, you are giving the grand gesture instead of receiving..."
When Ginny didn't answer, Luna began taking notes on her parchment but still continued to speak absentmindedly. 
"Do you enjoy things like drawing or music?"
"No," Ginny grumbled, only half paying attention. 
Luna hummed, clearly puzzled. "I do think it would be a very nice thing to give a gift like that. To feel that deeply for someone. After all, that's why poets write their poems..."
Ginny froze, her vision blurring slightly around the edges. Unfortunately, Luna noticed. 
"Oh," she sighed. "Have you written something?"
"No," Ginny replied forcefully and her face heated.
"You don't have to be embarrassed," Luna reassured. "If there are others vying for your love's attention, this will set you apart.”
Ginny clapped her hands over her face and swore under her breath. She determined right then and there that sending that singing Valentine was, without a doubt, the single most mortifying thing she'd ever done. 
Luna indicated a brown lump near the perimeter. "And look here, the daffodil, your affections are requited. Your gift will be cherished!" 
"Can we talk about something other than my affections, please?" 
Luna watched her unblinkingly, but seemed to understand Ginny had reached her wit's end. 
"You have something that looks like clasped hands," Ginny started, doing her best to sound business-like. "But it also looks a bit like the number eight, so I can't be sure."
Luna flipped through a few pages of her text book, and paused about halfway down the page. "Friends?" 
Ginny shrugged, and immediately felt a deep-rooted ache at the eagerness taking over Luna's expression. 
Eyes widening in unmitigated hope, Luna smiled. "I've never had a friend before."
Mouth going dry, Ginny swallowed down the mix of uncomfortableness and pity that Luna often spurred. She shrugged again. "There's also something that looks like a pig snout, and that's not even in the book, so what do I know?" 
Luna's smile stretched into a grin. "That's not a pig snout, that's a Blibbering Humdinger!"
Ginny snorted, but she didn’t bother asking what a Blibbering Humdinger was. She'd save that for Professor Trelawney.
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how can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22 (almost 24)
warning: im writing this while im on my period and eating ice cream.
i've been dissociating for what now? half a year maybe more. i dont recognize reality. i feel im floating in this sea we call society and i've been feeling the wilson of the story here. i assume everything that's happening around me is real, ofc. but that doesnt make it any less a convenient arrangement i build for myself to try to act like a real person and not freak out. i am feeling out of reality. like the part of the game where you let the sim on auto-mode. i am the sim on auto-mode. and i don't know how to stop this stage of oblivion.
to make a vague introduction, the thing with me is that im a living paradox of a full time contradiction. i am flamboyant but i hate being perceived. i like to speak up for myself but i hate people thinking about me because of it. i have my own process of how i understand things. i trust logic and i question everything. im quite skeptical over things when there's no empirical evidence. i seek for knowledge. critical thinking, data analysis and the whole stuff. i know myself. i sometimes look like i am too obnoxious, frivolous, morally corrupted (people have told me that), when i obsess over something —because i sometimes treat people like they are stupid (not my intention really)—; but probably the only thing im completely sure of is myself. i tend to be a confident person, to have an ego, to not let the guard down, to calculate every single move. and lately i am noticing myself being impulsive, insecure, nervous, weird, saying stupid shit, nonsenses, feeling small. and i don't know how to make it stop. the thing is i put my whole self-esteem backed up by my intelligence, however im not sure of anything anymore. i don't know if the reason behind not recognising myself lately is the fact i have somehow a new crush —or a new hyperfixation for that matter— or just the natural act of growing, also known as the quarter life crisis.
i have this thing where i hyperfix on random stuff, i've been like this my whole life. one of my friends even made a powerpoint of all the things i've been obsessed with over the years. and the issue here is that this things never last that much, or maybe they do? i actually never though about it. the most random ones i remember are probably me buying ice-cream cakes of this specific brand every week for two months. i also got obsessed with eating too many scrambled eggs all day every day for a very long time. then it was that turkish telenovela on an airing channel. then ofc succession, and it grew into watching every single movie kieran culkin was part of. the world cup. mbti —im intj by the way—. red white and royal blue (i watched it five times in a day), then nicholas galitzine —did yk he has a lineage that comes all the way from the romanovs?— and his entire filmography. and also politics, i got way into politics; election campaigns, follow up candidates, history, economy, the law, etc (my candidate lost tho) (we're succumbing to disgrace) (like literally we collectively, as a country, haven't had any kind of good news since then) (please help me). and etc etc. but the thing is, i also hyperfix on random people, or not so random i guess. it doesnt happen very often tho, im quite picky, but the procedure is this: i meet someone, they draw somehow my attention, i want to know everything about this person, i talk to this person a lot (medium to long term) (week to months), and then this person becomes my friend or i get bored and completely ignore them for the rest of my life and move on.
but this time is different, or im feeling it different. i find myself questioning everything i know and i was convinced of. i dont know if it has something to do with the fact that i met someone, probably the first person wise enough to make me question if i was ever correct about anything. maybe i am hyperfixating on this person, idealizing them. but it's truly amazing how much more data this person has about everything i know of. and right now i feel way too insecure, because even if this person told me they find me smart and they enjoy talking to me, i am always thinking that if i say something not completely fact-checked they'll think im stupid. it's absurd. it's a boohoo situation, i know. and it's a process im having about who am i, or what am i supposed to be. some months ago the whole context around my life changed or i think it changed? i dont know how to explain it, —i mean i know how but i would have to talk about other things not related to this (politics stuff, things happening in my country, etc). i'll probably will make a new post about it someday—. but the whole issue is, i dont know myself anymore. and everything is crumbling.
im afraid the person i build for myself it's a fraud. or doesnt exist anymore.
i remember myself at 18, and i was this marvellous whole person. independent, smart, focused, driven. that girl spent their whole days outside her house. did everything she wanted to. wasnt scared of anything. and i look at myself now and think how? the pandemic has a lot to do with it i guess, but when i first heard taylor saying that in nothing new i thought "that wont happen to me". guess what, i was wrong.
for my fellow girlies being 23 —in my experience— is exactly how they say it will be. the worst age of your life.
next month is my birthday and im pushing 24. and i have to say my life is a mess. but i dont know if i can call it a mess because it is truly a mess or because i am a complete drama queen. because people probably have worse problems than mine, and i am what you call a white girl, only poorer —and a third world country citizen—. the issue is, i am almost 24, almost 25. almost 27. ALMOST 30. and i did nothing with my life. absolutely nothing. my mom had me at 29 for god's sake.
and by nothing i mean everything i do is not enough to feel it worthy of a life well-lived. should i look for a job and work while studying just to say i am extremely occupied because i have somehow a life? just to feel something? even if that makes my stress situation and anxiety even worse? should i somehow save enough money so i can move from my parents house? even if for my whole generation it's close to impossible? is studying something i (kinda) like enough to not feel like shit about myself? i've never had a boyfriend, nor girlfriend. shoud i look for one? get myself one? even if i dont think any of that would make me happy? i dont think i know happiness as a state of mind, nor the concept of it.
i dont feel like i have many anecdotes to tell in my future. should i measure the life-worth by anecdotes? my friends feel the same way i do, but they have a more organized life. jobs, boyfriends, careers, plans for the future, one of my closest friends move to the other side of the world with her boyfriend (!) in the blink of an eye. but they aren't much happy nor they have many anecdotes either. and i dont have the money or the guts or the available friends to create any.
every day i understand fleabag a bit more.
my favourite anecdotes about my life are from when i was about 13 and 15 years, also known as the worst time of my life. i didnt appreciated it back then, probably none of us did. but when we were teens everything was possible and we didnt have a care on anything other than mundane stuff or rebellious stuff but nothing more than yelling at people, drinking and smoking weird shit (i never had weed tho). not a real responsibility. being careless, free, avoiding consequences that mattered. i think that girl hates me right now. and i am not sure if that's the feeling i should have or if it's just utterly pathetic.
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