#Joli was made for that purpose

[romancingromanoff]

What I Feel For You

Thena xf!reader

It’s 400 AD and the height of the Gupta Empire. Over 5,000 years have passed since you first gazed upon Thena and you haven’t stopped looking at her since.

A/N: This has been on my mind since I rewatched the film November and I’ve always felt that Eternals has been one of the more underrated movies of phase 4. Angelina Jolie is also brilliant as Thena obviously and since she’s bisexual in real life then her character has to be queer too. I don’t make the rules.

Word count: 2655

You supposed that stranger pairs had existed. As you gazed upon Sersi and Ikaris while they partook in their bonding ceremony, you couldn’t help but think about how different the two of them were. While Sersi was pure warmth that seemed to extend to every single person she met, Ikaris remained tactical and slightly removed from everything else that happened with the humans around them. But then you remembered how Sersi had softened him and the days of Babylon where he seemed to grow an entirely new perspective. He began learning the humans’ languages, became more involved in their development and culture, and allowed Sersi to lead him into something he would have otherwise left unfamiliar.

The problem was that you couldn’t change for Thena even though you longed to desperately. For her you would remake yourself from the dirt and clay you stood on, mold a new person with your own tears. Back in Babylon, she said that she didn’t come to Earth to cower behind walls, but that’s exactly what you did. On that day you had watched her fight deviants with cosmic weaponry and both the grace and strength of a thousand winds. You were behind the city walls, of course, for what else would you have been able to do?

Similar to Druig, your special ability was mostly psychological and didn’t serve much purpose on the battlefield. Communicating with animals had allowed you to assist the humans in their domestication but not much else when it came to fighting the deviants. In fact, you spent most of your time in the company of four-legged, scaly, or winged creatures and admiring your Thena from afar. 

A few decades ago, the two of you had shared a dance during the humans’ celebration of solstice that Druig and Phastos sneakily planned. You remembered feeling more alive than ever with her arms around that night. A stupid joke that you told her actually made her smile the biggest you had ever seen and suddenly you were about to confess all the feelings that had been kept hidden over the course of thousands of years. But then in an instant, the entire party erupted into a swarm of chaos when a band of horns sounded out the spotting of some lurking deviants. 

“Stay here, little one,” she had quickly told you before placing a brief kiss on your forehead and running off as a sword materialized into her hands. But you were certain that she had only been concerned about you as a friend would  and quickly convinced yourself that she wasn’t interested. 

And there was also Gilgamesh. Admittedly, there was a time earlier on into your mission that you wanted to resent him completely. He was strong, a natural protector, and capable of giving Thena that life of adventure you knew she longed for. The way that the two worked in sync when they fought was almost like an intricate dance you knew only two people with a deep personal connection could choreograph. You couldn’t help but covet what he had but being the giant teddy bear that he was it eventually softened you. Now, you tried to be happy for them both from the sidelines.

After the bonding ceremony you retreated to a nearby herd of elephants that you were growing pretty close with. You were languidly brushing the oldest female and leader of the herd when Ajak stumbled upon you.

“I’m sure these majestic creatures make wonderful company but a little bird told me that you’re avoiding someone in particular,” she approached you and the herd slowly. Ajak was always careful around animals and behaved much more respectfully than others like Kingo. Near Mount Erymanthos he had once tried to ride a giant wild boar on a dare from Sprite which had ended awfully for all parties involved. “Care to talk to old me about it?”

You knew that Ajak wasn’t a threat to the elephants so you silently directed them to let her through as you replied, “Birds are terrible gossips, you can’t trust them all the time.” That one made her chuckle a bit but then she became serious once again.

“Why don’t you talk to Thena? She cares about you, you know? We all do and just want to see you happy.”

“She doesn’t care about me the way that I care about her,” you sigh right before another elephant steals the brush from your hand and holds it up out of your reach with its trunk. “Hey, what the heck?”

“See? Even they know you’re being ridiculous. Why do you assume that she feels that way when you haven’t spoken about it?”

“Ajak, look at me,” you step back so that now all of the elephants tower over you like trees. Besides Sprite, you’re the shortest of the eternals and quite insecure about it. And while you weren’t bad looking by any means, Sersi and Makkari were certainly more beautiful than you were. You had always had an easier time blending into a crowd. “What can I give her that Gilgamesh can’t? She deserves someone like him who won’t hold her back. My life isn’t exciting and full of danger like hers. I would just bore her.”

That’s when Ajak gives you a stern, foreboding look and you know that you’ve upset her. “Careful there, I don’t want to hear you say things like that about yourself. You may not be a fighter like her but neither of you are just one single thing. You bring out a different side of her that no one else can and she has feelings for you too.”

That’s what makes your head shoot up at attention. “She... she told you that?” You can hardly believe what Ajak is telling you but suddenly your heart is bursting with hope. 

“Actually, Gilgamesh and I were just discussing it.” That is... surprising. “But Thena has her own insecurities and isn’t certain how to talk to you either.”

“Why... why is that? She’s Thena! She’s the most incredible person I’ve ever known. She isn’t scared of anything.”

Ajak simply shrugs but gives you a suggestive look. “Sometime our judgment becomes clouded when we’re in love. Maybe it’s something you should think about.” With a smile, she gracefully turns on her heels and begins walking away.

The elephant hands you your brush back but by now you’re too distracted to continue brushing them. There’s an idea forming in your head and you need their opinion on something.

-~-

A few days later when everything is set up, you’re going over the plan one last time with Gilgamesh while Thena is out training. 

“Do you think she’ll like it?” You’re certain that by now he must be sick of dealing with you but he simply laughs and gives you a nod.

“Relax, she’s going to love it! Just be yourself and she won’t be able to resist you.” You curse yourself for ever holding a grudge against Gilgamesh. He’s been nothing but sweet and supportive this entire time and you hope to someday repay him back. He pulls you into a warm hug before his eyes catch something and he becomes much quieter. “She’s right over there, good luck.”

When you turn to look at Thena, it’s like emerging from freezing cold waters and feeling the warmth of the sun on your face for the first time. Everything about her is mesmerizing and bright and it makes you feel like an entirely new being just discovering the wonders of the world. She looks at you with some understandable curiosity after seeing you and Gilgamesh innocently embrace and begins to walk towards you, her eyes never leaving yours. You’re determined not to break eye contact with her but a smile uncontrollably takes over your entire face until she’s only a few feet in front of you and finally speaks.

“Did I miss something?” She asks with a hint of playfulness in her tone and you quickly shake your head.

“No, you’re actually right on time,” this causes her to raise an eyebrow at you and you plead with yourself to stay strong. “I was hoping that you would join me for a ride, if you wanted to that is.”

Her surprised smile causes tingles to spread throughout your entire body. “I would be honored, sweet one, but what would we be riding?” You’re probably grinning like a child at this point but you just continue to stand there cheekily as the answer reveals itself. Out from the jungle, an elephant slowly saunters its way over towards the two of you and Thena’s eyes light up even more than usual. “She’s ethereal,” you hear her whisper before the elephant gives a reply.

“Her name is Aaloka and she says thank you,” you translate. “She also said she agrees with me.”

“Agrees with you on what?”

Be brave. “That you are very beautiful,” your words surprise her and a blush begins to cover her cheeks. It’s all so much to take in that you start to feel your heart race. The only other times it does that is when you’re fearful, but she’s the only one that makes it beat this way. It’s like it beats for her.

Aaloka kneels and Thena assists you on top first before gracefully leaping up behind you. You start to feel a bit overwhelmed by how high up you are with nothing to hold onto until she wraps your arms around your waist and instantly freeze. No one has ever held you like this before. Eventually, you allow yourself to relax your body and sink softly back into hers. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but a welcome one.

“Are we just going to sit here or do you plan on taking me somewhere?” She asks playfully and it shakes you from your spell. 

“Um, yes! Let’s go!”

Aaloka already knows which path to follow and it doesn’t take as long as you had expected for you to arrive at the spring. In the close distance is a waterfall that reflects the vibrant pinks, yellows, and oranges of the sky all around you. Thena lets go of you, which leaves you feeling somewhat empty, and is the first to dismount before you awkwardly try to slide your way down. At the very last second, the elephant moves one of her feet so that you trip forward and lose your balance. Thena immediately catches you in her arms with a soft laugh and brushes away some of your hair that’s been slightly tussled. 

“Hey, that wasn’t very nice!” You scold the elephant which has no sense of guilt whatsoever. “She did that in purpose you know.” Thena chuckles once again with a look of amusement in her eyes.

“I think she knows that I like keeping you in my arms, sweet one,” Thena huskily breaths into your ear and it causes a gasp to escape from your mouth. Looking up into her giant hypnotizing orbs stops time itself. How did you become so lucky to be here with her? Doubt starts to settle in and you unconsciously cling to her harder.

“I just don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your affections. I’m not strong like you or fast like Makkari. Everyone on the team has a myth or a legend named after them except for me. Thena, they named a goddess and a city after you! But me? I’m nothing extraordinary.” The confession brings a frown on her face that instantly confuses you. What did you say that upset her? 

“Do you really not see how incredible you are? You’re the most amazing person I know.” Thena looks at you with such admiration that it’s almost impossible for you not to believe her words. “If they name something else after Kingo I think his ego might cause his head to explode. But you, my darling, are too quick to discredit yourself for all the good you have helped put into this world. Things you have done from the pureness of your own heart even if you were scared, unsure of how to show the humans and animals how they must work together. Respect each other.”

“It’s my job,” you brush it off with a shrug, unsure of what she’s getting at. Nothing that you’ve done could ever compare to when she saved an entire city full of people. “You deserve someone just as strong as you are. A fighter that can protect you.”

“You think I can’t protect myself?” She raises an eyebrow at you and you realize how stupid you must have sounded.

“No, that’s not what I meant! Of course you’re… I meant to say that I wouldn’t want to… because I’m not-“

All the air dissipates from your lungs when her hand comes to rest at your cheek. Softly laughing, she drops the fake act of frustration in order to soothe you.

“Shhh, I was only joking, my dear. For the record, I’m not interested in a partner that can spar with me or deals with all their problems like Ikaris by blasting through everything. I only want you. You’ve taught me that there’s so much more to life than fighting. That there can be different ways of looking at the world.”

It’s at that same moment that the universe seems to send you a message in the form of thousands of green lights which begin to float up towards the sky. The synchronous dancing of the fireflies wasn’t something you had planned and you find it difficult to resist the smile that grows on your face. Standing together in the glowing green light, it feels nothing short of a truly magical moment.

“Y/N,” Thena softly whispers and you are brought back to the face of the most beautiful woman in the world looking at you with so much warmth. “I would never lie to you. So please believe me when I say I have never loved anyone else the way I love you.”

You’re sure your own heart is glowing within your chest brighter than all the fireflies in the world.

“You… You love me?” All of a sudden it feels as if you might float away. As long as she goes with you you’d be fine.

“Yes, darling. I love you and I’d be honored to be yours.”

“I love you too!” You throw your arms around her neck while Thena giggles, instinctively pulling your bodies closer together.

“May I kiss you, little one?” She breaths in your ear, sending shivers of anticipation across every inch of your skin.

“Please do,” you answer with a smile before your lips finally meet.

Your kiss is exactly like all the wonderful things you love about Thena. She’s gentle yet passionate, pouring all of her desire for you into the kiss while still being incredibly soft and responsive. In all your years of living you’ve never kissed anyone before. You’ve secretly observed human couples of all types share countless kisses throughout history. You feel like you’ve been forced to sit through even more between Sersi and Ikaris in the past century alone. Every time you’ve wondered what It must be like to experience something so magical. With Thena, you’re certain you finally understand what all of the fuss was about.  Nothing else has ever felt so right.

The two of you eventually separate when you’re both startled by the sound of Aaloka triumphantly cheering. Thena pulls you closer to her as you laugh, smiling directly into the crook of her neck.

“What did she say?” Thena asks.

“Something along the lines of ‘It was about time already!’”

“Well I have been waiting to kiss you for only a few thousand years!”

Feeling bold, you reach up to take Thena’s face into your hands. “Maybe we should make up for the lost time?”

“Definitely,” she agrees before swooping down to bring your lips together once again.

#thena x reader #reader insert #eternals #thena #thena eternals #ajak #ajak eternals #sersi #sersi eternals #ikaris #ikaris eternals #marvel #marvel imagines #MCU #mcu phase four #eternals imagines

[heartfullofleeches]

PLEASDEE PLEASDEE SPOT PLEASDEE CAN SPOT BE CHOSEN PLEASEE PLEASEE ILL DO ANYTHING ILL GIVE U MY FIRSTBORN (I HATE CHILDREN ANYWAYS!!) PLEASERIDIWDJJJSKA *ugly sobs*

Event MasterPost: X

"And the winner is..."

"Spot?"

The rabbit's ear twitches in response to your announcement. Standing close to the stage, he can hear it clear as day, yet it's almost impossible to believe he won.

"Me?" His voice comes barely above a whisper, crackling with the warmth flickering through his heart. Clyde lost the ability to dream long ago, but ever since he's laid eyes on you those little hopes had returned - and this was one of his biggest. He wipes a stray tear from his cheek as he walks on stage. His head hangs low, eyes avoiding contact else he burst into a full breakdown on the spot. He breathes, taking his first step into a hopeful forever.

"E...evening, Master. I know it wasn't on purpose, but thank you for choosing me. I promise to take good care of you."

-

After going over the rules, you join Clyde outside to figure out your next course of action. His ears dip low when he's reminded to return you by the beginning of the year, but he keeps faith for he has the once in a lifetime opportunity to prove to you that you're soul bound. Clyde flushes as he plays with the sleeves of sweaters; something that could be written off by the cold, but you both knew was far from the truth.

"Um, my apartment is just around the corner. If the weather will bother you too much before we get there, you can use my sweater."

"I think I'll be fine. You need it more than me."

Clyde is slightly dejected by your refusal. He'd happily walk through a blizzard if it meant seeing you in something that belonged to him. With how you made him feel he'd probably still be warm all the way home, is advances weren't dashed yet. He had one more trick up his sleeve; one that left him redder than the joly man on the front of his slsweater.

"Oh, well, if you say so, but if you don't mind, can I make a personal request?"

"We can do anything you like, Spot." You smile.

"Then... can I hope your hand?

-

Hand in hand, you walk the night streets alone. Clyde makes the excuse that the weather is getting to him, to get you to stop at a bakery for some hot chocolate. You still hold his hand while you wait in life. Just like a real date. He shuffles closer to you and rests his head on your shoulder whenever someone notices; affectionately stroking the back of your palm as his foot taps against the paneled floor as a way to expel his joy.

After acquiring the beverages, you at least make it to his place. Clyde wishes the walk lasted just a little longer, but he's far more excited to have you in the privacy of his home. The living room is minimalistic in decor. A plastic tree sits on the coffee table with a few gifts displayed at its base. A cup with the cafe's logo rests near it along with other merchandise spread out around the room. There's a picture framed on the wall. One of you and him to celebrate his first meeting.

Clyde scratches the back of his ear. "Sorry for the set up. There's alot I wanted to do for you outside of the holiday, plus we never celebrated Christmas in my house.. least I never did."

He squeezes your hand, the texture of your skin calming him from the stupor he'd put himself in. "A-anyway- The bedroom is behind that door. I'm sure you're tired after the party."

Clyde opens the bedroom door. There's more to it than the living room. A pet snake sleeps soundly in its cage. Posters from the cafe and various video games line the walls. A calendar hands above the bed, certain dates marked with pink marker. The bed itself had recently been fitted with new bedding and a copy of the picture in the rests on the untouched side of the bed. Clyde shoves it in the nightstand drawer before motioning you to the blankets.

"Can you sit down, Master? There's something I've always wanted to do in a scenario like this."

You do as asked. Clyde sits next to you. His hand glides over the sheets before he pauses at your hand. "Is.. it alright if I touch you?"

"Do whatever you need. I know you'd never hurt me."

The bed trembles as his leg drums against its frame. He slowly brings his hands up to your torso, removing the ribbon around you before moving onward to the buttons of your cape. Despite how his body shakes, he unbuttons them with precise adjustment. His lips press into a fine line, and then - he speaks.

"G-good evening, Master. I'm so happy that you've returned home. I missed you during your shift. Did you at least have a good day?"

"Yes."

"That's good, I'm glad. I bought a new lotion I'd like to try on you, but I'll save it for in the morning. For now, I just want you to get comfortable."

He moves so you can lay down, pulling the covers back. You lay out on the other side of the bed, feeling the bed shift as Clyde takes his spot behind you. He cards his fingers through your hair as he snuggles into your warmth; the fluffy comforter enclosing you both in a bubble of protection from the harsh world raging outside the window.

"Merry Christmas." Spot whispers. "I promise I'll give you the same care you've given me. I love you, Y/n."

#Cafe tag #yandere oc #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #male yandere #yandere blurb #yandere headcanons #yandere x you #yandere drabble #yandere x y/n #yandere hybrid #soft yandere #yandere event

[artsywriter25]

Let’s talk about the Kung Fu Panda 4 Trailer 

Okay, we finally got the trailer after waiting for so many months! 

First things first, my reaction to the trailer. I thought it was decent, I didn’t react too much but that doesn’t mean I didn’t like it. I couldn’t stop smiling seeing Po again, I was expecting to see more but this is just a tease. There probably is more that they can’t show us just yet. I watched this trailer multiple times. I’m gonna go on and talk about the things I like and things that I didn’t like. 

=

The Pros: 

- The animation looks great as always. I was hoping they add in the hybrid animation but the one they’re using is still amazing. 

- Po is now using his jade staff to make combo moves which is awesome and I can't wait to see the creative battles. 

- I like Zhen so far and Aquafina’s voice fits her. I know people are saying her design looks weird but I think it looks fine, and I have liked Aquafina since seeing The Farewell. 

- The Chameleon looks beautiful! If you pause during her transformations she actually looks scary. DreamWorks made a frecking chameleon scary, how do they do that?!

- I like how they kept the animals at their accurate heights like it took me the fifth watch to realize how small Chameleon was compared to Tai Lung yet she took him down easily. 

-Speaking of Tai Lung, he is so back! The fact that he is on the poster could be hinting at a possible redemption arc so for those die-hard Tai Lung fans out there, I’m happy for you. 

-I’m also happy they even got Ke Huy Quan to join the cast. I grew up watching The Goonies and after seeing him in Everything Everywhere all at once, I said that he should be in a KFP film and I’m glad he is.

The Cons:

- The jokes are okay, the only one that made me laugh was Po choking on the flower petals. I hate fart jokes, I know that’s what made DreamWorks famous like Sherk but it doesn’t fit well with KFP. Hopefully that’s the only one and there are not too many gross jokes. 

- I like we’re getting new characters but I’m afraid they won’t be complex characters with arcs of their own but just there as comic relief. 

- I’m already annoyed by those crazy rabbits. 

- Tai Lung cannot catch a break. First, his chi was taken from Kai and now the Chameleon took his chi, I hope he doesn’t end up as a punching bag for the rest of the film. 

-I noticed there is a lack of a color theme, I had always theorized it would be purple but I keep seeing gold, green, and white. That’s not a good sign.

- Okay this is just my nick-pick but I was shocked to find out they got Viola Davis voicing the villain. I like her in some movies but she gives me this impression of those actresses with big egos. Honestly, her voice is nice but I need a full clip of her to get a full impression. 

- Lastly, there is no Furious Five. I saw how the fandom is freaking out about this, but I think they are in the movie, just not for long. While I’m sad we don’t see them, the reality is there really is no other purpose for them but to help Po. I still think they may show up at the end for the final battle. I don’t know what the actors are doing right now, but Seth Rogan came out with his movie this year, TMNT: Mutant Mayhem, so he’s probably busy writing the sequel. As for Tigress, I won’t be surprised if she doesn’t have speaking lines because Angelia Jolie is too busy dealing with her personal issues and her divorce right now. 

=

Okay I got the pros and cons out of the way, now I want to talk about what I think may happen in KFP4. There are some things I’ve noticed in the trailer and I have too many theories and so many questions running in my head and I need to write it out. 

So Po’s Jade staff is definitely going play an important role in the story, it seem to have a connection to both the living world and the spiritual world. My guess is the Chameleon wants the staff for a higher purpose of her plan or she needs it to travel to the spirit world herself. We can see her summoning spirits over to the living world, capturing them, and literally eating their chi away. Chi is what helps the spirits stay in living world but Tai Lung’s chi was taken and we don’t know how this will affect him. He may be stuck there until he can get his chi back. 

I noticed in one shot of the trailer there are these strange boxes in the room where Tai Lung was fighting and I realized those are cages. The Chameleon is probably planning on keeping the villains as prisoners to take more chi from them. Knowing Po, he’s going to see this as wrong and wants to save the villains. I know it’s a stretch but I think it could happen. It would be so cool seeing Po, Tai Lung, Shen and Kai working together to take down the Chameleon.

But the question is what is her motive in all this? Why does she say to Po ‘we are not so different you and I’? If she is a powerful sorcerer then why does she need his staff? They better not say that she was never taken seriously enough, there’s gotta be more to it.

And there is Zhen, who I want to know the most. I’m sure they would show some flashbacks to her story and show why she became a criminal. For some reason, I keep thinking she maybe leading Po to a trap, which I hope that’s not the case, but she seems to know more than she lets on. Po didn’t know who the Chameleon was until Zhen explained to him and she knows where she lives. I hope she doesn’t end up being a backstabber because this character is supposed to be the next Dragon Warrior, it would be hard to forgive her if they went that route. 

But these are just my theories and questions that I have. There’s really nothing else to say other than despite my cons, I’m still hyped to see this film and praying to god this will be still good. They may put up another trailer later on, if it’s good enough I’ll write my reaction to it too.

But tell me what you guys think? 

#kung fu panda #kung fu panda 4 #kfp 4 #dreamworks #po #zhen #the chameleon #discussion #sorry took me long to write this out #busy since the holidays are coming #my thoughts #artsy's writing

[patron-minette]

Babet and Molutor in ‘Le Monde des Prisons’

There are many interesting references made to Les Misérables in Le Monde des Prisons (1887) by Georges Moreau. This relatively unknown work features the detailed recollections of Moreau’s own interactions and conversations with real prisoners (“reproduire mes conversations”) during his tenure as an ‘aumônier’ at La Grande-Roquette prison in Paris. 

Throughout the account, Hugo’s writings on crime and criminal archetypes as featured in Les Misérables are frequently cited. This even extends to fleeting discussions about the police and prison system (click here for a rather intriguing comparison involving Javert).

However, there is a particularly notable chapter where a real-life criminal, identified only as Molutor, is compared extensively to the character of Babet:

“Victor Hugo a crayonné de main de maitre un joli quatuor de bandits, Claquesous Gueulemer, Babet et Montparnasse, qui, dit-il, gouvernaient, de 1830 à 1835, le troisième dessous de Paris, cette cave d'où sort Lacenàire. [...] Molutor (François-Joseph), le père de notre fugitif de la Petite-Roquette, avait été plus favorisé de la fortune que le Babet de Victor Hugo. Sa femme lui avait donné trois enfants qui, pour n'être pas nés avec un mufle de veau, lui avaient rapporté une petite aisance.”

[Trans. Victor Hugo has masterfully pencilled a lovely quartet of bandits, Claquesous, Gueulemer, Babet and Montparnasse, who, he says, ruled the third substage of Paris from 1830 to 1835, the cellar from which Lacenàire emerged. [...] Molutor (François-Joseph), the father of our Petite-Roquette fugitive, had been more fortunate than Victor Hugo's Babet. His wife had given him three children who, though not being born with a calf's muzzle, had brought him a small amount of wealth.]

•

I find these comparisons truly captivating, as— despite initially seeming rather trivial— allusions such as this uniquely blend real-life criminality with fictional realms.

Moreau goes on to elaborate that Molutor and the character of Babet share additional similarities because they both extend their criminal activities into theatrical spheres; Babet’s vaudeville performances and his displaying of ‘freaks’ are indirectly compared to Molutor’s activities as innkeeper of a real club named Le cabaret des Pieds. In an even more intriguing detail, Moreau describes Molutor as occasionally collaborating with a brute named ‘Gueule-de-Sac’— which makes me think of ‘Gueulemer’!

Moreover, even the physical attributes of Babet and Molutor are paralleled… echoing a disconcerting, though unfortunately unsurprising, ideology (whether on purpose or implicitly) wherein certain physical traits were believed to correspond with particular criminal behaviours.

“Ce Molutor était un homme petit, maigre, blême, anguleux, osseux, chétif, qui avait l'air malade et qui se portait à merveille; sa fourberie commençait là. Il souriait habituellement par précaution, et était poli à peu près avec tout le monde, même avec le mendiant auquel il refusait un liard. Il avait le regard d'une fouine. S'il rappelait Babet par certains côtés il faisait encore plus songer à Thénardier. Comme Thénardier, il s'était établi gargotier à Alger. / Souvent, il s'absentait plusieurs semaines de suite et l'on remarquait que c'était toujours du côté et à l'époque où nos soldats se battaient contre les Arabes. Il partait avec une petite carriole attelée d'un mauvais cheval, emportant quelques provisions qu'il vendait fort cher aux troupes.”

[Trans. “This Molutor was a short, skinny, pallid, angular, bony, puny man, who looked ill and was doing wonderfully well; his deceitfulness began there. He usually smiled as a precaution, and was polite to just about everyone, even the beggar to whom he refused a liard. He had the look of a weasel. If he reminded us of Babet in some ways, he reminded us even more of Thénardier. Like Thénardier, he had established himself as a gargotier in Algiers. / He was often away for several weeks at a time, always on the side and at the time when our soldiers were fighting the Arabs. He would leave with a small cart hitched to a bad horse, carrying a few provisions which he sold at a high price to the troops.”]

•

The line “Il souriait habituellement par précaution, et était poli à peu près avec tout le monde, même avec le mendiant auquel il refusait un liard” instantly brings to mind Boulatruelle’s introduction in Les Misérables:

“Ce Boulatruelle était un homme vu de travers par les gens de l'endroit, trop respectueux, trop humble, prompt à ôter son bonnet à tout le monde, tremblant et souriant devant les gendarmes, probablement affilié à des bandes, disait-on, suspect d'embuscade au coin des taillis à la nuit tombante.” — Book II.II.II

#babet #thenardier #boulatruelle #patron minette #patron-minette #les miserables #les mis #the brick #meta #historical threads #le monde des prisons

[gwldcnz]

💌  ❪ + 𝔽𝐑𝔼𝐄 ℂ𝐎ℕ𝐓𝔼𝐍𝕋 ! ❫ by clicking the source link you’ll find #83 gifs in 260x154px of the talented actress angelina jolie as fox in wanted (2008), she’s around 33 years old in this movie. all of this gifs were made by me from scratch only for roleplay purposes. don’t: repost or claim as your own. please, like & reblog this post if you find this useful in any way! if you would like to support me, please, consider buying me a coffee ☕ it will be greatly appreciated! commissions are open! info on the pinned post.

𝐭𝐰: violence, guns, blood, food, eating, drinking, kissing.

#angelina jolie gif pack #angelina jolie gif hunt #angelina jolie #supportcontentcreators #fcxdirectory #gifsociety #gif pack #gif commissions #rph #rpc #* gif packs #* m #* m: gif packs

[soakedinbloodandmagic]

MEET GREER SHERIDAN

NAME: Greer Jolie Sheridan.

AGE: Fifteen years old (born July 31st, 2008).

ZODIAC SIGN: Leo (she doesn’t really believe in astrology, but Charlie insists they fit her sign perfectly).

ORIENTATION: Lesbian.

PRONOUNS: She/they (identifies as genderfluid).

SPECIES: Familiar shapeshifter with a hedgehog form.

LOCATION: Nightshade Hollow, Virginia (their home, though she never would have thought it would be when they arrived).

OCCUPATION: Sophomore at Nightshade Hollow High School.

FACECLAIM: Sophia Lillis.

ABOUT: Greer was born into a family without a purpose, and she’d always thought it showed pretty perfectly in their upbringing. The Sheridan family had been familiars - shapeshifters created hundreds of years ago when the first witch had received her power, made to create a bond to those who could do magic and strengthen their abilities - for generations, but after a disagreement between Greer’s great-grandfather and the patriarch of the family the Sheridans had been bound to, the familiar-witch bond between them had been forcibly severed, and for decades now the family had been aimlessly drifting, trying in vain to find a new witch bloodline to attach themselves to.

This being adrift, this loss of the family’s purpose as familiars, had shown pretty clearly in the family’s attitudes, particularly in those of Greer’s parents, Bonnie and Malcolm Sheridan. Greer's conception was a complete accident - without a witch family to bond with, most of the family saw little point in having any children - and for the most part, they certainly treated her like a mistake they didn't want to acknowledge. From a very young age, Greer had had to learn to be self-sufficient, teaching themself how to cook and mend her clothes and apply first aid to the various little bumps and scrapes that came with childhood, all while their parents drifted between minimum-wage jobs and generally spent their time pretending they didn't have a child.

Finally, when she was ten years old, Greer experienced the most important event in a shapeshifter's life: the first transformation, which would reveal what their shapeshifter form would be. Despite knowing that it would come eventually, as their parents had at least cared enough to tell her about being a shapeshifter and some techniques they would need to use to control her changes, Greer was still terrified when the sudden change occurred, leaving a little hedgehog standing on the bedroom floor where their human form had just been standing. It marked the first time since Greer was about four that she had ever run to their parents for help, and, after Bonnie had coaxed her child through the focusing exercises she needed to change back, one of the few times since then that they'd cried in front of their parents. But even her tears did not move their parents very much from their apathy - they simply told Greer to practice some more of the exercises that they had shown her and left to go out with their friends.

Thankfully, Greer was a quick study when it came to mastering their shapeshifting, but after three more years of being the only one taking care of her and silent, fruitless pleas for their parents to actually look at her, they realized that she couldn't stand any of this for one second longer. On one warm night in late spring, Greer took advantage of their parents' being passed out on the couch and left the small, run-down house that was the only home she'd ever known, carrying only what they absolutely needed and refusing to look back.

Over the next several months, Greer travelled all over the state of Virginia, searching for something more than what she'd run from but not being at all sure what it was. They lived off of the charity of strangers and what little money she could earn from doing little chores for people, sleeping in local homeless shelters and never staying in one place for long, always skipping town before anyone could think enough to call Child Services. By the time they found her way to Nightshade Hollow, a tiny town with a name Greer thought was straight out of a horror movie, they were scrawny, hadn't bathed in a week, and after so long on the run, nearly ready to just try and find her way back to their parents... and that's when she ran into Addy Hawthorne.

From the moment they met Addy, Greer could sense he was a witch; the natural draw that all shapeshifters felt to magic kicked in as soon as she looked him in the eyes. Addy could clearly see how much Greer was beaten-down and struggling, as well as being able to sense that they were a shapeshifter, and despite how Greer was clearly wary and distrustful of him, offered to let her stay in his house. Despite what they were sure was her better judgement, Greer accepted his offer, and the longer they stayed with Addy, the more the two of them bonded, and the more they, as well as Addy's siblings, cousin, and friends, started to see each other as family.

Finally, almost a year after Greer decided to stay with Addy for good (with no official paperwork or custody, but this far out in the Virginia woods the law enforcement couldn't be bothered to care), the two of them made the mutual decision for Greer to officially become Addy's familiar, channeling and amplifying his magic using her little hedgehog form. Greer viewed it as undoubtedly the best decision they had ever made - not only solidifying the bond with her newfound family, but finally uniting a Sheridan shapeshifter with a witch after so many years and, in Greer's mind, effectively severing the remaining ties to their parents.

Now, a while later, Greer is very happy living as a normal (as far as the human residents of Nightshade Hollow know) teenager - going to school, crushing from afar on the new girl from Georgia in her English class, spending quality time with the Hawthorne family and their friends the Moorland siblings, and teasing Addy nonstop about his new love interest. But when a terrifying evil force starts making progress in breaking through the barriers surrounding their found home, Greer may be forced to accept the fact that her life will probably never be normal - even if they're still going to fight like hell to keep safe the only true family she's ever had.

And here we have my little shapeshifter baby Greer! They're honestly one of my favorite babies in this universe, and and I'm so excited to write more for them. I very much hope you enjoy this little intro, and seeing what I have for them going forward!

Tagging the slasher OC fam: @raraeavesmoriendi, @jmathesonandsiblings, @baubeautyandthegeek, @publiclypining, @bubbles-the-banshee.

#character intros #greer #greer sheridan #shapeshifter oc #shapeshifter original character #hedgehog shapeshifter oc #hedgehog shapeshifter original character #witches of the woods and co.

[gyllenhaalstories]

TU ES JOLIE — DAVIS MITCHELL

summary: occasionally, he is a smooth talker. more often than not, he is an awkward chatterbox. and he is, always, very honest. that’s his thing, being honest about everything.

warnings: curse words, mentions of food, smut (dirty talk & retro sexting,  hickeys, mild nipple play, clit rubbing & fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, humping and mentions of other implied sexual activities). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 3710

gif credit: me (@/gyllenhaalstories) / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: even though i have no idea what this fic even is, i did it. i finally wrote for my beloved precious husband. why don’t you listen to sufjan stevens’ to be alone with you while you read? you can read this even if you have not watched demolition, you will learn that he holds letters (and women’s underwear) dear to his heart. 📝 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

“My dear,

I have to catch the train before the sun had time to rise. I promised you a grilled cheese, hopefully not burned since they are no longer edible when the orange cheese turns black and smokey, and your coffee, hopefully with your favourite creamer and not that peppermint flavour I bought last winter that tastes horrible. I left everything you would need on the counter (and inside the refrigerator), hopefully you think of me when you have breakfast.

I know I will be thinking of you. I already am when I’m writing this letter. And I will think of you on the train. I will think of you on the plane. I will think of you until I get to hold you in my arms again. And kiss your cheeks. Your lips. Your face. Your neck, I know you like that. And I like how sensitive your skin gets when I suck a mark on that spot near your collarbone, you always flinch when I kiss over it again later. Is it like it right now? Did you flinch when you touched it? I hope you did.

Enjoy the morning. I would love to enjoy my morning with you. I miss the way you slowly wake up in my arms when I hold on to you tight. I miss feeling you pressed against me. I miss hearing your noises when my hands explore your body. I miss you.

Sincerely, David C. Mitchell.”

This was the first letter Davis left you before his departure for his business trip. Something about Silicon Valley, you did not remember, and neither did he.

He knew he would be gone. He knew he wanted to be back already.

Your eyes ran over the ink on the paper, you could hear the words in your mind as if Davis was speaking them to you right this moment.

He signed with his full name, it made you chuckle. He always did that, even for the simplest of notes stuck on the wall by the front door or in an email sent from his iPhone. It was a habit, you assumed. He was a special guy, in more ways than one.

Your fingertips brushed over the soft, silk-like texture of the ribbon that held the tissue paper together. He was not much of a gift giver, you did not mind. He communicated his love differently, in his own special way. The package he left with the neatly folded letter on his side of the bed was as much as a surprise as the letter itself. A text would have sufficed, rushed in the airport before boarding the flight.

Davis had taken his sweet time wrapping a series of thoughtful presents. He tried to remember the secretary at work, and how she wrapped the presents his boss sent to the other employees. She wrote the notes. She curled the ribbon with the blade of a scissor. He wanted to do that too, and he tried until he succeeded. The mess of tape and wrinkled paper in the trash bin downstairs were proof of his hard work.

You revealed a delicate piece of underwear, you held it up so softly. You let the sun light through it, glowing. It was white. White like his collection of dress shirts. It was simple, it was pretty, it was already one of your favourite pair of panties. After your quick morning shower, the water turned cold on purpose to stop the overflow of mixed feelings about Davis’ absence, you put them on.

The panties fit you perfectly. Davis knew it. He studied your body like it was a map he wholeheartedly desired to get lost in. The curves, the shapes, the details. It was printed in his otherwise foggy, maze-like memory.

“Sweetheart,

You should go outside tonight. I will be outside too. We will be looking at the same moon. It will be half full. Like me. Half empty without you.

I want to sleep outside with you. I want to set up a tent as if we would go camping in the middle of nowhere. Bring blankets and pillows. I want to stick our heads out of the zipped exit and look at the stars. I want to make up constellations and galaxies. They will make no sense, scientifically speaking. They will make sense to me.

While we are outside, I want us to feel cold, the breeze of the evening getting chilly. I want to pull you closer to me. I will say it’s to warm you up. It’s a lie, it’s because I need to be closer to you. I want to look in your eyes and see the night sky shining in them. I want to forget we are in our white picket fenced in yard. I want to be alone with you. I want to go down on you. I want you to tell me what you see while all I see is your body moving in waves against my mouth. I want to make love to you. I want to take it slow. I want to feel you. And I want you to feel me. I want to tell you how beautiful you are, so much more beautiful than the sky. You won’t believe me. I will tell you until you do.

With love, Davis.”  

Your thighs were pressed together on your computer chair.

Davis had left the letter in your shared home office, tucked under the colour coded to-do list of the end of the week and a paper weight in the shape of a rose quartz heart.

The scribbled words, the increasing rush in his handwriting in the last paragraph. It was like he tried to write faster than he could think. It was like you tried to read faster than you could see.

You added on your to-do list to buy camping equipment.

“Remember when we had sex on this table? It cracked so loud we thought we had broken it. We laughed so hard too, I don’t remember what I liked the most, seeing your blissful face after you came around me or the tears falling down your cheeks from your laughter. I want to fuck you on this table again.

And again.

And again.

I want to break it.

Buy a new one. Demolish it again.

D.

PS: Look on the seat of the second chair to the right.”

It was dinner when you found your third letter of the day. In the middle of it, the ink had gone from a faded blue to a striking red. He must have killed a pen trying to write it, you guessed.

He had tried to finish the later while you were in the other room, unaware of his plan to make the two days of his trip more tolerable for you.

You did not bother to finish your food and you stood up from your chair. You pulled each one, searching for a similar package as the morning. You found it, it was plump, squishy. You explored it before you uncovered it from the tissue paper. It was a cozy bathrobe, somewhere between something you would steal from a hotel out of fun, and something Davis would take pleasure in peeling it off you. It was white, too.

Like the panties. Like the bra you found in your office, on the box of papers and envelopes you needed to organize from work.

You needed him to come back. And fast.

*~*~*

Unfortunate miscommunication, that was the excuse his boss told him about his delayed flight. Davis could not join him back home, he had to wait for the next flight sometime in the afternoon. He was disappointed.

It was a fortunate mistake for you, somehow. When Davis informed you he had to wait a couple of hours, you set up the scene for him to come back. You cleaned up, you prepped snacks for later when his stomach would growl. You showered, did your routine, you lit up a few candles.

He sounded tired on the phone, talking nonsense with floating, imaginary numbers and putting on this persona he felt so disconnected from drained him.

He took care of you while he was gone. It was your turn to take care of him when he would return.

You grabbed a pen and a pad of sticky notes. You walked around the house with your open robe, catching the scent of Davis’ cologne that you liked to wear when he was away. You started leaving note after note until you made your way to the bedroom.

The timing was perfect, you got a text from him saying he was about to drive back home.

Finally. You needed him to come back.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror, dressed in the robe and lingerie he had gotten you. You liked what you saw.

Davis would like it even more. He tried to hush the voice of anticipation in his mind, keep it quiet, keep himself focused on the road. The closer he was to your street, the more he focused. Not on the road, but on you. He was doubtful: did you find the letters? did you take time to read them? did you like what he bought you? would you be happy to see him?

The doubts disappeared. A smile appeared on his face. He pulled on the first sticky note, it was by the shoe rack in the entrance.

“Follow me.”

So, he followed. His eyes were searching for neon pink papers, distributed in the living room, the kitchen, by the stair case.

“I missed you. I can’t wait to see you. I’m glad you’re here.”

You heard him climb up the stairs, and you fixed your hair and appearance once again. You thought you would sit on the bed, let him discover his present like you discovered his, but your heart had other plans.

Davis had barely made it to door frame that the loud noise of his army surplus bag dropping to the floor did not succeed to cover your excited squeal. He wrapped you in his arms, catching you while you ran to him.

You wasted no time in thanking him, with words and kisses.

He wasted no time telling you he missed you, with a smile.

You asked him about his trip.

He told you the less boring details, so he said very little. His boss and he, especially Davis, closed a deal with a French company, something about a long-term contract across the ocean. Numbers, all invisible and nothing tangible. “I learned something.”

You arched your brow, your arms wrapping up around his neck and resting on his broad shoulders. “What is it?”

He swallowed, you pulled away to loosen up his tie and unbutton the top of his shirt. He helped you, by removing the tie altogether.

You helped him, by opening the rest of his shirt one button at a time, slowly. His shirt was white. It matched your lingerie.

“Tu es jolie.”

You looked in his eyes. He was proud, content. He was happy, and even happier that you were wearing his gift.

“It means you’re pretty,” he nodded, putting emphasis on his words to prove his sincerity. “In French.”

“You’re a smooth talker.” You replied, while your hands worked to unzip and loosen his dress pants around his toned waist.

He furrowed his brows in confusion. “I’m not a smooth talker.”

“Before those letters, I would have agreed.” You teased him with a smirk, you teased his body by running your hands over his back and pulling him closer to your body. Your palms rested on his dimples, right above the curve of his ass. “It was really sweet. I love the letters.”

He held your face in his hands, delicately. The kiss he pressed against your lips had no delicacy, it was rough, it was hungry. It was different from his whole demeanour.

You welcomed the change. It felt so nice to be reunited with him, it felt even nicer, though, to realize that he had missed you as much as you missed him.

Davis pushed you towards the bed, thoughtful to break your embrace so you could get on the wrinkled sheets. He leaned forward, kissing you once again, until he had to gasp for air. He took off the rest of his clothes, leaving him in nothing but his gray briefs.

You looked at him, from his beautiful face down to his just as beautiful body. He was clumsy in the way he moved, excited and rushing. Yet, he still took his time and you enjoyed every second you received to admire him.

He settled against the headboard, with his back pressed against it and his arms and legs open for you to crawl to him and sit in the spot he created for you.

And you did just that, without hesitation, after you removed the bathrobe. You sat between his legs and pressed your back against his front.

He pushed your legs open with his feet, locking yours in place. He could barely see you, from behind you, but he loved the view he had from over your shoulder. The valley between your breasts, your body warm and ready for him. He noticed how you were breathing when his hands caressed your skin.

You wanted him to stop with the teasing, stop with the slow motions as if you had all the time in the world. The words got stuck in your throat and left you confused, you did feel like you had all the time in the world. Why rush?

There was no reason to rush. Davis repeated that sentence to himself, no sound coming out of his mouth, only his lips moving whine he trailed kisses over your shoulder. He did not bother moving the strap of your bra out of the way, he liked it there. He kissed around it.

You put your hands over his, not guiding him, simply following where he wanted to go.

He lingered on your thighs, scratching your skin lightly with his nails. He moved to your hips and tummy, his pinkie fingers, and yours, brushing over the waist band of the panties. He moved up, and up, and up, until he cupped your tits in his hands. He squeezed them, pressed them together.

You helped him, pulling down on the piece of fabric so your breasts would hang over the cups and so you could feel his hands directly on yours. You moaned in his ear.

He pulled on your nipples, soft at first, but then rougher. He wanted to take them in his mouth so bad, to flick his tongue over them until he pulled more of those moans out of you. He refrained, making a mental note not to forget about it.

“I missed you so much.” You said, turning your head at an awkward angle to meet with his cheek so you could press a kiss on it.

Maybe those were the magic words, you did not really know. Either way, it was what convinced Davis to pick up the pace. He kept his left hand on your thigh, pulling slightly on your skin to leave even more room for his other hand that he pressed on your core. He felt a wet patch there, he throbbed in the confine of his boxers.

You imitated him, pulling on your other thigh to give him space while your hips bucked against his hand.

He pressed his middle finger against the fabric, pushing it between your folds. He pressed harder, rubbing tight circles against your covered clit. “Is it okay like that?”

Your mind was starting to get hazy, not really understanding what he meant with his question. It was hard to think, it had been hard to think these past two days, between missing him and needing him both so badly, you were melting under his touch. “Keep going, please.”

“I love you.” He repeated over and over again, this time audibly. Once again, he was taken aback by an indescribable urge, by this craving to feel you incredibly closer. His finger rubbed harder against you, his other hand joined so he could push two digits against your hole.

The panties were in the way, but the friction felt nice. Not as nice as you wanted it to be, but nice nonetheless. You rocked your hips against him and you threw your head back, resting it on his shoulder.

Davis was solid, he kept you safe in his embrace despite the waves of your body that swam with the little bit of pleasure he was giving you. “It feels so fucking good.” He whispered, his jaw clenched but released to let out deep grunt when you rubbed against him just the right way. It was not comfortable. It was not ideal. It was better than he imagined.

You tried to move the lingerie out of the way, sneaking a finger in between his to pull on the crotch part of it.

You managed to lose one of Davis’ hands on your covered pussy, instead he locked your hand immobile on your thigh while he pressed his whole hand against you. He rubbed hard, fast, rough.

It hurt and it felt good all at once. “Shit!” You exclaimed. “Davis, please, please, please.”

“You look so pretty like that.” You felt his teeth grazing against the skin of your neck until he noticed how you flinched when he found that exact spot he mentioned in his letter. He nibbled, he licked over it to soothe the bruise that formed as he started to suck hard on it. “I need you.”

“I need you too, fuck, please!” Your eyes were tightly shut close, your lungs felt like they were burning.

He did not bless you with the feeling of his fingers against your sensitive bundle of nerves, he enjoyed the soaked fabric too much to move it out of the way. “I know you want to cum, baby,” He moaned when you did too, your noises resonated in the otherwise quiet room. “Give it to me.”

Your legs were open wide, tensing up. You had one arm reaching behind you so that you could grip on his short hair. Your breathing matched his.

He brought both of your left hands up to your left breast and squeezed it while his fingers worked you over the edge. He pulled on your nipple again, you helped him pull even further, twisting it too. “Keep going.” He repeated your words, like you had a choice at all.

It was leaning on the painful side a little too much, a little too fast. Davis was taking you far beyond your orgasm, to the point where tears pooled at the corner of your eyes that were rolled back. You tried to squirm out of his grip, but he managed to catch all of your attempts. “Fuck, fuck, Davis, fuck!”

“You say fuck a lot.” He chuckled.

Your ears started to ring and when you opened your eyes, you noticed little white spots floating in the air. Air. Right. You remembered to breathe, you put your efforts into taking a deep breath, but it remained stuck in your throat.

Davis was rubbing you to a second orgasm, it was a rough one. It was like he pulled it out of you with the way he rubbed you, still over your now ruined panties. He was not giving up, he kept going despite the growing cramp in his wrist, despite his own hard-on getting painful from the lack of actual touch, despite the veins bulging on his arm and his muscles turning into flames from the lack of break.

He got you to cum a second time, to push you until you could no longer take it, both physically and mentally. It drained you, you soaked your lingerie and his fingers with your wetness.

“So fucking pretty.”

Slowly, your bodies shifted. It started by how you pulled him for a kiss despite being out of breath and by how your body was still shaking at the force of your two orgasms.

It continued with Davis wrapping an arm around you and helping you lay down.

Then, Davis was on top of yours, laying between your tired hips and tired legs.

Next, it was a battle of teeth and tongue while he kissed you like he had not seen you in an eternity.

Davis started to rock his hips against you. he had managed to take his boxer briefs off, you did not even know how. His cock was hard, reddened by the pressure of his underwear. You felt it rubbing against your sensitive folds.

You caged him in, your legs wrapping as best as you could around his waist.

The grunts that emanated from him were delicious, they were enchanting in a way. They were guttural. He was so sensitive, he could not do anything but hump against your covered core, sometimes between your thighs, sometimes above and against your lower stomach.

There was a rush. You needed him to cum as much as he had needed you to do it too.

And he did, fuck he did. He came with a long moan and barely audible begs for you to keep him close, safe, in your arms. He unloaded on the fabric of the delicate panties and he still jerked his hips against you, humping you until his own body decided he had enough.

You helped him come down from his high, with kisses and rubs along his back and flexing biceps.

“Oop.” Davis exclaimed when he pushed himself up on his exhausted arms. He looked down between your bodies, beyond the layer of sweat and the scratching marks he left earlier. It was a mess. “I guess I’ll have to buy you new panties.”

You chuckled, exhausted and content. You agreed. “You knew it would ruin them.”

“Well, I wasn’t positive, but I was hoping it would ruin them.”

The smile, that goofy smile. You kissed his lips and he kept smiling. His smile spoke more words than a thousand letters signed with the warmest of regards by Davis C. Mitchell.

#jake gyllenhaal smut #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal x reader #jake gyllenhaal x you #davis mitchell #demolition #davis mitchell smut #davis mitchell x reader

[taleweaver-ramblings]

Inklings Challenge 2022: The Remnant

It's ten minutes 'til midnight, but it's still October 21, so I am ON TIME. You hear that, @inklings-challenge? It's fine. We're fine. This is somewhat less polished than I would like it to be, but hopefully it'll be ok.

Musical quotations are from Newgrange, Níl Sé’n Lá, and The Voice, all by Celtic Woman. Enjoy!

~~~~~~

I came by a house last night and told the woman I am staying. I said to her, "The moon is bright, and my fiddle’s tuned for playing"

The Golden Moon Inn was full when the stranger strode in, on the night when the rest of the world ended. Brennan didn’t notice her arrival — it seemed that everyone in town, from the poorest farmer to the mayor himself, had braved the wind and rain to visit, and every one of them wanted a drink. Their requests kept him running back and forth behind the taproom’s bar, pulling one drink after another: nutty golden-brown ale, stiff amber whiskey, fresh-squeezed juices, rich honeyed mead, and, of course, glass upon glass of sweet apple wine.

No, Brennan’s first glimpse of the stranger was when he turned to greet yet another customer and found himself caught by a pair of pair of eyes as dark and bottomless and as prone to knock a man cold as a full cask of hundred-year Southgrove Red. Had Brennan a bard’s tongue, he would’ve said those eyes were so deep that stars could get lost in them, and so knowing that one wondered if they had predated those same stars. Had Brennan a scholar’s mind, he would have known just what kind of person eyes like those usually came attached to.

But Brennan had a farmer’s tongue and an inn-hand’s mind. So instead he gaped like a fish until the stranger’s voice brought him back to reality. “Is there a glass of apple wine to spare, Mr. Braeburn?”

Brennan shook himself, pulling himself together. “Always, lady.” And she was a lady, he was sure. She held herself like a general surveying a battlefield, and though her clothes were travel-worn and of a foreign, fluttering style, they were brightly hued and shone dully in the light in a way that the homespun, linen, and wool that marked the locals’ wardrobes never could. “Just a min.”

He turned, fetched a glass from beneath the counter, and filled it from one of the casks along the back wall. The apple wine was the Moon’s specialty. It had never run out, Mistress Fellworth said, not in all the years her family had owned the place, and it wouldn’t do so under her watch. Every autumn, she and her staff laid down a dozen barrels in the cellar to mature; in a week or two, they’d prepare this year’s batch. But it always went too fast to be worth bottling, except when a customer brought their own bottle and paid for it to be filled.

Brennan passed the glass across the bar to the stranger. “By the by, lady, if I can ask, how know you my name? I’ve not seen your face afore.”

The lady held the glass under her nose, breathing in the scent, and then gave Brennan a strange and secretive smile. “I couldn’t miss one of Joli Braeburn’s boys. You look very like him.”

Well, how did she know that? When Brennan’s thrice-great grandfather had lived, the town had been a nowhere-place still, just a cluster of farms, and the inn had been naught but a house large enough to have rooms to rent to people passing through — though even then, the Fellworths had made their apple wine, and people had visited for the express purpose of drinking it. But before Brennan could ask, Mistress Fellworth herself bustled up to him. “Bren! You hear me — the lady and her fiddle are our entertainment for the night. You see that she doesn’t go thirsty.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Brennan gave a heavy nod. By the time he turned around again, the lady was gone. But two mugs of beer, a glass of whiskey, and a pewter cup of juice later, he heard the woman begin to play —

And time slowed down.

~~*~~*~~*~~

There is a place on the east; a mysterious ring, a magical ring of stones. The druids lived here once, they said; forgotten is the race that no one knows

This landscape was far too pretty. It was hard to believe that it was host to the only major  concentration of magic south of the Shiftlands — and yet, somewhere in these rolling green hills was just that.

Alessa shifted in her seat, watching out the auto’s windows as the vehicle rolled along the bumpy dirt road. Apparently, pavement hadn’t made it out this far from the cities yet. Apple orchards covered many of the hills; supposedly, they produced the finest crop in the land, though people said the process of removing residual magic from them dulled the taste a bit. They’d been here even before the Magistorm, and they were among the first things to regrow in the wake of its passing.

No one knew exactly how they’d survived so well. Very few people had bothered to try to find out. Most students of history and magic preferred to focus on the problem of the Shiftlands, seeking to understand what had caused it to become what it was so the land could be reclaimed. Very few people cared to study its far less problematic cousin.

A shimmer on the horizon drew Alessa’s attention to the way ahead. She glanced at the driver, a square-built man with a face that looked like it had been passed down through a dozen generations. “Is that —"

His mouth worked the words over several times before releasing them. “Aye. We’re near there now.”

Alessa sat up straighter in her seat, watching eagerly, straining for the first glimpse of what she’d come here for. She was rewarded a moment later, as they crested a hill and the Remnant appeared.

At first, it looked like nothing at all, just a heat shimmer in the air. But the longer Alessa looked, the more she could make out its outer bounds. It rose like a column, ground to sky, a good fifty feet around, blurrily reflecting its surroundings and shimmering where the sunlight went through it. It certainly wasn’t as impressive as anything you’d find up north, where the residual magic made the ground roll like waves beneath your feet and burst up in deadly geysers of power, where the landscape could shift from barren wasteland to deadly jungle in a blink. All the same, it was there.

The car went over one more hill and then stopped at its base. “You’ll have to walk from here,” the driver announced. “Any closer and we’ll break down.”

“Understood. Thank you, sir.” Alessa fished in her skirt pocket for a coin and passed it over. “Will you help me unload my things?”

“Aye.” The driver and Alessa clambered out and circled around to the boot. The driver lifted out Alessa’s bag and her three crates of tools and supplies with a grunt. “You certain about camping out here? There’s a fair inn in town.”

“I’m sure.” Alessa pushed more confidence into her voice than she felt. “I’ve roughed it on the moors before, and at least for the first week, I need easy access to the Remnant.”

“If you say so,” the man grumbled. “I’ll be out this way tomorrow morning, so I’ll stop and see if you change your mind.”

“Much obliged, sir.” She was not much obliged. But it was the polite thing to say. She waited for him to make a few last remarks and drive away. Then she dug notebook, pens, and camera out of one of her bags and approached the Remnant.

~~*~~*~~*~~

Tell me that the night is long; tell me that the moon is glowing. Fill my glass, I'll sing a song, and will start the music flowing

Brennan had never seen the town in such a merry mood, not even on a holiday — nor had he ever seen someone play so well and so long as the stranger.

She danced as she played, weaving through the room, and people danced with her, swinging each other ‘round and laughing. Those too old or too tired to dance sang along, lending voices rough with labor to fill out the choir that the golden-tongued fiddle led. The tapping of feet on the floor and the beat of mugs on tables provided the rhythm, and several people had pulled out pipes and pennywhistles to play along. They traded out one song to the next, but the stranger never stopped. Her songs flowed off the strings like wine into a glass, smooth and rich.

Brennan wasn’t sure how she was doing it. He’d yet to see her stop for a drink, though people had brought her glass back to be filled more than once. And she’d not stopped to eat either, not properly. Instead, she called for a plate of cut-up chunks of cheese and ham and bread and made a show of spearing them with her bow on one stroke and popping them in her mouth on another. It couldn’t have been much fuel to go on, not with how she’d never once stopped moving since she raised her bow. And yet!

He filled another two glasses with apple wine, tilting the cask forward to drain out the last drops. He’d have to go downstairs and fetch another. It would be the second tonight, though the first had been near-empty to start.

Brennan glanced at the clock sitting behind the bar. It hadn’t chimed since the stranger arrived — or perhaps he’d just not heard it amid all the noise. The hands had moved all the same, pointing nearly to midnight now.

He drew another mug of beer and passed it across the bar, then edged down to Mistress Fellworth. “About time for closing, isn’t it?”

Mistress Fellworth shook herself as if she’d been in a trance. “Ay, what’s that?”

Brennan nodded at the clock. “Closing time?”

Mistress Fellworth glanced over the crowd, regret written heavily over her face. “Aye, I suppose . . .”

A blink and the stranger was before them, though Brennan could’ve sworn she was across the room before. “Stay open, if you will. Stay until my fingers are weary and until your guests are ready to leave.”

For a moment, Mistress Fellworth seemed about to nod. Then she squinted at the stranger. “What manner o’ trick are you about, then? Who’s to say your fingers are going to wish to stop?”

“’Til the morning, then,” the stranger replied, calm as could be, her fingers still plucking a melody and her bow tucked under her arm. “Until I and your guests are tired, or until the morning sun rises, whichever is first. Is that to your liking?”

“That’ll do.” Mistress Fellworthy nodded. “The daylight will show well enough if it’s no good you’re about.”

The stranger smiled again, though her eyes seemed suddenly sorrowful. “I mean no evil, Mistress Fellworthy. Wait for the dawn and you’ll see.”

Then she danced into the crowd, raised fiddle to her chin and set bow to strings once more, and the songs flowed on.

~~*~~*~~*~~

"Listen, my child," you say to me, "I am the voice of your history. Be not afraid, come follow me; answer my call, and I'll set you free"

At the top of the Remnant, you could see the stars.

Alessa had noticed this three days and fifty pages into her study of the phenomenon. Most of the Remnant reflected its surroundings, albeit in a blurry, watery sort of way, with occasional ghostly wisp of else blended in. But if you looked up, up, up to the very top, a patch of night sky was visible, and in it, you could see stars.

She had, of course, started tracking their positions. One theory held that the Remnant was a sort of defunct portal to another realm, and so the stars might be from some other world. But if they were, it was a very stagnant world, for they’d not moved an inch in the month she’d been here.

She’d learned a number of things in that month, as the apples ripened and the leaves turned from green to gold. She’d learned that the Remnant was as strongly magical as anywhere in the Shiftlands, something that had sent her double- and triple- and quadruple-checking her equipment and then to review the textbooks she’d dragged along to make sure she’d not misread. A magical concentration of this level should have made the surrounding region uninhabitable, and yet a day never passed without Alessa seeing a farmer or a farmer’s children or a group of orchard-workers go by.

She supposed it had to do with the nature of the magic, and the way it all seemed to be bound up in this spot. That was something else she’d noticed. Her textbooks were all very insistent that magic was like boiling water. It couldn’t stay still. It would move and bubble and try to spread out, changing form as easily as man changed his hat. But the Remnant stayed placidly where and as it was.

Perhaps, she sometimes thought, in the late hours of the night, it was all still doing something, and that was why it wasn’t wrecking havoc. But for it to be still in use, for it to still have a spell directing it, there would have to be a living wizard to wield it. And the last of the wizards had died out in the conflict that produced the Magistrom.

Many of her other findings simply confirmed what she’d already known. You couldn’t touch the Remnant; even in the proper protective gear, your hand would turn away. If you tried to go through it, you’d find yourself abruptly walking the other direction the moment before you passed its surface. Objects thrown at it seemed to either vanish or disintegrate — Alessa had yet to figure out which. Animals wouldn’t go near it, though they didn’t seem alarmed by it.

And all around its border were great, smooth-sided stones, with a crust of grey that could be brushed away to reveal a shimmering opal surface. Reports told of similar stone in the Shiftlands, great mounded towers of it. Scientists hypothesized that it was the leavings of spent magic, that it was left behind in the same way that calcium deposits were left in a teakettle by boiling water. As they were only found here and in the Shiftlands, that hypothesis seemed quite likely true. Trying to cut away the stone, however, simply left the cut section to turn to grey dust that blew off in the wind before Alessa could run any useful tests on it.

Of course, she didn't spend all her time at the Remnant. She hailed passing workers and trekked out to nearby farms to talk to the locals. Many an afternoon found her helping a farm wife with chores in exchange for information, and many an evening saw her sitting at the dinner table of those farmwives, enjoying a good meal as she questioned the farmers and fieldhands. And once a week, the driver who’d brought her out from the train station would return and drive her into town to restock supplies and speak with anyone willing to have a conversation.

Most of them, she found, had little enough to say about the Remnant. It was a fact of life for them, hardly worth remarking on. It interfered with no farmwork, killed no animals, and created no disturbance. It had always been there. It always would be there. Alessa tried bringing up the issue of magical contamination of crops and livestock, but those she spoke with laughed off her concerns. The Remnant wasn’t like the Shiftlands, they said. If it were going to cause anycone harm, it would have done so long ago. True, they had to process away the residual magic in any crop they wished to ship away. But for their own use, the Remnant’s influence did no harm, and a few old grandfathers swore up and down that the magic helped the plants grow, helped produce larger and better fruit.

And, indeed, the people who dwelt by the Remnant ate apples off the tree and tomatoes off the vine without fear. Alessa gradually worked up the courage to do so as well, when the trees nearest her camp ripened to irresistible perfection. For the first week, she monitored herself carefully for symptoms of arcane corruption. After that, though, she learned to love the extra crispness and sweetness that the magical influence seemed to bring. And the flavor only added to her suspicions. Untamed magic corrupted — but why should not a magic directed for some good improve everything around it?

~~*~~*~~*~~

Don't go out into the cold, where the wind and rain are blowing, For the fire is flaming gold, and in here the music's flowing.

Far away, far to the north, a storm was coming to a head. In cities and towers, wizards prepared the first and last spells of a war that had been going on in secret for centuries. Soon, that war would be a secret no more, though the wizards had no idea just how much of an effect their clashing spells would have.

But in the Golden Moon, the stranger still played. Brennan couldn’t make out what was odder: that he wasn’t tired, or that she wasn’t. Midnight, one, two in the morning had come and gone, and more than a few guests had purchased rooms in the inn to sleep off their drink and merriment. Yet she never stilled, never stopped, never slowed. Every time Brennan thought she’d reached the end of all songs ever written, she produced one more, or else a guest called out a request for her to play something again. And she did so, unwearyingly.

And something in her tirelessness must have been catching, for Brennan felt no more inclination towards his bed than he had at the evening’s start. Neither, it seemed, did Mistress Fellworth, nor any of the inn’s staff. The remaining guests, too, were unusually alert and cheerful for this hour. Many still sang. A few still danced.

But not all were so affected. As the stranger slid from one song to another, old Farmer Martin stood and gathered his family and farmhands. He tipped his hat to his friends and started towards the door.

The stranger was at his side seemingly without moving — or perhaps she’d already been there, and no one had quite realized it. “Stay,” she said, and though her voice was quiet, the whole inn could hear. “Stay, good man, if you will.”

Farmer Martin gave a rough shake of his head. “It’s another day of harvest tomorrow, lass. Better to work on a few hours of sleep than none at all.”

“Stay,” she said again, fingers plucking her violin strings in a melody as sweet as a summer’s afternoon and as sticky as a spider’s web. “Stay, I pray you. The night is wet, and the wind roars outside. Stay and sing by the fire. Or if sleep you must, do so here, and I’ll pay for a room for you, since you remain on my behalf. Stay till dawn, I beg you.”

Brennan saw the old man waver. Then, with a nod, he turned away from the door. “Till dawn, then, though I imagine I’ll take you up on that offer of a room. But if I’m to stay up, I’ll need another drink. Braeburn!”

“Yes, sir.” Brennan took the proffered glass and refilled it with apple wine. He had to tip the cask again, though there were still a few more drinks in it, by the feel. Sooner rather than later, he’d need to bring up a fresh cask.

Far away, the wizards cast their first spells.

~~*~~*~~*~~

I am the voice of the past that will always be Filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields.

One chilly night, the Remnant locals introduced Alessa to apple wine.

She sipped the sweet drink, barely noticing the slight sting of alcohol beneath the fizz of magic, and listened as they told her of its history. Apple wine had always been made in these parts, they said. It was as old as the orchards themselves. And while it could no longer be shipped across the realm — removing magic from the apples made them too expensive to be used for wine — it was still a local favorite.

Of course, the locals told her, even their best wasn’t as good as it had been before the Magistorm. In those days, it had been the specialty of an inn called the Golden Moon and a family called the Fellworthies, or so the stories said. But inn and family both had been lost in the aftermath of the wizards’ war, along with the rest of the village. As far as anyone could tell, the village had been centered on the Remnant’s current location, though no trace of it remained.

A pity, the locals said, and laughed. A pity, but at least today’s wine was still good.

A pity, Alessa echoed, and drank her wine, and wondered.

~~*~~*~~*~~

Fill the glasses one more time, and never heed the empty bottle! Turn the water into wine, and turn the party up full throttle.

The last cask of apple wine was half gone. Brennan rocked it on its stand, feeling the liquid within slosh back and forth. How had the crowd drunk so much? Or perhaps the better question was, how had the wine lasted so long, with all the town calling for it over and over again?

Mistress Fellworth joined him at the barrel. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re nearly out.” Brennan kept his voice low enough that the crowd wouldn’t hear. “This is all we’ve left to sell.”

Now it was Mistress Fellworth’s turn to rock the barrel. For a moment, her face was dark and distant. Then her expression hardened. “Water it down as much as you can. Half the crowd is probably drunk enough they won’t know the difference. Stop when there’s a cup or two left. We’ll have to close then, whatever our player says.”

There was a soft gasp from somewhere. Brennan glanced back in time to see the stranger stumble. But she recovered and spun back into her song with a laugh. He turned back to Mistress Fellworth. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

With that, he trekked down to the cellar yet again, returning with a cask of drinking water. He hoisted it onto a stand next to the wine and hammered in a tap. He held a glass beneath and turned the nozzle.

Golden apple wine, as fair-smelling as the best of the Golden Moon’s vintage, flowed out.

~~*~~*~~*~~

Wait for the sun on a winter's day, and a beam of light shines across the floor. Mysterious ring, a magical ring; forgotten is the race that no one knows.

The last of the year’s harvest was picked, and the first frost laid thick on the ground as Alessa circled the Remnant yet again. The latest shipment of scientific supplies from the university had included a set of arcane detection goggles, and wearing them, she could clearly see the threads of magic running off the Remnant into the orchard, bright as streams of water.

Perhaps the old men had been right. The magic flowed in the core of each tree, and in every branch and twig. Perhaps it was helping the trees grow. Perhaps it had always done so. Perhaps that was how the groves had regrown so quickly after the Magistorm. Perhaps the Remnant had preserved them.

But why? And . . . Alessa looked back towards the Remnant, studying it as best she could. With the goggles on, it was almost like looking into the sun, but she thought she could see a sort of pattern — and beyond that, a shape. A building, maybe, large as a city inn.

Alessa pulled off the goggles, and the Remnant went back to normal. Maybe she should check again if anyone knew of any records from the time before the Magistorm. If she could find out exactly what had stood where the Remnant was . . .

A shift in the sky pulled her away from her thoughts. Alessa looked up with a gasp.

At the top of the Remnant, the stars were fading.

~~*~~*~~*~~

Tell me that the night is long. Tell me that the moon is gleaming. Fill my glass, I'll sing a song, and we'll keep the music streaming Until all the songs are sung.

Dawn came in a flash, in the same moment that the songs stopped.

The sudden cease of music was nearly deafening. Brennan stood, stock-still, blinking in the light that suddenly flowed in the windows, wondering if he were going mad. A few feet away, Mistress Fellworthy swayed on her feet, staring dazedly.

A murmur swept through the guests, confused and then panicked. Questions were thrown here and there, but what happened was repeated the most, over and over again.

What had happened? Brennan glanced at the clock as if it would give him answers — but it had stopped long ago, though its pendulum still swung slow and useless behind the glass. Mistress Fellworth had begun to mutter as well, grumbling about a headache and how she shouldn’t have stayed up so late.

There was something wrong with the light, Brennan realized. It was — different. Too green. And the air tingled with the absence of . . . something.

Where had the stranger gone? Surely she could explain. But when Brennan looked around, he could see her nowhere at all. Had she slipped out already? Ducked away amidst the crowd’s confusion?

She couldn’t have gone far. He went to the door and threw it open. And then he stopped.

There was no street outside. No village. Just rolling hills and apple orchards — and, some twenty feet away, a girl in strange but serviceable-looking clothes standing and staring at the inn like she’d never seen it before. She looked nothing like the stranger, but he called out to her anyway, “Hello?”

“Hello,” she called back, and then took several careful steps forward. When nothing stopped her, she picked up her skirts and ran to the inn. “Is this — is this the Golden Moon Inn?”

“Aye, where else would it be?” Brennan looked around again, hoping against hope that the village would appear. “What’s become of the rest of our place, then?”

“It’s . . . It’s a very long story.” The girl shook her head. “I’m not sure you’ll believe it. I’m not sure I know all of it, but maybe you can help me.”

“I’ll be glad enough to try.” Brennan held out a hand. “Brennan Braeburn, miss.”

“I’m Alessa Foxwood.” She shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same to you, miss.” Brennan took one last look around, then turned to re-enter the inn. “Come on then. Let’s have a drink, and we’ll see if we can’t answer each other’s questions.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan.” And inside Alessa went, as the last of the Remnant faded into the soil and the sky.

~~*~~*~~*~~

I am the voice of the future. Bring me your peace — Bring me your peace, and my wounds, they will heal.

They never found the stranger. But they found her fiddle and its bow, still warm to the touch and tingling with magic. Later, when all was revealed, they would hang the instrument in a place of honor above the Golden Moon’s hearth.

But for now, bow and fiddle sat on a table in the center of the taproom, while the Golden Moon’s occupants listened in mingled awe and horror as Alessa told them of the world outside — of the wizards’ war and the Magistorm that swept across the land in its wake and of thousands of years passing by afterwards. Many of them thought of their homes and farms and wondered what would become of them, now that they had nothing but the others within the inn. Many of them thought of what would have become of them had they not been at the inn, and they blessed the stranger in their hearts for convincing them to come in the days before and for not letting them leave that night.

It was Alessa who discovered at last who the stranger had been. In the days after the Remnant faded, she requested any records, any papers, anything of note that the Golden Moon had so she could copy them out and preserve them. Records from before the Magistorm were few and far between, and she would pass up no opportunity to find more.

Mistress Fellworth was willing enough to comply in exchange for Alessa’s help in establishing relations with the local farmers — though all her casks of water had been filled with good wine, she had the future to think of, and she’d need to lay out twice as many barrels as she normally did. So Alessa spoke with the farmers and was rewarded with a box of papers to go through. Among them was a sketch, carefully preserved between the pages of an old book, of a woman whose face made Brennan gasp. That was her, he said, the stranger who’d played that night, though she was younger in the picture, and her eyes not yet so deep and knowing.

Alessa turned the picture over. Melanie Fellworth, age 19, the back said, and the family tree buried deeper in the box recorded that name: a daughter of the long-ago Fellworth who’d turned the farm into a proper inn. While Melanie’s siblings had stayed, Melanie herself had left home and traveled far away to seek her fortune and an education in magic.

“She must have been one of Melanie’s descendants,” Alessa suggested, setting picture and family tree aside and returning to the original book.

But Brennan thought of the stranger’s endless eyes and the way she’d spoken of his thrice-great grandfather. “No. It was her, herself.”

Alessa shrugged, and agreed that it might be so. Wizards were said to have been very long-lived, after all. Perhaps it had been Melanie herself. Perhaps she had returned to her home on the eve of its destruction to save the family she’d left behind so long ago. If it was, it was surely her magic that had made the Remnant, that had kept the Golden Moon safe and preserved through the centuries.

Brennan nodded at this, thinking of the wine in the water casks and the way the stranger had swayed just before that moment. She had to be a Fellworth, he agreed. For the wine still flowed, and it would flow still for many years to come.

#inklings challenge #inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #genre: time travel #(sorta anyway) #imagery: wine #taleweaver writes #my writing #short story #short fiction

[femmefatalevibe]

Wonderful blog.

Is this embracing and celebrating this dark deninine energy or the archetype of femme fatale something magical to you? Is it a form of witchcraft for you?

Hi love – thank you so much! I think this question offers a great opportunity to share the purpose behind my blog and some thoughts on my interpretation of what it means to be a modern femme fatale/the topic of femininity in general. I don’t believe in witchcraft in any way (However, I think that it’s fascinating to learn about the authentic experiences of the women who were accused of witchcraft during the Salem Witch Trials - Freudian Era because the patriarchal norms that made women’s desire for autonomy, sex, or a career into a form of hysteria). 

Being a Femme Fatale, in my eyes, means claiming your power in every of your life and respecting yourself enough to honor every aspect of your being - from reaching your career goals, to keeping good health, dressing well, holding yourself with poise and good manners, exploring your sexuality freely yet discreetly, learning daily, indulging in self-care and hobbies, and cultivating meaningful relationships – intimate, plutonic, romantic, familial, mentorship, etc. Some “modern Femme Fatales” I idolize include Olivia Pope, Amal Clooney, Rihanna, Angelina Jolie, Blair Waldorf, Andy Sacks from Devil Wears Prada, etc. I want to create a space in the divine/dark femininity movement that is somewhere between the Bible/rebranded Margaret Thatcher or BDSM and child-like manipulative narratives that seem to be pigeon-holing these topics and have become the leading messages on YouTube and TikTok, respectively. Not yucking anyone’s yum, by the way, if one of these more extreme archetypes is your flavor of femininity – I love some etiquette lessons and bondage content myself, but I think that there is a more liberal/education-based and realistic way of discussing divine and dark femininity that’s been missing from the Internet and the general conversation surrounding these topics. I’m glad that you all are so highly engaged in the space we’re creating to grow and indulge in this niche.  This space is for everyone who wants to lean into some aspect of her dark femininity, of course!

My mission is to empower other women/teenage girls to become the best version of themselves, gain confidence, and reach their goals – without allowing internalized shame, conventions, or other limiting beliefs to hold them back. Every woman deserves to shine her brightest – in her authentic light – in my book. This means learning how to hold your own, embracing the art of seduction and magnetic energy, life skills, claiming ownership over your sexual power, developing healthy (self-serving) habits, and investing in your personal growth/self-discovery journey. We discuss everything from stock investing to style, career, and sexting tips here – there's no holding back. Femme Fatales do it all with class, joy, and ease.

Hope this helps. Always love feedback/ am glad to discuss this topic further in future posts xx 

#femmefatale #femme fatale #dark femininity #dark feminine energy #it girl #the feminine urge #hypergamy #high value woman #hypergamous #divine feminine #high value mindset #female manipulator #femme fetale aesthetic #queen energy #female excellence #female power #self respect #ideal self #self improvement #higher self #dream girl #female empowerment #that girl #shadow work #femmefatalevibe #feminine energy #feminism #healthyhabits #self healing #mirror work

[kjack89]

Bonfire

For @themiserablesmonth Day 2: Fire.

E/R, modern AU. Lots of Les Amis friendship/general assholery. Predominantly fluff, but it's me so you know I can't resist sneaking some feels in there.

Marius glanced around the backyard of Courfeyrac’s family’s lakeshore cabin, both eyebrows raised. “This is…nice,” he said, holding Cosette’s hand as he followed Bossuet down to the logs surrounding an already roaring bonfire.

“You sound surprised,” Bossuet said over his shoulder.

Marius shrugged. “Well, when Courfeyrac invited me to a bonfire, I kind of figured we’d be burning something, uh, specific.” He swatted at a bug buzzing near his ear. “In a, um, slightly less than legal way.”

Now Bossuet turned around to walk backwards so that he could smirk at Marius. “Who’s to say that there’s not something highly illegal in there?”

Cosette just looked intrigued. “Is there?”

“Only insofar as we can consider any kind of wood stripped from forests to be illegal,” Joly said from Bossuet’s other side as they arrived at the bonfire.

“Though for tinder, we did use those fake newspapers that the Republicans have been mailing to people,” Courfeyrac informed them, standing up to kiss Cosette, and then Marius, on both cheeks. “Which isn’t illegal, but it does feel good.”

“Fuck Dan Proft,” Bahorel added from the other side of the fire.

Marius and Cosette sat down on a log, waving and nodding at the rest of Les Amis gathering around the bonfire as the sun set. “Still, I guess I was just expecting there to be some kind of purpose to this gathering,” Marius said. When he caught Enjolras’s eye, he hastily added, “Not that I’m complaining! I am absolutely not complaining!”

Jehan stretched languidly and shrugged. “In fairness, we’ve tried a couple of times to have actual meetings out here around the bonfire, but things tend to go off the rails.”

“Why?” Cosette asked, curious.

Courfeyrac winked at her. “Because Grantaire usually takes advantage of the darkness to start doing unspeakable things to Enjolras, which tends to, y’know, distract him.”

Combeferre nodded. “And then once they’ve disappeared somewhere darker and theoretically more private—”

Feuilly wrinkled his nose and muttered, “Though last year, they really needed to pick a better spot.”

“—None of us really have the desire to keep going,” Combeferre finished.

Courfeyrac stood to distribute metal sticks to everyone. “So now we figure, why bother. It’s one night where we can all just relax, enjoy the fire, enjoy each other—”

“Enjoy beer,” Grantaire added, “and s’mores.”

Joly raised his beer bottle in a toast. “And s’mores flavored beer.”

Grantaire made a face. “That sounds disgusting.”

Joly leaned around Bossuet to stick his tongue out at him. “Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.”

Marius scooted closer to the fire to roast his marshmallow. After he’d gotten a satisfactory color on it, he sat back next to Cosette and waited for it to cool before suddenly brightening. “Oo, you know what we could do? We could tell ghost stories.”

Almost immediately, everyone said simultaneously, “No.”

Marius looked crestfallen. “Why not?”

“Because Combeferre likes to bust out his greatest hits of lectures about historical evil that continues to haunt our society until this day,” Bahorel said in a bored voice, “which is even less fun than you might think.”

Combeferre scowled. “I’m sorry that I can’t make systemic racism and the lingering legacy of Jim Crow fun for you.”

Bahorel gave him the finger, and Cosette rested a hand on Marius’s arm before asking, “Then what about non-ghost-related horror stories?”

“Absolutely not,” Grantaire said firmly, as Courfeyrac and Bossuet both shook their heads pointedly at her.

Cosette arched an eyebrow, looking amused. “Dare I ask?”

“Because then it’s time for Enjolras to rant about the horrors of the 1%,” Grantaire said grimly.

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, am I wrong?”

Grantaire gave him a look. “No, but again, somewhat less fun. Especially since you’re preaching to the fucking choir.”

Enjolras scowled. “Your face is less fun,” he muttered mutinously.

Grantaire just laughed and leaned in to kiss him, which Marius took as a good time to clear his throat and offer, “I had a really scary dream recently.”

“Apropos of absolutely nothing,” Combeferre muttered, and Courfeyrac elbowed him in the ribs before saying brightly to Marius, “Do tell.”

Marius sat up a little straighter on the log. “All of you were there. Except for Cosette. And, well, all of you died.”

“The fuck,” Feuilly said to Bahorel.

“Except for me, but I was, like, really badly hurt,” Marius continued. “But Cosette’s dad rescued me – but to do so, he had to carry me through the sewer, so we were both covered in…well, you know.”

Even in the darkness, it was pretty easy to tell that Marius was blushing, and Jehan looked flatly at Marius. “I don’t,” he said.

“Yeah, what do you mean?” Grantaire asked, though he ruined the joke slightly by snickering.

Marius’s blush deepened. “Y’know…” he said, looking wildly around before adding, sotto voce, “poop.”

Combeferre choked on an ill-timed bite of s’mores, and Courfeyrac patted him on the back while muttering to Marius, “I’m shocked you managed to say something so dirty—”

“Anyway,” Marius said loudly, “we were almost killed by Cosette’s step-dad, but then he killed himself instead. And I got healthy and married Cosette but then her dad died.” He glanced at Cosette’s slightly horrified face, and added, in what he seemed to think was a helpful way, “And then I woke up.”

A long silence met Marius’s story, before Bahorel cleared his throat and said, loudly, “Dude, what the fuck.”

Feuilly shook his head. “That’s not even scary, that’s just depressing.”

“Miserable, even,” Jehan added.

Marius wilted slightly. “Well, I thought it was scary,” he said to Cosette, who patted his hand.

“It’d be scarier if it was a musical,” Feuilly said. “Like if there was just haunting singing happening during all of that.”

Bossuet rolled his eyes. “You think all musicals are scary.”

“Yeah, because they are!”

Bahorel cracked open a beer before remarking, “You know I was in a musical once, in high school.”

Feuilly gave him an affronted look. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Bahorel said with a shrug. “I was awful but they needed dudes, so I made sure that every time I was onstage, I was hidden or blocked by something and never near any of the action, so no one could really see me.”

Joly snorted. “Incredible.”

Bahorel grinned. “Yeah. I did it so well that a bunch of people even thought some random extra was my character.”

Combeferre arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m not sure that’s something you should be proud of.”

“Why the fuck not?” Bahorel asked, a challenge in his voice.

“Hey, where did Enjolras and Grantaire go?” Marius interrupted.

Courfeyrac smirked. “You don’t want to know.”

Marius made a face. “Gross.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Cosette said loyally.

Courfeyrac gave her a look. “That they’re out there in the dark fucking somewhere?”

Cosette met his look with one of her own. “That they like each other so much that they can’t keep their hands off of each other.”

Feuilly elbowed Bahorel, snickering. “Yeah, or they’re just horny.”

Marius glanced around the group. “So should someone go find them?”

Almost everyone laughed, and Courfeyrac leaned over to pat him on the shoulder. “Now that would give you scary stories to tell for the rest of all time.”

— — — — —

Enjolras dabbed at his eyes with a Kleenex. “Thanks,” he said to Grantaire.

“Of course,” Grantaire said easily, leaning against the tree next to Enjolras and pocketing the bottle of eye drops he had brought with them.

“I’m sorry that my allergies hate me.”

Grantaire snorted. “It’s not your fault that your eyes and sinuses are bothered by smoke,” he reasoned.

Enjolras shrugged. “Still, you didn’t have to come with me.”

Grantaire just laughed lightly. “Yeah but then they wouldn’t be swapping stories about us out here somewhere having sex, and who am I to rob our friends of those kind of scary stories?”

Enjolras scowled. “Just because that one time—”

“It’s been more than one time,” Grantaire said.

Enolras rolled his eyes. “Ok, a few times,” he said impatiently.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Mmm, more like a dozen.”

For a moment, it looked like Enjolras might argue, but instead he chuckled and ran a hand across his mouth before asking, “We’re not that bad, are we?”

“Maybe,” Grantaire said, leaning in to kiss Enjolras. “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“You’re not wrong,” Enjolras said fondly. They sat in silence for a long moment, neither in any rush to get back to the fire, and Enjolras nudged Grantaire gently. “What are you thinking about?”

“Honestly?” Grantaire said, a little ruefully. “Marius’s scary dream.”

Enjolras made a face. “About all of us dying?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire took a deep breath. “That’s my nightmare too, you know.”

“All of us dying?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Well, mostly you dying.” He looked up at Enjolras. “Losing you is the scariest thing that I can think of.”

Enjolras’s expression softened, and he reached out to grab Grantaire’s hand, lacing their fingers together firmly. “I’m not going anywhere,” he told Grantaire, something fierce in his voice.

“I know,” Grantaire told him, hesitating before adding, “Just know that if you did—”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed, well aware of where this was headed.

Grantaire ignored him, carrying stubbornly onward. “—if you did, I’m going with you.”

Enjolras was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. “How about we plan on neither of us dying?” he asked quietly.

“Deal,” Grantaire said easily, resting his head on Enjolras’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, squeezing Grantaire’s hand again. “I know.”

#exr #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #les amis #i'm not tagging all of them #les miserables #fanfiction #the miserables month 2022

[anthenasikes]

Who is myles I want to know everything about him

THERES LIKE THREE DRAWINGS OF HIM IN THE MYLES TAG he also has a playlist somewhere which i can find if you want.

hes an ocs hes been in my brain since 2020 ? i cant do a full rant right now but like summary of him now all of the problems revolve around him but also a lot of those problems are because of him too hes definitely the kind of character thats like ME AND ONLY ME IM GOING TO FIX EVERYTHING but he kind of started a lot of these problems in the first place. and isnt aware of it. he is also an asshole. he is aware of that.

its funny bc when i first made him i just needed a random bg character so one of my other guys could have a twin and he was this random guy. with nothing about him and he was supposed to be cis and also probably be into jesse ANYYYYWAYYYSY as he is right now he hates jesse and jesse hates him and theyre both aromantic so LMAO also at some point he ended up being the Protagonist . fuck jesse ig?? no more protag rights for you. i didnt do this on purpose it just ended up that way ?????

yanno how i was talking about song's sort of white boy cousin. name is darryl. well myles and his twin (whose name is Tobi (or tobias))were like partially raised by darryl and his gfs who are carr(issa) and jolie bc carr's family friends with their family etc etc but uhhh TLDR those three were great older sibling figures but also maybe not bc they may have been generally responsible for a while but they are so emotionally messy i dont know how they were doing college things and also watching over some stupid middle schoolers. but carr does lose her shit later on about something not myles related and i think that has a big impact on myles losing his shit! darryls probably turning into plants or somethign but like whatever. who cares. darryl voice "myles there are flowers growing through my fingernails i cannot move my hand. this is an emergency bc i cant do my eyeliner. can you do my eyeliner please please" myles voice "i hate this house." he didnt ask carr to do his eyeliner bc carr is passed out with her face in a bowl of cheerios. also in the timeline where plants are a thing jolies probablty dead idk i have 1700000 versions of this world sometimes there are plants and death and sometimes its like a sitcom im ranting now help me jesus

whatever 'present' time is myles is prolly a high school sophomore or smth. hes mostly friends with song's cousin who is avery.

i have seventeen thousand different versions of what i like to call the song-and-jesse-universes so its hard to tell you one specific Plot thing or anything coherent about myles actual story shit but trust me. putting him in a timeloop actually makes total sense for the primary version of the story i was thinking about so im probbaly actually going to do that. it makes sense. it makes a lot of sense. SHIT anyways hes a pissbaby but he can be nice if he wants but not to jesse him and jesse are stuck in the same friend group but i think jesse is going to kill him in an un-fun and actually angry way someday. wahoo!1!! im not proofreading this before i post it. have a great reading-ant's-rant time <3

#myles [oc] #oc tag #ask tag

[missunderstoodinsanity]

This  isn’t going to be easy to type, considering the amount of time we have spent together the last 6 years 2 months and 5 days. The day you came into my life you were dressed to perfection with your confidence and influencing ways. You spoke to me so subtly though I could relate immensely to you. It was a conversation I had never experienced before in my life. Something so authentic and personal and you were there and you listened to me and I fit into you so perfectly like you were made for me; but, the thing is, you were made from me.

For so long I have thought that who I was, was you, Borderline Personality Disorder,or BPD. You convinced me I was so much like you that night I first heard your name. You were spoken through the mouths of Wynona Ryder and Angelina Jolie starring in Girl Interrupted. I knew I belonged with you the moment my fingers went straight for my phone to type in your deffinition in the DSM5. You were laid out so vulnerably on the table, like a buffet, each dish representing a different part of you. I laid there thinking about trying each bite of you out. Starting with the Unstable Relationships and moving my way through the self destructive behaviors. I wanted a big ole whoppin scoop of fearing abandonment and for desert I wanted to try out the Explosive anger. It was like each bite I took, I was eating my own flesh. It was me, it was my body laid out there. You were so beautiful and you made sense which for me in this world is all I need to happen. For something to make sense. I felt like I made sense.

You had me at hello. But you drove me to goodbye. We spent countless relationships self destructing it. Not you, I mean me. Accusing you of unimaginable things, out of this world things, so fucked up I HAVE SEEN IT things. I was crazy but I feared loosing you. Without you I could not exist. You gave my life meaning and purpose. As long as I acted how I was written, then I was a piece to the puzzle. I wasnt a piece, I was the whole puzzle.

You had me believing I was the whole puzzle. I wasn’t even a piece to you. I was that lonesome vacant hole right in the middle. A hole surrounded by 999 people, supposedly just like me. It was a cult, really. We all worshiped you and looked up to you for guidence but all you ever did for me was push the people that were closest to me away and filled me with a lifetime supply of anger and jealousy. You restrained me and held me hostage against myself, I couldn’t be MYSELF because you were strict on how I had to act. My chameleon personality I soon began to think was what triggered the light in me.

I am leaving you, BPD. You and I are not the same. You have no more control over my life. The cutting has got to stop because I am so beautiful, why am I ruining my skin? My outer shell, I tattoo to hide the scars but they are still there, underneath, peaking through and staring at me reminding me of what you influenced me to do. I will admit, I had the choice…You were so convincing though. My communication with my loved ones will no longer be a tangled phone chord from the 70s. A true and genuine connection will hopefully be received on both ends.

I am tired of hurting people and to be honest, I don’t need another roomate. Pack your behaviors and jump off a cliff, like HE did.

The only reason I am leaving you this letter is so I can put you in the past and consider you a “learning experience”. II will never truly be healed from the scars you left, but that is okay because when I see them, I will no longer feel your guilt. No more games, BPD, please stay away

#borderlinepersonalityawareness #borderlinepersonality #mentalillness #mentalhealth #open letter #anxitey #bipolar #mindblog #betrue #beyourself #self improvement #self care #love quotes #love

[bookwyrminspiration]

the fire jolie died in was just normal fire (i think?) but brant was a pyrokinetic so. it couldn’t have burned him. so does that mean that he purposely burned himself with everblaze to not be suspected?

I'd have to really scan through the books to get a definite answer because I can't recall off the top of my head or find a mention of everblaze in the major Jolie/Brant scenes.

One of the wiki pages (the Brant one) says the fire was everblaze and there's also the matter of the scars, so those are the two main points in support of the accidental blaze being everblaze. However, neither the Jolie nor the Jolie/Brant wiki page mention everblaze (only accidental fire), and he could've been burned at a later time.

I also scanned through some of the more important Brant related scenes from the revelation, and there doesn't seem to be a mention of everblaze? Sophie mentions in his memory of the day, he's knocked back to safety--however, being knocked back isn't the same as being immune to it, so that doesn't really solve anything.

The two main arguments against are: if it was everblaze, I feel like it would be a lot clearer, and Brant doesn't seem capable of calling everblaze at that time. Sophie would've mentioned the color of the flames in the memory as neon yellow when she made the connection, someone would've mentioned it, it may have needed extra work to extinguish and people would know that--unless Brant/the Neverseen doused the fire before anyone else got there. And my second point, we see in the beginning of book one that Brant is still learning to call everblaze properly, all those white sugar-scented fires were everywhere. It was him trying to call everblaze, so would he be capable of doing it on accident twenty years ago?

So where the scars came from is an excellent question if it wasn't everblaze. it's possible he did it to himself, either as a means of avoiding suspicion or as a failed attempt to follow Jolie. Or, given that I'm unsure of his everblaze capabilities at that time, it's possible Fintan did it to him to avoid suspicion.

I wish I had a clearer answer, but I'd need to go through the books much more thoroughly looking for something that may not exist, so this is what I've got for now :)

#kotlc #brant alger #quil's queries #nonsie #if someone knows definitively the answer and can send a page number or something #please feel free to do so #i also only looked through the first three books #so if there's a different mention in a later one I wouldn't have seen it #because the mentions of those are so sparse and mixed in with everyone else I didn't want to try and find them #my current guess based on the info I have is normal fire fintan scarred him #but who knows! #tw death #tw fire #tw suicide mention #long post

[charissekenion]

Usually the process for this newsletter goes one of two ways; the first way is ultra-planned and I’ll be sure to divide the content into different sections. The second way is I’ll just wake up with inspiration and write it down like a stream of consciousness.

This week though, I made several notes on things I wanted to talk about - Doja Cat AT Schiaparelli! Mikayla Noguiera’s allegedly fake lashes! I started writing the newsletter last night but was feeling tired so I just left it on draft. However, once I got into bed last night I decided that I would probably leave the newsletter until next week, because I knew there were several tasks on my list for today and I love a Friday admin tidy up. IYKYK.

The subject of the TikTok (and accompanying podcast) is ‘90s model Jenny Shimizu, a self-proclaimed ‘gay Japanese car mechanic with short hair and tattoos’ who went on to inspire a generation of Asian and queer women who felt completely unseen by fashion, beauty and media.

The response so far has been over 1million views, over 22,000 saves and over 1,200 comments. This is a record for a small creator like me; I’ve been consistently posting (as in a couple of videos per week) since September 2022 but I really just joined TikTok to find a different audience. Instagram has been a dry and dusty desert for a while now, and I’ve intentionally been spending less time over there. For me TikTok has this sense of opportunity to find others that like similar things. I have never thought of it in a financial sense or ever really cared about accruing followers. Instead it feels like a place where I get to do what I want; which is often to talk about makeup, moments in beauty, people who have made a mark on me.

Occasionally something will inspire me and also be newsworthy, such as Doja Cat at Schiaparelli covered in red Swarovski crystals. Before this Jenny video, that video was my most popular - but even if it hadn’t been, I still would have made it. And if Jenny only reached 10 people, and ONE of them told me ‘yes, Jenny was the only person who helped me feel seen’, then I would be so happy.

Someone interviewed me the other day as part of a podcast prep and they asked me about my purpose and why I do what I do. Honestly, it might sound corny but I really do see beauty in everything/everyone and I’m curious about it and I think I want others to feel curious too. So when I make a video, it’s actually for me, in the sense that, I enjoy sharing the information or story.

The comments on this video are 99.9% positive - which is a first, and of course, could absolutely change - and they are split between love and desire. There are a lot of women in the comments talking about how Jenny was their obsession back in the ‘90s, how they discovered her in teen drama Foxfire and wish she’d actually married Angelina Jolie (full info in the TikTok if you’re intrigued!).

But the most important comments are from young Asian women who hadn’t seen Jenny before. To see people saying ‘thank you’ on a video means more than anything. Many of those thank yous have been women who are simply happy to be reminded of Jenny’s existence. A comment from producermama reads: ‘I remember having 0 beauty role models as an Asian woman and adored Jenny. I buzzed my hair in 1989 BC of her and loved it.’ Pinkorchid wrote: ‘Being Asian, she was an idol to me.’ These comments are the reason I make videos and why I’m sharing this ramble today. I hope it inspires you to create things you truly feel, without worrying about The Algorithm. Until then, listen to the Jenny Shimizu episode of BeautyMe, or check out my TikTok!

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMYL1UQsY/

#jenny shimizu #Asian model #prada catwalk #beauty podcast #foxfire

[sanitydestroyer]

I have my problems with some of the things that Angelina Jolie has done and said, but nothing justifies Brad Pitt's behaviour, and I'm tired of people who act like abuse isn't as bad when it happens to somebody they don't like.

I've no idea where to start with this comment:

"It's incredibly sad that she continues to rehash, revise and reimagine her description of an event that happened 6 years ago, adding in completely untrue information to try to get additional attention for herself at the expense of their family. She had the opportunity to share information with law enforcement who made the decision not to press charges. She had the chance to share this during the lengthy custody trial, which resulted in the judge granting 50-50 custody to Pitt. She has resorted to trying to keep rehashing the same thing. Going back to the same thing month after month with new and still false information for purposes that only she can understand."

Maybe she keeps "going back to the same thing" because of some of the things you just said right here. Maybe she was reluctant to share this during the custody trial because she thought she would face backlash and he would be granted 50-50 custody anyway, and she has not been able to stop worrying about the fact that those children are spending time with an abuser. Maybe she has had a bad experience with the police that needs talking about because institutional sexism and anti-female bias are deep-rooted problems that are frequently overlooked but need addressing.

#Brad Pitt is an abuser #I stand with Angelina Jolie

[wifegideonnav]

I posted 2,574 times in 2022

That's 2,574 more posts than 2021!

282 posts created (11%)

2,292 posts reblogged (89%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@emcapi

@mayasaura

@gideonisms

@saltwaterconfessions

@theriverbeyond

I tagged 2,463 of my posts in 2022

Only 4% of my posts had no tags

#art - 799 posts

#memes - 487 posts

#ntn - 393 posts

#harrow - 324 posts

#griddlehark - 317 posts

#gideon - 291 posts

#vibes - 229 posts

#op - 219 posts

#htn - 162 posts

#meta - 162 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#i’d say something like ‘sorry guys i’ll try to be more active in the future!!1’ but que será será im not actually in control of when or how

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

there’s a post going around like “catholicism is only good for sexy vampire aesthetics” WRONG its primary purpose has always been to instigate a series of events that culminated in tamsyn muir writing gideon the ninth

2,073 notes - Posted November 8, 2022

#4

god I’m just never gonna fucking recover from “harrowhark, I gave you my whole life and you didn’t even want it.” the use of her full name. the agony. the shakespeare-level comedy of errors with the angst turned up to 11 and the comedy turned down to 0. the fucking. tragedy of it all. I’m unwell no fucking talk me rn

2,243 notes - Posted October 3, 2022

#3

every time I think about harrows connection to gideon being so strong that gideons name is the last thing she says before dying despite having literally erased her capacity to comprehend it, I have to go lie down. like tamsyn really said love is so strong that it remains even if you carve out the part of your brain that feels it.

2,301 notes - Posted September 9, 2022

#2

the importance of pov and kiriona gaia as gideon nav’s imperialist aspect

others have already made some really smart posts about how kiriona is gideon when she’s lost everything and everyone that made her who she was, and how even in the first two books, gideon was this terrifically sad creature who was disguised by the fact that she was her own narrator.

but I want to expand on that last bit, because yes. kiriona is a gideon who has lost everything, who has had to make tough decisions to survive, who has had to adapt to being primarily around her father (a manipulative asshole) and ianthe (ianthe). but this is also the first time we’re getting to see gideon from a perspective other than her own.

we’ve always known that gideon is a beautifully unreliable narrator - see her complete understatement of the fight before harrow opened the tomb, where she neglects to tell us that she almost killed harrow with her bare hands - but I think that for a lot of us, the introduction of kiriona was when we first felt that.

now, nona is not an objective narrator either (lmao). and she does actively dislike gideon (which is fascinating, and which I could go on about for several posts). but she does offer an outside perspective on gideon that we have, up to this point, been lacking.

because… yeah. sometimes, like anyone, gideon’s kind of mean. we know she’s a good person - her goodness is in many ways one of the central drivers of the plot - but that doesn’t mean she’s nice all of the time. it’s just that when she’s being mean to crux, or ianthe, or even harrow we can say, well that person deserved that. but the truth is, gideon has lived through the kind of hell that very few people could survive with any kind of goodness and softness left intact. she didn’t live through it, in fact. she’s just kind of… existed through it.

I saw another post point this out, and I want to reiterate: gideon’s goal, her whole life, has been to join the cohort. when we first meet her, we’re like, ok, makes sense, that’s the only ‘out’ available to her. and we kind of forget, even as we learn more about the empire, that what gideon wants to join is this actively and horrifically violent imperialist force. when we get to nona, and we meet hot sauce and her gang and joli and the angel and even the edenites, we expect gideon to have kept up with us somehow, to reject the empire. we want her to be one of the “good guys” (goodness in the tlt universe is another longass post I want to write…).

but gideon doesn’t reject the empire. because, crucially, she IS the empire - she is its heir, never mind the fact that that doesn’t really mean anything when the current emperor is immortal.

what I am trying to say is this: kiriona is gideon when you take everything from her, and then replace it with her father and everything he represents, and then take a step back.

that step back is crucial. it is what allows us to remember how imperialism - and by extension, or by metaphor, cruelty - works. gideon becomes cruel because she is in proximity to cruel people, AND because she is not in proximity to us.

THAT is what Muir is saying with kiriona. even the most kind, good, earnest protagonist can become a tool of evil in the right circumstances: and those circumstances include perspective. gideon, like it or not, is currently actively choosing to be a tool of empire. and if we were in her head, we might be able to - or we might be tricked into - accept her justifications for why she’s doing it.

the perspective shift is what allows us to see gideon as she - currently - truly is. it is no accident that this is when we get the outside pov. Muir allows us nowhere to hide; we have to confront what gideon has become and by extension what she always has been.

gideon nav is a good person, and I fully believe that in alecto we will watch her reject her father; I fully believe she will get to be a hero. but in order for that to happen, she - and we - must first undergo radical change and growth in terms of her worldview and attitudes. kiriona is not gideon’s final form. but in the same way that john is described by harrow as having aspects, kiriona is the aspect or facet of gideon that embraces cruelty, that perpetuates empire.

Muir tells us: even the most beautiful-hearted, trod-on girl in the world can become a tool of empire. but I have no doubt that in alecto she will tell us: this is how that girl can destroy it.

2,922 notes - Posted September 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

happy pride to girls who didn’t know that women could be nice to you, inscrutable polycules, straight people in forbidden marriages, body snatchers who kiss their own reflections, poets obsessed with long-dead warriors, predatory cougars, lesbians who are in fact the problem, and girls who are in love with a corpse

7,115 notes - Posted June 1, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#idc if ppl find these annoying I think they’re fun