#violence was the correct response

[anmaries]

I think another reason why I prefer rogue’s hair to be huge and untamed is because I think it fits her a lot more personality wise. rogue might be southern, but she’s never fit into that southern belle type of box. she was born into a cult, and then she was raised by terrorists, and that made a major impact on the way she deals with her feelings and surroundings. rogue can be incredibly violent and aggressive. whether it be threatening remarks or just actual violence she struggles a lot with having a proper response to certain situations. she has very extreme reactions, like her commitment to being self sacrificial to those who show her kindness, or the fact that a small disagreement can lead to her beating the shit out of someone

#in the end it all boils down to not having proper guidance #when it comes to regulating her emotions #she has such complex feelings and she can’t handle them #and obviously with time she gets a better handle on it #I mean rogue is an incredibly empathetic person it comes with her powers #she can quite literally understand what you’ve been through #but she’s been raised in unhealthy environment after unhealthy environment #that anger was just the correct response #violence was the correct response #if mystique wanted her to take care of something she would #and violence was rewarded you know #rogue got mystiques appreciation and respect #and so she uses violence as a form of love now #and she wants other to use it as a form of love for her #because it’s what she knows #I DUNNO LIKE AHHH SHE IS AN INHERENTLY ANGRY WOMAN #why do you think she gets along so well with Logan #idk I feel like I’m just saying a whole lot of nothing but I think it’s so interesting #and I think rogue having a wild mane fits who she is #she’s all over the place she’s a firecracker #her emotions are so extreme she can’t help it

[gay-crypt1d]

the scene of ellie cleaving david… the shot being just ellie…. fire blazing behind her… screaming with everything she has… bringing the cleaver down again and again and again and again…

“david broke something in her” blah blah blah whatever

what about the apocalyptic rage of vehement denial, of righteous autonomy, of stolen childhood, of a constant state of survival

david said the fight was his favorite part well guess what motherfucker

#the last of us #what if we stopped calling assult survivors broken hm #forget about breaking the cycle of violence for two seconds #bcs in the face of incredible immenent violence perhaps the correct answer is violence in return ❤️ #even if that response inevitably impacts and changes you #it doesnt mean you’re broken #thank u good night #tlou #ellie miller #tlou ep 8

[butwhatifidothis]

On the note about how claudes writing in hopes is just fucking horrific and well feels pretty racist. i just did not like how they enforced the whole "he's actually a schemer therefore he's a backstabbing asshole" on not JUST a brown character but a brown character who's inspiration is from west asia aka the middle east which its a pretty standard stereotype used in the west

this is gonna go slightly personal but i myself am middle easterner by birth and three houses claude felt like a breath of fresh air on a more positive depiction of a west asian inspired character (even though i was kinda curious if he rlly was super sus or not lol) and then seeing he's willing to call out almyran bandits who are posing as the navy in alois and shamirs paralouge just felt. nice yknow that hes gonna go and tell to their faces that "your pillaging and plundering is the reason why we're getting shit on" and he's not a bloody conquerer and more "ok i just want people to get along and not be judged from where they come from" and hes more neutral between the two lords in a sense like it just FEELS NICE because i live in a region that 2/3 of the place is in SHAMBLES and we rarely get positive rep in media. and hes kinda the reason how i slowly started to embrace my culture after years of internalized racism. plus theres some aspects in his design, his real name 'khalid' and the instrumentals of his theme "golden deer and the crescent moon" just felt so familiar to me (plus adding nader whos name means rare or unique in arabic and he just looks like how i imagine gilgamesh would look like in an anime lol its kinda funny)

so you could imagine how fucking appalling it was for me to witness this shit in golden wildfire. like "yeahhhh lets make him out of character and make him sort of appease the empire and collaborate with them" like this ALREADY gave me bad vibes. like ok im fine with him making treaties and plans that could be risky. thats how strategies goes. but going on and try to invade another nation because you forcefully want them to surrender someone you want to get rid of because itll end the war apparently. thats not the man who said something about wanting change but does not agree on CONQUERING AND UNNECESSARY BLOODSHED . like ok i get he might not like rhea too much at first but he couldve just what he does best in three houses is probably idk TALK HER ON WHY FODLAN IS SO ISOLATIONIST??????!?. like im trying to like some aspects thats making him slightly different but i just CANT. dont get me started on how dirty almyras been portrayed in hopes. like i can acknowledge VW having writing issues (its my first route and i still enjoy the interactions) but having GW as your first route because haha im biased was just "ok so we can just. oh. OH NO". and before anyone goes around saying this means i hate edelgard. i dont. nor do i adore her. im pretty neutral about her (gasp this almost sounds completely impossible to some knuckle heads) but i feel like there was prolly some restraints to her writing. and i DESPISE this fandom when they try to say "oh if you like claude like this then you like dimitri" or "oh if you like claude that way then you like edelgard".

how about shut the fuck up and enjoy the fact hes trying to be different than the two because there are claude fans that like both dimitri and edelgard and others just dont care because its not their business. stop thrusting us into this dumb shit like we're just a status type to be harassed for these two characters. theres so many other things i wanna say but frankly im too tired

anyways this was long so tldr; claude deserved better. thank you for coming to my ted talk

It's just. Not good.

Like I said, I always try to give writers/creators in general the benefit of the doubt when something like this happens, since it's entirely possible that they weren't aware of what exactly it is they're writing. But that doesn't mean that the end result still isn't something that, bare minimum, is very upsetting to the groups of people involved. I’m so sorry that Hopes made you so uncomfortable, after 3H had finally given a character that deviated from such shitty tropes.

Because, like, say what you will about Almyra's writing in 3H - how they weren't fleshed out, how they already had some uncomfortable aspects to them (like invading for literally no reason) - but at the very least they didn't actively engage in pillaging. That was never once implied to have been something that they did, so the fact that Hopes just randomly throws that into the mix is... Not Good. Very Bad, in fact. Especially when combined with Hopes lack of any mention whatsoever about the Gonerils taking Almyran soldiers as slaves to work for their household (and the abuse the Almyrans suffer while being there), and when combined with how it’s a Fodlan (white) character who has to tell the naughty little Almyran to not plunder. Say what you will about 3H's depiction of Almyra and how untouched it was, that doesn't mean that Hopes had to make the Almyran King so incompetent at his job as to be genuinely dangerous - literally anyone with Nader's favor could manipulate him into signing off anything they want like Clyde does. Shahid is an entirely new character! They had all the free reign in the world to make Shahid damn near anything (within reason), and they make him... a stupid, power-hungry, violent invader. And nothing else. Again, "attribute not to malice" and all that, but to straight up ignore the troubling new additions Hopes gives to Almyra - some, again, with NO backing from 3H to explain them at all - isn't the right way to go about it either imo.

I've talked at extensive length about the absolute character assassination Claude went through in the majority of the game, but holy fucking shit am I with you on that stupid take. "The only people who hate Hopes!Claude/think Hopes!Claude is OOC are Dimitri stans" because apparently only Dimitri stans are able to see Claude's lack of curiosity or intellect, or how his newfound proclivity to use violence first and thinking second is diametrically opposed to how he ever acted in 3H, or the inherent contradiction in "Claude's goals are to better foreign relations, now watch as he actively uses and worsens Faerghus' foreign relations with Sreng for his own gain," or how him bringing up the war between Faerghus and the Alliance that happened centuries ago as an excuse to invade Faerghus now is ANOTHER thing that literally completely goes against the entire point of his character. Claude fans would of course obviously no-brainer know that these mutually exclusive traits between his 3H and Hopes renditions could totally for-realsies surely coexist and be consistent.

Although, ngl, I myself have said that it's mostly Edelgard fans that like this rendition of Claude. Not that there's no way a Claude fan couldn't at least find some things to enjoy about Hopes!Claude, but that it seems that a laaaarge majority of his fans are people who prefer the lady lord over him. And, well, it makes sense considering that a big thing a lot of Edelgard fans - not even just stans tbh - tended to do with Claude is just make him Edelgard's snarky yes-man who just mindlessly believes whatever it is she says... and, well, Clyde is either just a snarky yes-man to Edelgard who just mindlessly believes whatever it is she says, or he's getting chewed out/killed for going against her. Unless it's AG! ...where by the time Claude is having any part in the story Edelgard is no longer the actual threat anymore and is just a puppet of Thales. In the route where he doesn't ever actually directly confront her at any point. Clyde is almost a typical case of how Claude would be written in, like, an Edel///claude fic or something like that.

Man am I so glad for those leaks because if I had gone into GW completely blind like I intended to then OOF I would’ve been incomprehensibly pissed. Not just at the OOC writing, but, just, everything about it, once the second part hit - KNOWING about what happens with Faerghus and Sreng didn’t make actually sitting through it any more bearable, just because Clyde and the GD in general were such massive fucking penises to the people they were LITERALLY INVADING AND KILLING THE PEOPLE OF, so diving in without the heads up might’ve made me spontaneously combust. Without even going into how utterly against Claude’s character it is to do that in the first place, or the not-lowkey racist aspects of how certain things were handled, GW is such a sludge to play through if you’re paying even an iota of attention to the story.

I can definitely get the frustration in getting kinda the tug-of-war treatment from the fandom lmao, where Claude isn't so much Claude than he is "like Dimitri" or "like Edelgard" in this-or-that way. Now, I certainly understand - and partake in - the occasional comparison, just because there are some ways Claude is akin to/different from Dimitri and Edelgard that are genuinely interesting to me. But, like, to use your phrasing as an example: there's like, literally 0 people who ever say "if you like Dimitri in this way you like Claude." The other two aren't ever used as, like, a barometer or some shit to gauge whether you like Claude, while that is in fact how Claude ends up being used in the fandom a good bit of the time. Cuz apparently you can't, just, like, be a Claude fan or anything lmao.

In general Hopes made it... not the most fun to be a Claude fan :/ Glad I could give ya a place to vent because I know that there’s a lot to vent about lol

#ask #anon #Fire Emblem Warriors Three Hopes spoilers #Fire Emblem Warriors: Three Hopes spoilers #though just a slight correction: it was general bandits (affiliation unclear) who were posing as the Almyran navy #but whatever lol that's kind of a nitpick #Claude for all his flaws in his writing managed to avoid falling into the typical and shitty Invading Middle Eastern trope #through wanting to always resolve things with diplomacy first and violence last #even if he had planned on using less-than-honorable ways of going about that he still always went the route with the least bloodshed #so seeing Hopes throw that all away just so he can be obsessed with expanding his influence and invading others #is. um. Fucking Terrible. to say the least #and GOD to go back to the initial days of Hopes' leaks/release and see EVERYONE pretty much unanimously shit on Clyde #where all these ''BuT hE wAs AlWaYs LiKe ThIs GuYs'' peeps weren't nearly so prevalent/annoying/condescending #it'd be one thing if GW (and SB) were Like That if I could at least go to others to rant/vent about it #but now GW (and SB) exists AND there's tons of people who try their damndest to tell me that if I don't wholly accept Clyde with open arms #then I'm not a ''real'' fan of Claude #ugh. so fuckin' annoying man #also sorry if this response was all over the place lol #clyde discourse

[opencommunion]

incarcerated people are shutting down Alabama prisons and asking for your solidarity

Alabama prisons are the deadliest and most crowded prisons in the US. Their violence extends to gas chamber executions and illegal organ harvesting. The Alabama Department of Corrections (ADOC) is currently facing two federal lawsuits: one for enslaving Black detainees by denying them parole and leasing out their forced labor and another for targeting strike organizers. ADOC rakes in more than $450 million annually in profits from forced labor, and that's not including the profits incarcerated people generate for private corporations such as McDonald's and Raytheon. In response to these abuses, and in particular the horrific beating of six handcuffed detainees by Lt. Edmonds at Donaldson Prison on February 22nd, the Free Alabama Movement (FAM) has organized a minimum 90-day statewide prison shutdown/work stoppage. They are calling on supporters outside the prison walls to show solidarity. If you're located in or around Alabama, show up to the protest at St. Clair Prison in Springville, AL on Saturday March 2nd. For rideshare coordination contact the Tennessee Student Solidarity Network on IG or by email: [email protected] "Outside support for us starts at the prisons. That's where we need people. Come to one of the protests, show your face, and tell us that you support us. That's how we know that you support us. Outside support is the first step." - FAM

Everyone in the US, call Donaldson Prison at [phone] and ask them to fire Lt. Edmonds for his brutal violence against incarcerated people.

#action #prison abolition #turtle island

[fractalpathways]

If your boyfriend puts a gun to your cats head and threatens to kill them then you need to leave that relationship!

#vent #tw guns #the correct response to this situation is to immediately removed yourself and your animals as fast as possible. #dont stick with him for another year and a half he WILL NOT get better #trauma memories time! trauma memories time! #tw gun violence

[ursie]

Brennan’s statement on Palestine :

[ ID: Statement from Brennan Lee Mulligan, on Instagram. It consists of three black squares with plain white text. The text reads as follows:

"I'm calling on my government officials to immediately demand a ceasefire and de-escalation in Gaza.

I applaud anyone and everyone calling for peace, with the understanding that real peace only exists if it deeply and honestly accounts for and fully ends violence in all its forms. Real peace addresses and corrects wrong-doing in the past and guards against it in the future. It goes hand in hand with justice and requires truth, restoration, reconciliation, reparation.

Peace cannot co-exist with collective punishment, ethnic cleansing and forced displacement. It cannot co-exist with blockades, embargoes, or with 2.2 million people, half of which are children, trapped with no hope of escape or political recourse. it cannot co-exist with murdered journalists, bombed hospitals, or years of protesters being shot and killed at the border. it cannot co-exist with illegal settlements, segregated roads, and the silent, imperial chill that settles over the gaps in the violence - the unspoken geopolitical consensus that a group of people need to unflinchingly accept permanent subjugation and occupation.

My hear breaks for every Israeli person who lost loved ones during the attacks of October 7th. It breaks for every Ukrainian person who has lost their loved ones. It breaks for every Congolese person who has lost their loved ones. I do not speak on behalf of Palestinians now because some lives are worth more than others. I speak on their behalf because I, and all Americans, have a responsibility to pressure our government because we are responsible for this. Some have said that this situation is complicated. The Unites States government clearly disagrees. It has definitively, categorically, militarily chosen a side, and I do not agree with that decision.

In wiring this, I have been wrestling with what I am sure many people like me wrestle with: There is a powerful narrative surrounding violence in the Middle East that asserts and ever-moving goalpost of self-education and study in order to even be qualified to have an opinion. As someone with a love of research, I have at times in my life fallen into the trap that I am not educated enough clever enough, or aware enough to have a worthwhile perspective, and that three more articles and two more lectures and one more book will do the trick. Unfortunately, democracy doesn't work that way - we, the citizens of any democracy, cannot possibly be experts on every aspect of the policies of our governments, and yet if we do not constantly weigh in an make our voices heard, the entire experiment falls apart. Not only do people constantly doubt themselves and the things they can see with their own two eyes, but old shortcuts for political action can fall apart as well: This specific issue exists along a raw, charged and unique faultline in American Politics. Nobody I grew up with has ever challenged me on my support for abortion rights, LGBT rights, Black Lives Matter, anti-capitalism, anti-fascism, none of it. The people in my country who would despise me for those positions are, for all intents and purposes, strangers to me. But there are people who I've broken bread with and shared honest affection with who will see the words I've written here and incorrectly conclude that I do not wish for the security, dignity and happiness of them and their loved ones, and that breaks my fucking heart. Full-throatedly condemning the actions of the Israeli government while battling rampant anti-semitism at home is an urgent moral necessity, and doing so is made unnecessarily challenging for the average person to navigate by the pointed obfuscations of cynical opportunists, bigots, and demagogues on all sides of the political spectrum who see some advantage in sowing that incredibly dangerous confusion.

So, I'm calling my representatives. I'm having hard conversations with friends and family. I'm here, talking to you. I should have done it sooner. If you're Israeli and hurt by this statement, know that I want freedom, dignity, security and peace for you, and that every ounce of my political awareness believes whole-heartedly that the actions of your government are not only destroying innocent lives, but doing so to the detriment of you and your loved ones' safety. If you're American and feel lost and confused - I understand and empathize. This, the whole country, only works when we get involved. I am constantly haunted by the specter that maybe I missed some crucial piece of information on this, or any, important world event. I'll just have to make my peace with that self-doubt and trust my gut by going with Jewish Voice for Peace, Amnesty International, the Geneva Conventions, the United Nations, etc. And if you're Palestinian and reading this: I unreservedly support your right to life, to freedom, to happiness and human flourishing, to full enfranchisement and equal rights, to opportunity, prosperity and abundance, to the restoration of stolen property and land, and to a Free Palestine." End ID ]

#if anyone wants to do the id I will love you forever btw #brennan lee mulligan #d20 #dropout #free palestine #dimension 20 #I babble

[sunnami]

❝i am half-agony, half-hope. . . i have loved none but you.❞

summary: how the marauders loved you in their time. featuring harry potter the time-traveller and sixth-wheel.

pairing/s: poly!marauders x reader. (james potter x reader, lily evans x reader, remus lupin x reader, and sirius black x reader.)

tags: reader is referred to as she/her and a mother throughout the whole fic[!], reader is a violent gremlin who craves blood but the marauders love you for that, implied child abuse[!], mentions of blood and violence[!], disgustingly sappy poetic fluff, no angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like finnick odair, edited: very minor detail.

note: there is little plot, it’s just the marauders and their adoration for you. thank you all so much for your kind responses to my first marauders fic :(( ilysm! i hope you enjoy this one as well! because there are parts when i was writing that i ended up kicking my feet in the air and smiling to myself.

“MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER. I come from twenty-years in the future, you’re my mum — one of my ‘em, actually. It’s complicated. And you’re married to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black.” 

You blink. 

“Get the fuck out of my room!” 

Harry James Potter has dodged many things in his life. Killing curses, jinxes, girls, Draco Malfoy, and Dudley’s sloppy punches, but he’s never had to dodge his sixteen-year-old mother’s fuzzy slipper before. (Godric, that sounds weird, even in his head.) He doesn’t know precisely how he arrived here. In the Slytherin common room, to be exact, in your dorm. Harry remembers duelling with Death Eaters, Hermione calling his name, and a flash of light hitting him square in the chest, then he remembers waking up in the cold tiles of the snake dungeon. He nearly throws himself off the window when he meets your eyes, bleary from interrupted sleep — it’s not often he gets to meet [read: one of] his dead parents, after all, three had been brutally murdered by Voldemort, and one killed by his own loony cousin. He misses Sirius, though. A lot. And right about now, he could do with some of Hermione’s nagging and brilliant plan-making. 

At present — or past, Harry guesses — he watches you scramble out from your duvet, hand clumsily reaching for your wand as you snarl at him. He wonders if his mother knows that he’s encountered other creatures far more threatening than her. Oh shit, he realizes with all the forces of an angry Hermione Granger, isn’t this the last thing he’s supposed to do? But, well, Harry has given, and given, so much of himself all for the greater good — just this once, he’d like to see his parents alive and well. Even if they were currently trying to blast him into the walls. 

“If you’d just let me explain, mum—!” Harry pleads, nearly dropping his glasses after dodging one of your stinging hexes. Godric, you’re crazy. “Please!” 

“Stop calling me that!” You screech, eyes set ablaze.  Harry finds that you’re quite dynamic with your attacks. A hairbrush, followed by a stinging jinx, then a thick History of Magic textbook — which rudely hits him in the face, but he doesn’t dare complain because you’re his mother, and he’s respectful like that — and after you’ve exhausted your breath, running him into a corner, and your nostrils flare with the stubbornness of a lion, you point the tip of your wand at him. “If this is another one of the Prewett’s shitty pranks, I want you to leave! You are in the girls’ dormitory beyond midnight, and so help me, if you aren’t walking out that door in the next five seconds, I will kill you and string you up by your bottoms for everyone in school to see! Maybe all your stupid rumours of me being a Death-Eater might come true after all!” 

“You’re a Death-Eater?” Harry asks dumbly. 

You growl furiously, and Harry figures that was not the right thing to say. “I wonder what McGonagall would say if I delivered your head to her on a silver platter.” 

“Professor,” Harry corrects with a toothy grin. “Professor McGonagall.” 

You slam his head against the wall.

Definitely the wrong thing to say. 

Harry groans, little Dobby heads floating around his vision. Why was this so much harder than actually facing Voldemort? Quick, he needed to think of something, otherwise he’d end up eviscerated to ashes on your cold, stone floors. Harry is pretty sure you’d use his remains as decoration to send off a message to your enemies. 

“You hate your father,” Harry slurs through the pain, remembering Remus’s stories of how you were the gentlest magical being he’s ever had the privilege to love — now that Harry thinks about it, Remus was being extremely biased, nothing about you is gentle at all. “He’s forcing you to marry someone old enough to be your grandfather. You love to read Muggle literature but had to stop when your father burnt your whole collection of books. Your favorite novel is Persuasion by Jane Austen. It’s the one book you carry with you everywhere, you could never get tired of it.”  

Your grip on his shoulders falters, but the fury in your eyes crackles. “This isn’t funny.” 

“It’s not meant to be funny, mum,” Harry croaks, voice cracking pathetically — strange how this is the most he’s ever uttered the word, mum; it’s a peculiar string of letters, foreign on his tongue. “You have tremors in your left leg from when your father cast the Cruciatus curse on you. One of your dearest friends is a Hogwarts house-elf named Pipley. You cheated on your Transfiguration essay once, and—” 

“That’s enough!” You bark, eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “I don’t know where you heard those from, you creepy, little stalker, but if you want to keep breathing, then I suggest you shut up.” 

Harry scoffs — you don’t understand. Everything he’s learned about you is from Sirius and Remus. They talk about you with whispered devotion, your name like a prayer on their lips, their eyes glazed with wistfulness as though they could see you reaching out for them — but you were dead in Harry’s time. Yet, you might as well have been alive with their tales of you. 

(“She’s a different kind of beautiful,” Sirius had said, a year after breaking out from Azkaban, sitting by the fire in Grimmauld Place, taking a swig of decade-old firewhiskey, “The kind of beautiful you don’t want to take your eyes off from because you’re afraid she’ll disappear from your eyes. But you won’t forget her, oh no, you’ll memorize the freckles and moles on her skin, the scars from her years, the light in her eyes, and the way she holds her head up high. You should have seen her, James, she. . . she was — is glorious.”) 

“I told you,” says Harry firmly — although he loves his mother very much, she’s beginning to wear him out, “My name is Harry James Potter, I come from twenty-years in the future. You are one of my parents.” A lightbulb flashes in his head. He squirms in your hold, reaching for his robe pocket until he finds the thing he’s looking for. Harry dangles the ring in front of you, grinning in success when your eyes flash in recognition. “It’s—” 

“A family heirloom,” You say breathlessly. The alexandrite winks under the light, a familiar gold band with the Latin inscription of your House words. “Where did you steal this from?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “You left it for me in my Gringotts vault. It’s my heirloom now. You have to believe me, there’s no way you can deny this.” 

You take a step backwards, nibbling on your lower lip, as you stagger to your bed — Harry nearly stumbling to catch you in case you fell; adjusting to the living proof of time travel was quite difficult, he, of all people, should know. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Magic, amirite?” 

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches gracefully thanks to his Seeker reflexes, as you plop down in the comforts of your quilts. “Sleep. The other girls won’t be back until the end of the holiday. We can deal with whatever this is in the morning. It’s way too early for me to process the idea of a future Potter spawn following me around.” 

Harry smiles. “Yes, mum.” 

ONE THING THAT his fathers failed to tell him about you, and that Harry had to learn himself, was that you took ages to get ready. You sat on the chair in front of your vanity mirror, the birch wood legs whittled with snakes, and it was as though you had a Sticking Charm on the cushion. Harry didn’t know there could be so many creams, oils, and serums, and powders one put on their face. He blanches when you turn to offer him a cream for his under eyes. (“Suit yourself.” You shrug, turning to brush your cheek with dusts of pink. “Just saying, those dark circles aren’t doing you any favors.”)

“What am I like in the future?” You ask, a kind lilt to your voice, much like a warm hug, much like home. 

Harry stiffens, shoving his hands in pockets of the robes that were twice his size — you had given him the garments of Lucius Malfoy to change in, which you apparently had stolen from his room. It’s come full circle, really, the Sorting Hat had once told him he would be great in Slytherin, and now here he was, looking fabulous in green — because he was about to hurl at the feel of the velvet on his skin, knowing slimy Lucius Malfoy had worn it. (“No son—” You pause with a tight purse in your lips, as if you still can’t accept the fact. Harry doesn’t blame you. “—no son of mine will be parading around in red of all colors, future or not.” And Harry finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as you call him your son.)  

“Loved,” replies Harry gruffly, avoiding your eyes in the reflection of your mirror — they were piercing. One look and Harry wanted to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He remembers the photographs in his album, the one he’s stared at so many times as a child. It’s a moving photograph of the five of you, fresh out of Hogwarts, each wearing a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. Before Sirius and Remus, it was the only semblance of proof that Harry had — that you had once been alive. Remus is holding you by the waist in the picture, twirling you around as autumn leaves fell. You were — are — loved, and Harry thinks there’s no better description than that. 

(“I bloody hated her cat,” says Remus with a roguish quirk to his lips, regalling Harry with more talks of his parents. “Sirius, too. We just never got along with the little creature. But your mother loved it, and we would have done anything to make her happy. She deserved it, you see. She deserved more than what I had to offer her, but still she chose me anyway. And I am a selfish man, Harry, I crave glimpses of her and the whispers of her voice. She has made me a mad man whose only reprieve is her touch.”) 

You hum knowingly. “Stupid question, I guess. Since you aren’t allowed to reveal anything more about the future.” You sigh, gracefully threading your arms in the sleeves of your shirt, a green tie in the center of your collar. “Except, of course, when you gave me a heart attack in the middle of the night by telling me the last thing I want to become — no offense, I just don’t see how a relationship with those rowdy bunch would work. They get on my nerves far too much for me to ever feel anything other than disgust.” 

Harry doesn’t need a mirror to see that his expression has contorted in confusion; brows knitted and upper lip crinkled. By their memories of you, you all were madly in love in Hogwarts. Damn. This just made his trip to the past a lot harder. No maze seems to be ever just a maze. 

Luckily, you don’t notice him brewing a grand master plan to bring his parents together. Instead, you say, “But you don’t seem to be phased by any of this. If I had been thrown twenty years into the past, I would have puked my guts out twice at some point.” 

“Thanks for the image,” says Harry with a scowl. Truthfully, it had either been a present with a noseless Dark Lord to face, trauma to unpack but really never have the chance to, or a past where all of his parents were alive, and a chance to talk with them for however long he has. He knows where he’ll be staying, thank you very much. 

“Anytime,” You reply with an impish smile. 

Your heels pad across the floor as you walk over to him, mouth clicking as you pat the top of his head, full of wild, untameable Potter hair. “You need a trim soon,” You mutter, frowning, as you brush the thick strands away from his eyes, then you gasp — and Harry knows exactly what’s coming next. “Oh, you’ve got Evans’s eyes. That’s freaky.” 

“I know.” Harry grins. 

“Here’s the plan,” You say as you lead him out of your room, making sure no one saw him walking out of your door and getting the wrong impression — because that would be so wrong on many levels, but also, explaining to someone else that the person beside you was a time-traveller was just complicated in general. The Slytherin dungeon is unfamiliarly familiar, eerily quiet, as the two of you made your way out. “Just say you’re Potter’s distant relative, twice or thrice removed, and you’ve always been here. If you lie to their faces enough, they’ll believe it eventually.” 

“Will that work?” Harry doesn’t really mind — he needs a connection to James, his father, if he’s going to work out a connection between you and the others, because at the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of them. There’s a tick on your jaw every time you mumble the word, Potter. Nevertheless, Harry decides he’s going to spend the duration of the holiday break trying to set you up with them — on the list of most insane things he’s ever done, living out the Parent Trap was high up the tally. 

You shrug. “They’ve fallen for less.” 

(“She’s got this adorable habit when she lies,” Sirius tells Harry, whipping up a stack of pancakes for their breakfast — Remus browsing through the morning paper. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a normal family. “It’s not obvious to her, of course, but I know her more than I know my own name. So we play along with it.” For a moment, he stops drizzling the maple syrup on the well-cooked batter, gazing at Remus fondly. “D’you remember that, Moony? She led us straight to one of her pranks, and we ended up covered in slug slime. She was so obvious — with her adorable fucking giggles. I need help with Charms, she said, and we knew right away it was a set-up. But it didn’t matter. I’d happily let her lead me to my ruin.”)  

The Great Hall is the same as Harry remembers. Now that most have returned home for the holidays, those who stay back mingle with students from other Houses, sharing meals under the bewitched ceiling, their low murmurs and hushed Christmas greetings bouncing off the walls. Harry scours the four tables to find a hint of blazing red hair, or the scent of impending trouble. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to search very far. As fate would have it, James Potter finds you — and where he is, Sirius Black is sure to follow. 

You’re barely seated when James comes bounding over to your table — more precisely, he struts, and Harry is horrified to ever be proven wrong by Snape, of all people. He ignores the roll of your eyes as he drags a leg over the bench, sitting to face you as Sirius occupies the space to your left before Harry can even sit down. He can’t even fathom how weird it is to see his parents as rambunctious teenagers. Lovesick, rambunctious teenagers. 

“Morning, dove.” James preens under your glare, stealing a grape from your bowl with a boyish smirk. His hair looks as though he’s ran his hand through it many times. “You look ravishing today.” 

“As always,” Sirius pipes in. “But that eyeshadow really isn’t complementing your skin tone, my darling.” 

You smile at him, right before your lips twist into a cutthroat sneer. “Piss off, Black.”

James stifles a laugh as he shovels a mass of potatoes on your plate, then pumpkin pasties, and slides a steaming cup of Dragon Well tea in front of you. 

“What the hell are you doing, Potter?” You reach over to smack his arm when he sprinkles apple slices and bacon on your breakfast. 

“What does it look like?” James smiles lopsidedly. “You need to eat more, honey.”

(In the future, Sirius will tell Harry, “It started off as a joke, a way to get on her nerves — but then, it just became this thing about taking care of her, making sure she got enough sleep before her tests, wondering if she had breakfast or dinner, staying with her in the library, walking her to the Slytherin common room, and sending her stupid notes just to make her laugh. You don’t get it, Harry. I’d give my every breath to ensure her life. We all would.” Harry doesn’t see Sirius any more during that evening, but he hears a bottle crashing against a wall, cracking into a million pieces, and the masked sound of Sirius sobbing, and Harry decides to leave him alone for the night.) 

Then, you tear your eyes away from James — he huffs, pushing your plate to you, mildly annoyed that you’ve deprived him of your eyes; they were his favorite part of you, you see, so expressive and full of life; James thinks you put the stars to shame — and thankfully, you remember that Harry still exists. You lightly smack Sirius’s leg until he gives Harry some room to sit. “Potter, meet other Potter. It’s the holidays, shouldn’t it be the perfect time to let go of House prejudices and spend time with family?” 

James looks at Harry up and down. “You must be from dad’s side of the family with all that hair.” 

Harry lets out a breath of relief. That was easy — way too easy. When he takes the vacant space in between you and Sirius, you dump all the available food on his plate, just as James had done for you. 

“Eat,” You say with a tone of finality. “You look like the wind could snap you in half.” 

“Yes, m—” Harry stops himself before he could finish his sentence, avoiding Sirius’s curious gaze. 

“Wow.” Sirius pokes Harry in the shoulder and in the cheek. “You really look like a mini-James, you’ve even got his terrible eyesight.” 

“Oi!” 

Your fork clatters against the silverware as you turn to Sirius with a shrill. “Not that I do enjoy your company — because, trust me, I do not want you here at all and would very much prefer if you got out of my sight — but why are you here? The Gryffindor table is over there. Unless your housemates finally got sick of you, Potter, which I can definitely see happening.” 

James chuckles, tossing another grape in his mouth without taking his eyes off you. “It’s as you said, isn’t it? It’s the time for putting aside House prejudices. And I think it’s a lovely day to enjoy a meal with my favorite snake.” 

“Drop dead,” You retort, digging into your chicken with a little more force than necessary. 

“Oh, dove.” James shakes his head, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “It’s cute that you think death will keep me from you.” 

(Harry’s been told before, probably by Sirius, that this line had been wedged into his wedding vows for you. “A dramatic one, James was,” Sirius chuckles to himself one morning, Harry and Hermione listening intently, “He always said he’d rather die than ever hurt her. There was this time in seventh year, they had a fight — it was ugly — and she had ignored him for a week. James cried in Remus’s arms begging him to cut his heart out, saying that he didn’t deserve to keep on breathing, not after making you cry.”) 

“That is so creepy,” You say in disgust, scrunching your nose. Sirius chortles at your side. “I still wonder why Evans agreed to go out with you.” 

“It’s all part of the charm, dove.” James winks. “It’s all part of the charm.” 

Harry wants to barf, actually.

After breakfast, James then decides to introduce Harry to Lily, Remus, and Peter. (He’s gonna need the patience of a saint to not Avada Kedavra that rat on the spot.) Harry had spent the whole morning watching Sirius peel oranges and give them to you with a smitten look in his eyes — naturally, you gave whatever Sirius offered you to Harry, and each time Padfoot would visibly wilt. If he were in his Animagus form, Harry thinks he would be whining by now, tongue out and all. James and Sirius follow after you like lost puppies when you extricate yourself from the table.

“Where are you going?” James calls, hot on your heels as you leave the Great Hall.

“Away from you, Potter!” 

And James actually sighs when you turn the corner and disappear from their peripheral vision. Seconds later, he turns to Harry with a blinding smile, “She’s definitely charmed.”

Harry chortles.

“Well, come on then!” James guffaws as he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck — this is so, so strange. They begin walking in the opposite direction of where you went. “I still can’t believe we’ve got another Potter here and in Slytherin. I think I would have remembered Minnie calling your name during the Sorting Ceremony. What year are you in?” 

He’s supposed to start his sixth-year in a few weeks. “Fifth.” Technically. 

“We should ask Lily,” says Sirius, hands in his pockets and ebony ringlets tickling his nape. “She’s got the best memory out of all of us.”

It’s odd, Harry thinks, meeting the person who’s got his eyes — or the other way around, as people have told him. It’s like someone carved out the emeralds of Lily Evans’s eyes and bestowed it upon Harry for safekeeping. She sits beside Remus Lupin, head resting on his shoulder, hands clasped together, as they enjoy the shade. Nex to them, oblivious to their intimate conversation, is Peter Pettigrew — with his rosy, cherub cheeks and innocent blue eyes; not at all the image of a pathological, cowardly liar. Their heads snap in attention as James boisterously cries for their name. 

“Marauders — and Lily-pad — meet ickle Potter.” James lightheartedly whacks Harry on the back, to which Harry feels his lungs spill out from his mouth, he’s sure there’s an imprint of his father’s hand on his back now. 

“There’s two Potters in Hogwarts?” Sea-green eyes look at him in scrutiny as Lily knits her brows. “How even is the castle still standing?” 

James cackles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard in his entire life, slapping his knee for dramatic effect. Oh, well, at least they’re buying Harry’s half-baked lie. At this point, it’s not even baked, it’s just wet, soggy, and poorly done. “Good one, Lily-pad!”

Sirius ruffles Remus’s shaggy blonde hair, canines bared in a wide grin. “This one here’s Moony, uptight prefect in the morning and absolute beast in the evening.” 

Harry blanches. Surely he was talking about his furry problem, right? Right? 

Remus doesn’t even flinch, just peels off Sirius’s hand from him and extends his hand out to Harry. “Please do not mind him. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you. Although, I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met. We would have definitely remembered if we had another Potter in our midst.” 

“It’s true, we Potters are just hard to forget,” says James, smiling cheekily. 

Harry pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Mum didn’t take the Potter name. I’m part Dursley. Muggle.” 

Lily hums, toying at the ends of her bright hair. “Dursley, huh? What a familiar name.” 

“It’s a common one,” Harry assures her — not at all the names of the people who would take him in after they died. And make his life miserable. 

“I suppose you’re right,” says Lily, unconvinced. 

“And this is Peter.” James introduces the boy eagerly, pride in his voice — as though this isn’t the person who literally allies himself with Voldemort. As if Peter won’t betray his friends all because of fear. 

“N–Nice to meet you,” Peter stammers with a nervous fidget, “Any family of James is a friend of ours.” 

Harry’s eye twitches. 

IT IS ALMOST COMICAL — the way their eyes land on your figure, bursting through the courtyard from the corridors, winter cloak swishing with every step, tendrils of hair swaying in the crisp wind, and head held up high, thick books under your arms. You pause in front of the Marauders, face blank, then you turn to Peter, greeting him with a: “Hello, only Gryffindor I can tolerate.” 

Peter’s cheeks burn a saccharine hue of pink. Oh, no, no, no — absolutely not — Harry will not stand for a little crush Peter Pettigrew has on his mother. He needs James to act now. “Hi,” Peter replies shyly. 

Lily quirks her lips. “Hello, princess, see your score for the Astronomy test yet?”

You scowl. “Zip it, Evans.” 

The sound of Lily’s laughter fills the atmosphere — it’s the sort of melody that makes flowers bloom in deserts. “Had a bit of difficulty with the star charts?” 

Sirius pinches your cheek — Harry thinks you’re going to murder him on the spot. “Difficulty? I think this one just slept through the whole thing.” 

James snickers. “Must have been one hell of a nap, princess. You were drooling on my jumper.” 

“I most certainly do not drool!” You gasp, appalled, eyes wide as you step away from Sirius.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Is drooling too barbaric for the pretty, little pure-blooded princess now? Newsflash, pet, you’re just as human as we are.” 

“Oh, you horrible, loathsome, infuriating—” You whip around to beat his chest with the course book in your grasp — it’s the kind of book Hermione would consider for light reading. 

“Irresistibly attractive—?” Sirius supplies for you, grin widening with as he captures your wrist with his hands. 

“In your dreams!” You shrill. 

You exhale slowly, eyes closing, chest rising when you take a sharp inhale. You open your eyes and stare straight at Harry — for a moment he fears that you’ll bite his head off. “Harry, dear, will you accompany me to the library? I think I’ve found something important regarding your situation.” 

Harry nods. “Is it time already?” 

“Yes,” You say firmly. “And time is of the essence. Come on.” 

“Wait!” Lily calls out to you as you turn to head back to the castle, Harry in tow — he tries to avoid the way James is glaring at your linked arms. “Hogsmeade next week?” 

Your jaw falls to the ground — this must have been unrehearsed, if the others’ reactions were anything to go by; Remus had dropped his book in shock, Sirius looked like he couldn’t decide between applauding Lily’s bravery or shaking her, and James was somehow frozen in time. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re excused, princess,” says Lily, dimples poking out of her cheek as she takes another step towards you. “You, me, Hogsmeade. A date. I’m sure you’ve gone on one of those before.” 

Harry elbows your stomach as you stare at Lily in shock. It takes a few moments to break you out of your stupor. “A–And what makes you think I’ll just go with you?” 

Lily shrugs. “I’m fit. Aren’t I, Remus?” 

“The fittest,” says Remus without missing a beat. 

You laugh incredulously. “Do you just expect me to go along with this? You’re mad, Evans.” 

Harry glares at you. You need to go along with this. 

“Are you scared, princess?” Lily’s face is inches away from yours, noses almost touching — Harry doesn’t know if he should keep watching this painful way of flirting — as she grins at you, happiness barely contained within her eyes. 

To your credit, you don’t back down. (Harry has to say this for the masses: he saw your gaze flitter down to Lily’s lips for a split second.) “Stop calling me that, Evans.” 

“One date, then.” 

You growl in exasperation, eyes flickering to the boys behind her back — pretending not to hear their conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with them as well?” 

Lily beams and Harry swears sunflowers could grow in her direction. “We’re a package deal.” 

“Unfortunately,” You utter — but Harry notices it, the lack of venom in your voice. You straighten your posture, nose lifted haughtily, “I choose where we’re going.” 

“Done.” The sun peeks out from the cloud just as Lily smiles at you. 

“And I want to—” 

“Done,” Remus interjects raspily, peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “Anything you want, it’s yours.” 

You fight a growing smile, but continue, “If we’re going out in public, you’re going to have to wear—” 

“Done,” says James giddily, he looks as though he could kiss you in front of everyone without a care in the world.  

“You can’t just agree to anything I say!” You flap your arms in frustration. 

“Yes, dear,” Sirius teases. 

“Do you know how much you piss me off, Black?” You squawk. “Because you are this close to—”

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Sirius confesses, every pretense shed raw from his skin, sincerity pouring from his words. 

“I—” You falter, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ve gone mad.” 

“It’s your fault, dove,” says James, eyes twinkling like crescent moons as he smiles. “You best take accountability for this.” 

“You’re incorrigible — all of you,” You say as you avoid their gazes.

(But they were yours. Past, present, and future. They loved you so much that their soul was no longer their own — it was yours; yours to keep, yours to break, and yours to love. It would be unjust to ask them why they loved you. Do we ask why the sun rises each day without rest? Do we ask a daisy to stop blooming, or a tree to stop growing after it has endured storms and floods? After all, we do not ask why humans follow the light in a tunnel shrouded in darkness.) 

“Come on, Harry, let’s go.” You reach for his hand, he notices immediately that the tips of your ears are pink, and your palms are warm with sweat. He barely sees Peter wave goodbye before you tug him in the direction of the castle entrance. 

“Wait up!” Remus catches up to you two in quick strides, offering to carry your books for you — not that you agree, stubborn Slytherin that you are. “I’ll walk you to the library.” 

“There’s no need for that, Lupin, thank you.” You dodge his eyes, lips tightly pressed together, nails slightly digging into Harry’s arm. 

“Remus,” He says with a twinkle. “Call me Remus.” 

“Alright.” You pause. “Remus.” 

(In that moment, Remus wonders if you remember decking Lucius Malfoy in the face to defend him in your fourth year. He didn’t think he deserved to even breathe in the same air as you — the pure-blooded princess, dressed in clothing worth more than his life, adorned in jewelry he could only dream to afford, raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Then, you beat up Evan Rosier the next month in the courtyard, eyes ablaze, extravagant silk marred with grass stains and mud, and knuckles split open. You spit blood on the ground, looking at Lily then back at Rosier. “Red,” You say, kicking him one last time in the stomach, unafraid of McGonagall’s wrath growing louder and louder. “Just like everyone else. Like those Muggleborns you fear. We’ve all got dirty blood, Rosier. Suck it up.” 

“I’ll tell your father about this!” Rosier bellows through bloody teeth. 

“Tell him!” You grab his neck and slam your forehead against his. “Tell him that I decide my own future now!”

Remus doesn’t even have to think about it. 

He falls in love.) 

FUNNILY ENOUGH, IT’S LILY who gives you her heart first, before anyone else does. It’s the last month of her first year at Hogwarts — it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet that she was a witch. Her, not Petunia, but her — Lily Evans, the witch. Apparently, some people can’t believe it either. A girl from Ravenclaw calls her this foul word, she’s heard it a few times now but it always hurts the same. James and Sirius get into a fight for her honor, now faced with detention later this evening. But she can’t help but wonder, what if they were right? What if she really didn’t belong in this world? It was too good to be true, anyway. Perhaps she’ll just run a flower boutique with Petunia.

“Oi.” 

The sound of your voice startles her, and she nearly topples over in the Great Lake. Lily catches sight of your Slytherin colors and resigns herself to another round of name-calling. “What do you want?” 

“They’re wrong, you know,” You tell her, ignoring Lily’s question. You look down on her with your nose raised arrogantly — she wishes she could be like you. Born to be magic. “You’ve got a terrifying brain locked up in your head there, Evans. And they know it, too. They’re scared.” 

Lily scoffs. “I’m just a Mudblood to them. There’s nothing to be intimidated by.” 

You sneer. “Don’t say that word. You’re more than that. More than them. They’ve got long ways to go to prove they have a place in this world. But you — you’ve defied the odds and you were destined to become magic. You don’t have to prove anything. You have the right to be in the wizarding world and no one can take that away from you.” 

Then, you pivot on your heels, not bothering to hear her reply. “You’re my rival now, Evans. Do keep up. We’ve got an Astronomy test tomorrow. I look forward to seeing how you do then.” 

Lily just gapes. She’s certain there’s butterflies in her stomach. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribcage. Lily raises her hands to feel her blushing cheeks. There’s a light unfamiliar sensation in her stomach — like the urge to kick her legs and scream into a pillow, or more precisely, chase after you and hold your hand.

She stiffens.

Oh.

part two

#hp angst #hp fluff #hp imagine #hp x reader #james potter x reader #lily evans x reader #marauders angst #marauders fluff #marauders imagine #marauders x reader #sirius black x reader #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders fluff #remus lupin x reader

[tiredguyswag]

one of those masterposts for Sudan 🇸🇩

Disclaimer: I am not Sudanese, and am in no way an expert on the ongoing crisis. Corrections, if any, are welcome.

LAST UPDATED: 26th April 2024 [Please try to reblog the original post as much as possible]

~

So what's going on in Sudan? Sudan was under the rule of the military dictator Omar Al-Bashir for thirty years. He came to power through a military coup in June 1989. His rule saw extreme economic decline, repression, and conflict. In the December of 2018, a democratic revolution began that eventually overthrew the dictatorship on April 11, 2019, and saw the beginning of a military rule by militant parties SAF (Sudanese Armed Forces) and RSF (Rapid Support Forces). This unrest is, of course, funded by western governments.

On the 15th of April, 2023, fighting broke out in Khartoum between the SAF and RSF. Clashes spread across the nation of Sudan, and the civilian populace is still caught in the middle. According to UN officials, Sudan is in “one of the worst humanitarian nightmares in recent history."

There is an ongoing war in Sudan, and it's getting worse. There is a health crisis along with the humanitarian crisis as well: around 2/3rds of the population do not have access to healthcare services. Around 15-20 millions suffer from hunger. There are 70 non-operational healthcare facilities in conflict zones. Thousands killed, millions displaced, and a dramatic increase in sexual violence and rape cases.

~

Links for Learning Resources:

Hadhreen: Hadhreen started as an initiative by a small group of Sudanese youth in 2015. Since its inception it continued to work in a variety of sectors, most notably Emergency response, health, and in supporting vulnerable groups.

Talk About Sudan: Learn more about what's happening in Sudan and actions you can take. Also has donation links for those who are able.

Keep Eyes On Sudan: A website run by Sudanese diaspora to amplify the calls of the Sudanese people. Has donation links, actions you can take, upcoming protests and events, resources, FAQs, etc.

#SudanSyllabus.docx: An extensive and well-sourced document, providing English language resources about Sudanese history. It's really long and has got lots of links to books, articles, and more. Curated by Razan Idris.

Human Rights Watch

~

Donation Links:

List of verified charities providing humanitiarian assistance in Sudan

Help Sudan Tarada Initiative: The aim is to deliver emergency basic needs, food and medicine. Funds will be transferred directly to local charities and organization who are managing those shelters to make sure that the funds are well received and is spent on the needs specified.

One Million Sustainable Pads Campaign: Fundraiser to help provide women in IDPs camps with reusable pads

Zubeyda Adam and family (Sudan)

Our home bombarded and destroyed

Help my family escape Sudan's war

Save a transperson in african Refugee camp from starvation [Unsure about the legibility of this one since its not from the person themself, but if someone can verify this for me that would be great]

Hope For Sudan

Darfur Women Action

Doctors Without Borders

Fill A Heart: Financial Assistance to Sudanese Hospitals

Hometax: Sudan Relief

Cairo Sudan Aid

Amal For Women

Sudan Solidarity Collective

Sadagaat

UNICEF

~

These are all the links I have so far. Please spread awareness about Sudan! Let me know if there are any links I should add to the post and I will update it.

#lamp.txt #free sudan #eyes on sudan #sudan #keep eyes on sudan #sudan crisis #sudan genocide #hall of fame

[faolonfiendrender]

#correct response #violence #arson

[ginalinettiofficial]

also. while i’m ranting about stupid shit in the tumblr tags.

#d speaks #another thing that’s slightly annoying me rn #which is 100% a me problem ofc #is this fic i’m reading #i’ve loved this whole series and all the other chapters #but then this character just had a slightly violent/aggressive meltdown #which is fully acknowledged as being a meltdown. and was triggered by some HEAVY stuff #and like. in the middle of the ‘comfort’ in this hurt/comfort… they had the person who was comforting them #say shit like jsyk you’re not gonna be punished because punishment is bs (valid) but your behavior WAS unacceptable and you need to apologiz #which is BEEP NO WRONG NOT VALID ACTYALLY!!!! like. hooo that made me big mad. it was said in the most kind/‘this is right’ way #and like. i can tell that the fic is gonna continue on with that being the correct response to the situation #which just makes me a little bit sick to my stomach!!! esp because the character was ALREADY EXPRESSING DEEP REMORSE #like absolutely fucking not !!!! miss me with that!!!! #idk maybe i’m just very triggered by a very clear depiction of an autistic meltdown being labeled ‘unacceptable’ #like yes violence is wrong and saying mean things and throwing shit is wrong. #and yes impact > intent #but like. when there’s no control to be had like there isn’t ANY intent because the actions taken were fully not in that persons control #yes it’s important to focus on the impact absolutely but also???? shaming someone for it is just. not it #idk i can’t words right but. having dealt w meltdowns as caregiver??? it’s not fucking okay to criticize the child about what they did #ESPECIALLY not during the immediate aftermath/when they’re still coming down/don’t have space from it yet #like it’s one thing to say something the next day under the context of like. hey so let’s discuss what happened and how we can prevent it #and deal with issues caused by it. and maybe even say like let’s make a plan for a healthy physical manifestation of aggression if you need #but to just straight up say ‘btw your behavior was unacceptable’ is just wrong!!! just wrong #anyways i had a dream about M & C last night actually (M is the boy who used to have big meltdowns w aggression) #so maybe i’m also extra sensitive to this rn #because yea ofc we don’t want to say it’s okay to throw or break shit or lash out verbally. but also??? it is NECESSARY to acknowledge that #that shit is often happening at a base level with no conscious decision making coming into play??? and therefore isn’t something to critique #like okay here’s what it is. it’s like when parents blame a kid for wetting the bed while asleep. they’re asleep they weren’t in control #their body was doing instinctual shit and that’s not their fault and it’s not something they deserve to be guilted over #and this i think occupies a very similar space in terms of like. the mindset you need to have when discussing it after the fact

[targaryenluvs]

— CHARITY

pairing: dark!president!coriolanus snow x fem!wife!reader

summary: president snow was praised for his love and devotion to his wife, a cripple. if only they knew how you’d ended up that way.

warnings: violence, basically torture, unhinged coryo, obsession, forced marriage, short fic

a/n: based on this request, this is actually insane

what an angel he is.

the capitol viewed your dear husband as nothing short of a saint. an amazing president, an even better husband. of course they all knew about you, his dear wife, the one who swept him off his feet.

the start of your marriage was torture enough for you, having been forced into it by your parents. all they could talk about was what a sweet man coriolanus was. how accomplished he was. it didn’t matter what he’d been in the past, he had built himself up again and he was undeniably coveted by many. you should be thanking him for choosing you.

yet you couldn’t help but feel annoyed.

you’d already told him you weren’t interested. you weren’t charmed by the copious amounts of gifts he’d sent your way. the poetry books that you were sure you’d never talked about to anyone else, only written of in your journals and read at home. the pretty dresses and jewellery but the only gift you’d accept of coriolanus’s was his absence from your life.

and he couldn’t handle it so he went over your head and enticed your parents.

you hated him with your whole soul and every bone in your body whilst he worshipped you. “you look gorgeous, fit to be my wife.” you stood in front of him, hand in hand, wedding dress donned and ready to marry.

you wanted to punch him in the face yet you held your breath, and smiled at him as well as the guests, of which you knew only a few. he kept you restricted, as if on lockdown in your own home. he was like a leech, feeding in your happiness and you’d been sucked dry. coriolanus was the worst possible thing that could’ve happened to you and you wouldn’t let him win.

so you ran.

you’d made it about a few steps down the street before his sleek black car pulled up, his driver walking around to you whilst you backed up, all the way against the tall, black bars of your home. prison.

“did you think you’d get far? that i’d let you? you are my wife, my responsibility, you are here for me. i was trying so hard to give you space, to let you adjust and you took advantage of my generosity.” his words were filled with spite, each word piercing your skin.

he was truly insane.

“generosity? generosity? you forced me into a marriage and expect me to kneel down and kiss your feet for this? for me to not fight back? i have never loved you nor will i coriolanus.” you were a cornered animal, only being able to lash out, bad mistake. the sun reflected off of the crowbar in his hand, twirled between his hands as he stepped out of the car, you were shrinking into yourself whilst he grew taller.

a selfish man stealing the oxygen you needed, the freedom, and now, your abilities.

“how many times must i correct you, it’s coryo darling.”

the unspeakable pain broke your heart, your throat raw from the shrieking and screaming. eyes stinging at the touch of a hand, puffy and sore. blood drawn from your lips tasted metallic and odd, yelling seemed to do nothing so you resorted to biting down on anything.

he’d shattered your legs.

you’d never walk again.

you’d have to rely on him.

you were confined to a wheel chair for your life.

he now controlled where you went.

you’d never be able to move on your own.

in your desperation to escape you’d overlooked and underestimated coriolanus’s obsession for you. he knew the second you’d stepped out of the home, either he was waiting for it or was always ready to come home. whether it was a trap or just bad luck, you were stuck.

most of panem viewed your husband to be an absolute angel, he could have remarried, he could have turned you away yet he stuck by your side, ever the supportive partner. how lucky you were! the rest of them saw you as a chore, someone undeserving, unable to provide for your family. he was a nice man.

you were just charity.

#hunger games x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x fem!reader #dark!coriolanus snow x fem!reader #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #yandere!coriolanus snow #yandere coriolanus snow x reader #hunger games fic

[yourheart-inmyhands]

My brain is acting up again 😭

Yan! Diluc, Zhongli (I swear I love this man) and Dottore having a conversation with their darling and out of nowhere they spill facts about how to hide a body or make it decompose faster.

If they ask how they know they just chuckle and continue their conversation.

They got it from Reddit fr 💀

- Weird anon ✨

ah i am also obsessed with death and decomposition, with a good mix of anatomy, though i try to avoid just finding random facts, i buy textbooks and research books about the topics to further my knowledge on the subjects :3c

Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including obsessive behaviors, mentions of violence, lots of talk about death and facts about death, creepy behavior, as well as other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!

Diluc:

He finds it amusing at first, not really commenting on it and simply letting it be. Soon enough though he starts sharing facts of his own, making minor corrections or suggestions to the ones you bring up. Sometimes he even adds on to what you already have, changing the course of the conversation momentarily.

It’s not talked about often but Diluc is no longer allowed in Snezhnaya for a reason, he’s seen more than his fair share of bloodshed and has no problem offering you better suggestions than what you previously thought to be best. 

He makes a little game out of it, even going as far as to offer to test your claims. Diluc doesn’t see the harm in it, if anything he’s merely indulging in your interests, bonding with you over it. Strange as it is, he thinks it’s fun.

“Did you know the main reason why corpses smell so bad is because when people die, their bladder empties out?” Diluc chuckles at your question, the conversation shifting from possible dinner options to that of death was nothing new to him, yet it never failed to amuse him. “I did. Did you know it’s because when you die every muscle in your body relaxes, which means anything in your bowels is emptied out, no longer held back?” A bit of a tangent never hurts, especially not when it comes to a topic you seem so sporadically fascinated with. Diluc could sit here and watch you talk about this endlessly, the way your face suddenly lights up as you blurt out a random, off-topic fact. It was like seeing a kid walk into a candy store.

Zhongli:

Zhongli takes it a bit too seriously, often correcting you on common misconceptions or myths. He’s still lighthearted about it, but he doesn’t want his beloved darling to be in the wrong about this kind of thing.

He’d hate to see your spirit crushed by someone else, their offense to the sudden topic change springing up as a rebuttal. He’s simply protecting you this way, making sure that no one can challenge anything you say.

All his knowledge doesn’t come from nowhere though, so do keep that in mind should you ever try to challenge him on anything. Not only has he lived far longer than you, but he and his spear have seen, and done, many things

“Zhongli! Did you know that after death, your hair and fingers still grow for a short period of time?” Pausing mid-explanation, Zhongli processes what you said before smiling fondly at you. “No, my gem, they do not. It is actually the skin shrinking back from loss of moisture. That movement of the skin gives the appearance of the nails and hair growing.” Zhongli doesn’t falter even the slightest in his correction, merely stating it as if it were common knowledge, which it ought to be. This is a fairly common occurrence, with your little interruptions being met with either encouragement from Zhongli, or simply corrections.

Dottore:

He’s probably the worst to bring this up around as he likes to make a competition out of it, going back and forth about gruesome facts until one or the other caves.

Not only has Dottore learned a lot about death, but he’s been responsible for just as many. His knowledge far extends past the random facts you collect.

It’s not surprising that Dottore knows more than you, he never holds it against you though. Every time he wins a little bit of the banter between the two of you he sees it as a win for both of you. You get more facts and he gets to assert his position of higher power over you.

“Rigor mortis occurs 6-12 hours after a death but can last 18-36 hours before the body returns to being soft and floppy.” Dottore doesn’t even falter as you shift the conversation, easily following your lead. “Suffocation is more than just a painful way to die. Oftentimes victims of suffocations will try to free or save themselves to no avail as their limbs will cease function, this is because their brain is trying to preserve oxygen which leads to them being unable to free themself and dying.” The smile on his face is only a few inches wider than normal, his eyes twinkling with the same challenging shine that always comes through when you bring up death. If you weren’t well aware of his affections for you, you’d almost believe he loved talking about death more than he loved you.

#yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin x male reader #genshin x reader #genshin x male reader #diluc x reader #diluc x male reader #yandere diluc x reader #yandere diluc x male reader #zhongli x reader #zhongli x male reader #yandere zhongli x reader #yandere zhongli x male reader #dottore x reader #dottore x male reader #yandere dottore x reader #yandere dottore x male reader #yandere genshin #yandere diluc #yandere dottore #yandere zhongli

[qweerhet]

i am very, very much not a fan of how the conversation around “transmascs experiencing body image issues after going on testosterone” has been dominated by “what do you expect, that’s what hormones do, you’re not going to look like your anime twink waifu, don’t transition if that makes you upset”

primarily bc it’s shifting the focus away from the violent policing of men’s bodies under systems of oppression that are causing transmascs to have these sudden onslaughts of body image issues to begin with

like, cis men experience these exact same body image issues

cis queer men are socially punished for not being skinny, pale, hairless, and for balding. like, bears are a counterculture within queer spaces for a reason. fat, balding, hairy, nonwhite, and visibly varsex men are heavily policed in the queer community and the subject of a vast amount of intracommunity violence. they’re excluded from community-building and mutual aid, seen as sexually undesirable, mocked, viewed as predatory and dangerous, and discriminated against systemically.

fuck, straight cis men experience this form of body policing as well. straight cis men are also expected to be skinny, albeit a different kind of skinny, and to only have the “correct” kind of body hair (often mocked for having neckbeards, having body associated with being varsex or a person of color, etc). they experience discrimination and violence for balding, being fat, etc etc etc.

suddenly having a body type that’s subject to violence is dysphoria-inducing. if you were viewed all your life as a skinny white girl, and now all of a sudden you’re viewed as a fat balding dude and read as predatory because of your body/facial hair, you’re going to experience a massive influx of fear, betrayal, and disordered thinking about your body. you are suddenly experiencing a wave of cisnormative body policing, ableism, and often a very different kind of targeted racism than you grew up being subject to--this is a massively fucking destabilizing experience.

pushing the onus of that experience onto individual people reacting badly to it is covering up, and even to some extent doing apologia for, the systemic racism, ableism, and cisnormativity that are shaping the responses to transmascs bodies. like, yes, that’s “just what testosterone does.” but how are you shaping the spaces you are in to react to bodies that are balding, that are fat, that are hairy, that have visibly conflicting sex characteristics, that have signs of disability like “weirdly-kept body hair” and “moving aggressively” and “talking loudly,” how are you making the people around you feel about these traits?

look at the spaces you move through--are they ones that uplift testosterone-dominant and otherwise varsex bodies? do they celebrate deep loud voices and neckbeards and chest hair and big noses and big shoulders and fat bellies and balding in their body positivity? do they view them as socially appropriate, as positive aspects of the space, as sexually desirable, as lovable? if not, then why are you expecting transmascs to view themselves that way?

#fuck it. i might as well tag this as #transmisandry #because damn if that word applies to anything. it's this.

[genderkoolaid]

hey i was wondering something and i wanted to know your opinion on it

Why is it problematic to say i hate men but not white people or straight people

(i'm a trans south east asian man btw)

I'd say on, like, a casual exasperated level, its not problematic to say "I hate [x]." It gets problematic when your venting about a group becomes your sole lens of viewing + interacting with that group.

Like, its entirely alright to be frustrated with behaviors common to cishet white men and express that in a vent by saying you hate them. But... its like how people make the correct point that they shouldn't be expected or obligated to give all their energy to coddling people with power over them, but translate that into "i never have to care about a member of this group at all" which directly conflicts with just. being in a community? Like women should not be expected to be caretakers for men, but people in a community need to take care of each other. When the only way you engage with a group of people is by expressing hatred and asserting how much you aren't obligated to care about them, its easier than people think to find yourself dehumanizing them.

Which does not mean "you are just as bad as a racist/misogynist" or "you are oppressing them"; you are An Individual whose biases are not necessarily backed up by powerful systemic powers. But, for one, its very easy for those biases to be used by systemic forces: with men, misandry is very easily used to justify all kinds of violence towards marginalized men & people perceived as men. You also have situations where people will say the Holocaust "wasn't as bad" as, say, US slavery, because it was "white on white violence," or saying the Armenian genocide also wasn't that big of a deal because "it was done to Christians and Christians are always killing people" (two real things I have seen been said). And, again: if you are going to care about community and restorative/transformative justice and all that, you need to be able to give a shit about all kinds of people who you live with. You need to be able to see them as whole beings you are capable of connecting with on some level. You don't personally need to date or befriend men, but you do need to be able to give a shit about men in your community.

Its fine to feel annoyance and anger and use "hatred" to express that. But the problem occurs when people take "its okay to be angry with your oppressors and not spend all your energy coddling them" and make that the end-all be-all of their relationship with people of whatever group; revolutions can't accomplish compassionate goals when they are run on hatred. Very hooksian concept but "love" (as in "a combination of care, commitment, knowledge, responsibility, respect and trust", not in a strictly emotional sense but as an action) is a skill that is as vital as understanding class dynamics and protest tactics. Maybe you don't need to love everyone, but try to have the capacity to love anyone; the ability to physically care for someone you don't emotionally like is, I think, a vital step towards truly challenging and bringing down the kyriarchy.

Basically its about recognizing when your venting stops being an outlet and starts being a way for unproductive feelings to shape how you view other people.

#hooksian in reference to bell hooks btw #m. #ask box

[mistydeyes]

Hi,if you’re not busy can you write a fic of Cod characters with a cia agent gf ?

yes ofc! yk i love a good little government agent gf moment :)

a double life

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

summary: From hidden occupations to a particular set of skill sets, the 141 learns to adapt to having a girlfriend who has all the right qualifications (and who could completely kick their ass).

pairing: Task Force 141 x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of weapons/violence

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

price

"Sorry I can't be there to meet you, Price," Laswell spoke over the web camera feed, "got tied up in South America." Price nodded as he held the bridge of his nose, Laswell had promised her best field agent to act as a point person for their mission in New Zealand. However, just the thought of some middle-aged retired veteran or worse yet, hot-shot rookie, made his headache pound even further. "She's a good one, Price," Laswell reassured, "skilled in practically every major language and the best marks in her physical fitness examination." "Yes Kate, I read her file, but it seems like you failed to include a photo-" He was interrupted by a sturdy knock at the door. "Looks like she's here."

As you cracked the door open, you practically dropped the files that sat in your arms. "What are you doing here?" Price asked jovially and you could feel the breath release from your sternum, "didn't expect an on-base visit like this." As the pieces began to fit together, you realized he didn't know what you were actually there for. "John, Kate sent me here," you whispered as you shut the door gently, "heard you're going to New Zealand." As the realization hit him like an oncoming train, you braced for impact. "You-you work for the CIA?" he asked almost foolishly and you nodded in response. "I did say I worked in Virginia," you corrected, "and you had to know my surprise visit yesterday wasn't just a spur-of-the-moment thing." Price could feel his headache reach a fever pitch as he reviewed your file again. "Then what's with the name?" he asked, "you lie about that too." You let out a laugh as you explained, "People have nicknames and mother's maiden names, John." As you sat back in your chair and crossed your legs, Price wondered what he had done for the universe to gift him you.

soap

Despite your initial reservations, Johnny was quite good at keeping your occupation vague and nonchalant in conversation. You were honest about your work in central intelligence and he took that secret to the grave. Your long-distance relationship was written off as you working in some company in DC and no one batted an eye at your occasional inference at military strategy or surveillance techniques. When you returned home, you would always be sure to show him extra appreciation for his covertness. "Tryna make me patriotic?" he would joke before you would kiss him and stifle his laughs.

However, he loved testing your skill set and seeing if you were as trained of an operative as your file read. "Let's see what they teach you over there, Bonnie," he joked as he lined up his sights at the air gun range. You refrained from kicking him as you stood back to watch him. You almost let out a laugh when you saw his small pellet ricochet just slightly off target. "Hmm and that's why Ghost is your long-range weapons specialist," you teased as he got up and switched positions. You breathed in as you looked down your sights and positioned your rifle towards the farthest target on the range. "You Americans, always so fucking cocky," he muttered under his breath before you quickly shut him up with a quick shot directly into the center of the target. The metal hen spun around widely at your expert marksmanship and you exhaled your held breath. You stood up and tried to size up your tall boyfriend. "Best 2/3?" you offered and you smiled as he kissed your forehead before ushering you out of the way to try again. "Fucking CIA training," he whispered as he got into position again. "You say something, you glorified sergeant?"

gaz

It was 4 am when you arose from the bed and leaned into Kyle, taking in his warmth and seeking refuge from the cold London air. You could always rely on your boyfriend to be your human-sized space heater. As you laid your head across his chest, you could feel him stir lightly. "Time to go already, love?" he asked with his eyes still closed and you muttered in confirmation. You always knew what challenges came with living so far away from the States but you had someone who made it all worth it. He kissed your forehead lightly as you rolled off the bed. You tried to quietly make your way to the bathroom to let him get some more hours of precious sleep but upon your return, it was clear Kyle was more awake than before.

"You sure you don't need me to drive you to the airport?" he offered yet again as you dressed quickly in dress slacks and a blouse. "MI6 is sending a car," you explained as you collected your overnight bag, "just try to get some sleep, my love. I'll text you when I land in Langley." Despite your soft kiss on the cheek, Kyle still pouted as you pulled away. "Don't understand why you can't be a liaison officer for us," he mumbled but you ruffled his hair slightly. "When the position becomes available, I'll be the first application on there," you smiled, doing a final check of your things, "just tell Price to write me a hell of a recommendation letter." With that, you shared another long kiss as you slightly cringed at his morning breath. "I'll be sure to say hi to the cybercrime analysis team for you, hopefully, they'll actually take my advice this time," you laughed before exiting out of your apartment and embracing the cold English air you had grown to love.

ghost

When the question arose of your occupation, you would always smile and defer to being just an "American government worker." However, you always knew Simon had more than just an inkling as to your occupation. When you spoke about military strategy, and combat techniques, or even had various conversations in different languages over the phone, it was clear to him that you were more than just a civilian. The shock didn't even resonate with him when you uttered the words, "Paramilitary Operations Officer," it all seemed to fall into place. He wouldn't bat an eye when it came to long stretches of days that you were in minimal contact with him. "I'll be back," you would reassure as you pulled on a dark hoodie and headed out the door with a bag. Simon would always be there to clean your wounds and ice your bruises.

It was a shock when Simon hadn't heard from you in a month. You had left in the middle of the day in a black Mercedes that disappeared off the English skyline. It was the unfortunate timing that he had been on leave when you left and there had been no word from Price regarding a new mission. Every morning, he would turn over in your king-sized bed expecting to see you smiling back at him. However, the days dragged on without any information meeting his ears. You could practically still picture his terrified face when you turned the key into the door and slammed your bag down. Simon paused upon seeing your blackened eye and wrapped knuckles. The eye bags on your delicate face further added worry to the situation. "Don't ask," you whispered as you fell into his chest, "intel was shit." That was all Simon needed to lift you gently and place you back on the couch. As he held you in his arms with an ice pack to your eye, you slightly pulled away from his touch. "I promised I would come back, didn't I?"

#task force 141 x reader #task force 141 #cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii #modern warfare 2 #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #soap x reader #price x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john price x reader #Johnny mactavish x reader #mw2 imagine #madebyizzie #izzie is writing

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 6

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: i slept so gosh dang heavy.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You haul up the cask, one of the smaller but still heavy for your arms. The stairs are treacherous to the upper floors of the castle and you waddle down the corridors hugging the vessel with heavy steps. As you near the ivory room, you slow and face the wooden barrier. Should you knock? 

You look down. You can’t balance the cask with one arm. You lean and tap with your foot as best you can. You wait and hear only the draughts flowing in from the windows. Then at once, the hinges groan and the door swings inward, the king already in retreat. 

You enter, trying not to show your struggle, and carry it to the round table. You set it down with a loud clunk and your shoulders ache. You feel around your apron pockets for the spout. You sense the king’s mood clouding in the chamber. 

“If you knew it was to be heavy, you could have said so,” he grits as he sits across the table from you. 

“Your highness, it is not very much,” you lie. Your arms feel weak as you put the spout in place. You did not bring a stein. “I will fetch a cup--” 

“I don’t care about the ale,” he rests one hand against the handle. “If you are thirsty, there is a cup in my bedroll.” 

You back away, confused. You don’t protest or question him. Did you mishear him? He did request ale. 

“So I am wed,” he mulls and toys with a loose lace hanging from the open collar of his shirt. It is untucked from his breeches as his hair is tangled around his shoulders. 

“Good tidings for that, your highness,” you offer the expected courtesy. 

He looks at you and you wince, putting your head down as you back away.  

“Apologies, I speak out of turn,” you touch your chin. 

He huffs, “weddings are supposed to be happy, are they not?” 

You bow your head lower, “I believe so, your highness.” 

He hums and tabs his fingers on the armrest, “I am not very happy.” 

You stay as you are. He makes it hard to serve, he is cryptic to the point you can’t guess what he wants. You dare to peek up quickly but promptly retract your gaze as you meet his eyes. 

“Speak your thoughts, I see them written upon your brow,” he commands. 

You sway slightly and bend your arms behind you, “your highness--” 

“Look at me,” he demands. You obey. 

“Your highness,” you start cautiously, “you’ve been at war, perhaps you are sick for your home.” 

He scoffs and rubs the coarse stubble on his jaw, “my home? You would not think that if you knew it.” 

You slant your mouth. He raises his hand, gesturing with two fingers, “speak freely.” 

“You are correct, your highness, I would not know. I’ve never been further than a day’s ride from this castle. I only hear that the north is cold but anyone might guess that.” 

He snorts, “yes, it is cold. And dark. But the mountains, they are beautiful and when the snows fall, they glisten over the ground. So long as you have a fire to warm you, or a body near, it is not so bad.” He closes his eyes and leans his chin on his knuckles, “there are large elk with trees for antlers and the white wolves who blend into the snow but for their eyes, and the bears who sleep in the caves until the ground thaws in the springs.” He opens his eyes again and stares at you, “we have no summer there. The butterflies and flowers do not fare for long.” 

You imagine the place he describes. Or attempt to. It sounds frightening. No summer? 

“I’ve never seen snow,” you say at last. 

He sits up and his expression eases, “then you will to come see it.” 

You blink. Is he serious? Is that an order? 

“I serve the castle--” 

“You serve...” he swallows, “my wife and by rights I am her master. As she is yours, thus you serve me. She will need a familiar face once we are on to the Hinterlands. They are harrowing and she is weak. You will be her companion to see her through.” 

You don’t argue. You never do. He is right. All that is Lady Jazlene’s is now his. 

“Are you excited to come?” He asks. 

You think. You will do as you’re told thought it is an unexpected, almost undreamt of, opportunity. 

“I think I am, your highness. It is a far way and I’ve never been very far.” 

“Mm,” he puts his elbow on the table, almost amused as he watches you, “are you afraid?” 

“Why, yes, certainly,” you answer honestly. “You speak of bears and wolves. I’ve never seen those either, though I have seen deer.” 

“Do not fear, even the bears and the wolves bow to King Geralt,” he lets himself laugh, a bawdy rumbling like thunder. It surprises you, “but first we must ride south to tidy up the summer countries. I must meet my people, make sure they are not left to ruin.” 

You tilt your head but quickly fix it. He drones again, “speak.” 

“That is kind of you. No, as you said before, prudent. To make certain the people are not unhappy. War leaves scars.” 

“It leaves gaping wounds if one does stitch them up,” he counters, “a wise observation for a maid.” 

Your cheeks twitch. You think it’s a compliment. You lower your chin. 

“Ah,” he intones, “don’t. You don’t have to hide from me, little maid.” 

His last words drag over his tongue. His timbre is like smoke. You feel how it traps the air in your chest. You linger, uncertain, across from him. 

“Will you sit with me?” He asks and leans forward to pull out the chair nearest to him, “I rarely have pleasant company.” 

You hesitate. What about Jazlene? He has her. She is his wife now. You don’t dare ask that question. You move carefully around the chair and sit. He stays forward in his chair, his arm on the table. 

“I have told you of the Hinterlands, but what of you? I’ve seen some of your home but I expect this castle isn’t your real home,” he says. 

“It is the only home I remember,” you murmur, “I’ve been here since I was a girl.” 

His gold eyes flick down and he nods, “I didn’t...” he looks up again and leans back, a stitch in his brow, “would it make you unhappy to be away from home?” 

You purse your lips. You’ve never thought of leaving. You don’t feel any sort of way about the prospect, nothing more than ignorant. You don’t know what awaits you outside those walls. 

“I will go where I am bid,” you say evenly, “not many get to go so far from home. It would be nice to see more of the world.” 

He hums as he watches you, brushing his fingers through his white hair. You watch how his index catches in a wave and he tugs it free with agitation. He pauses, holding out his hand before dropping it to his lap. He inclines his head as if to say, ‘what are you looking at?’ 

“Are there many people like you there?” You ask, voice shaky. 

“Like me? There is only one king. I’ve made certain of that.” 

“No, I... never mind,” you curl one hand around the other, “your highness.” 

“Only me,” he affirms, “and what of you? I’ve yet to meet any like you.” 

You furrow your nose, “there are lots of maids, your highness.” 

He doesn’t respond and his shoulders drop. He once more runs his hand around his square jaw. He inhales and lets it out slowly. 

“You should leave now,” he utters softly, “before...” he pauses and his eyes wander to the window, “before the dawn.” 

You stand and bend your neck, “yes, your highness. I wish you a good sleep and a good marriage.” 

He returns only another thick grunt. You leave him without looking back. As you’re shut out in the dark corridor, a clatter comes from the other side. You turn back but do not go through. You smell something stringent and feel something wet seeping into the stitches of your shoes. You kneel and put your fingers in the liquid leaking under the door. It’s the ale. 

You stand and lean back on your heel. You never meant to anger the king. You will do well to stay out of the way. You don’t think you’ll be going to the Hinterlands after all. Merinda is much more fit for a royal court anyhow. 

⚔️

You sleep hardly an hour before you are on your feet again. The castle is in a flurry to get the horses and luggage on the road. You and Merinda help Lady Jazlene dress as her head threatens to droop this way and that. She’s tired and her yawns tickle your throat as you hold back a similar act. 

Lady Rezlyn enters, already dressed, her dark blue gown slashed with yellow in the sleeves. You and Merinda retreat to busy yourself with miniscule worries. The lady’s riding gloves and boots. A queen’s gloves and boots. 

“Oh, my daughter,” Rezlyn sweeps over to put her hands to Jazlene’s cheek, admiring her daughter as she ever does, “I see your wedding night has left you fatigued. I expected no less of a man like the king.” 

The lewd snicker from the duchess’ mouth makes your stomach churn. Jazlene trickles out a small chuckle and wriggles free of her mother’s grasp. She turns and sits to let you lace on her boots. 

“What is it, then?” Rezlyn challenges, folding her arms. “Did it hurt very much? I told you, daughter, it wouldn’t be very pleasant if you stay dry as parchment.” 

“Mother, please,” Jazlene begs, “I wasn’t...” she shakes her head and sniffs, “it was wonderful.” Her lie is told by the tremour in her void. She raises her head, “He is a true king and I am his queen now. These are matters between man and wife.” 

Rezlyn scowls and sneers, “very well then. How quickly your head swells.” 

“You will not mind so much when you see the advantage a queen’s mother reaps,” Jazlene’s bold tone returns. You see the same lady you’ve ever known. Haughty and stubborn. “I am off to meet my people, to ride through the kingdom. I will introduce my husband to my people and they will see they were wrong about me. Lady Theodora will choke on her stupid sapphire collar.” 

“Precious, I know they will,” Rezlyn smirks, “they will all see how wrong they were about our family. The will recall at last your father’s title and the history behind it.” 

Jazlene raises her chin and her nostrils flair, “is that why, mother? Is that why we’ve done this? To reclaim our glory?” 

“To find new glory. In a new kingdom. Darling, don’t you see, you will watch over a realm larger than any before. You and the greatest king the world has known.” 

You stand as Merinda hides her dry flutter of lashes. She is always much more amused by the flowery conversations between the duchess and her daughter. You can only think of the ale leaking under the door and the king’s declaration; ‘I am not very happy’. 

When Jazlene rises, you tie a cape around her shoulders, the shimmering silver with the blue and violet flowers sewn into it. She is sparkling in her new role. A queen with even a circlet of silver in her curls, though it was formerly a necklace.  

She emerges with her spine straight and her eyes set. She has readied all her life to be a wife though she just as easily acts a queen. Her shoulders are high and strong as she descends into the chaos of the castle. 

You and Merinda follow behind the two ladies. Lord Dustan blusters towards them, the toggle buttons of his riding jacket unaligned with the loops. He looks between his daughter and wife. 

“The horse will be ready shortly, are you ready to ride?” He sneers at Jazlene. 

“Father, I am the queen. You do not tell me--” 

“You are a queen and queen’s cannot be tardy. We must way to the capital to consolidate the kingdom. This is not a pageant,” he hisses. 

“Is the carriage ready?” Jazlene asks. 

“Carriage? You will ride abreast. All haste is required.” 

“Father,” Jazlene shifts on her feet with discomfort, “I’d be better on a cushion than a saddle--” 

“Argue it with the king then. His orders.” 

Dustan storms past without further discussion and disappears through the outer doors into the courtyard. Jazlene pouts into a grimace and looks at her mother. Rezlyn gives a wry shrug. 

“Well, your highness...” Rezlyn taunts. 

“Motherrrrr,” Jazlene growls before she spins and breezes away in her father’s stead. 

You trail the duchess into the dim hues of dawn. The yard is even more hectic than within. The king’s soldiers move like ants on a hill as their horses stand in patient rows, ready to be mounted. It is the Debray party that is in disarray. 

As Jazlene weaves through the crowd, several of the castle hands back away and show their deference for their new queen. The black and grey soldiers of the Hinter carry on in checking their saddle bags and weapons. The king is near the gate, head down as a steely haired soldier speaks to him. 

The duchess’ daughter, newly married, awoken a queen, approaches her husband without hesitation. 

“I am told I am not to have a carriage? I cannot sit a horse. It is unseemly--” 

King Geralt signals to his man with irritation. The soldier with eyes as grey as his hair quiets and backs away. You can tell by the pin on his mail that he must be important. 

“You will,” the king says evenly. “We must be quick. I cannot have a broken axle. We ride as if to battle. In itself, this is exactly what we face.” 

“But you have won--” 

“I won in blood, but there are other victories to be claimed,” the king interjects, “still your tongue and obey your husband and king. The world does not exist as your cloistered life in this castle.” 

“I am the queen and I want a carriage!” Jazlene squeals shrilly. Several heads turn as you keep your chin low. You know it isn’t the right response but Jazlene does not take orders easily. 

“You have not yet been coronated,” the king snarls, “do not forget so quickly on who’s back you rose.” 

Jazlene huffs and puts her hands to her hips. She steps closer to the king and he glares down at her. You peek up to find his eyes blazing. 

“I am your wife, not your servant,” she snaps, “and you will not speak to me as one.” 

He blinks and you retract your stare. You look over at Merinda as her face strains with horror. The tension of the confrontation quiets the courtyard. 

“If I need to have you strapped to the horse like a bedroll, then so be it,” King Geralt hisses. “I have done my duty to you so you will do yours or you should void our contract. Obey.” 

Jazlene stands defiantly close to the king. They stare at one another, the air thrumming between them. Lady Rezlyn reaches to touch her daughter’s sleeve. 

“You will look so pretty aback a horse, daughter. Imagine what the people will think when they see you resplendent as you ride into the capital, eh? You shouldn’t hide in a carriage, you will want to meet your people.” 

The daughter puffs out and steps back at her mother’s tugging. She retreats slowly as the king does not budge, his face twisted with anger. The duchess has tendered a fragile truce. 

“Come, I haven’t ridden in some time,” Rezlyn coaxes the younger woman. 

“And you will not,” King Geralt speaks at last, “my wife will ride. I see no need of her mother. She is no naive maiden.” 

Rezlyn flinches, “your highness?” 

The king raises his hand and gestures with his fingers. Two soldiers come forth in his colours, “I will leave some of my men to watch over your walls. The word will spread how Debray did assist in my victory. I have yet to assuage that animosity so you would be best to stay and hide behind your walls.” He drops his arm, gripping his pommel, “your husband has not yet given all he promised.” 

Rezlyn grips her daughter’s arm and staggers as if she’s been struck. What the king has said is clear. They are traitors, not only in the eyes of their fellow summer lords, but in his. He has not trust and the duchess will be kept in her castle as little more than a hostage. 

“Your highness,” Lady Rezlyn rasps, “I shall do as you bid. I will only say farewell to my daughter.” 

“Make it fast,” the king sneers. 

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #medieval au #series #winter's king #the witcher