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mostlysignssomeportents · 29 days

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Subprime gadgets

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me THIS SUNDAY in ANAHEIM at WONDERCON: YA Fantasy, Room 207, 10 a.m.; Signing, 11 a.m.; Teaching Writing, 2 p.m., Room 213CD.

The promise of feudal security: "Surrender control over your digital life so that we, the wise, giant corporation, can ensure that you aren't tricked into catastrophic blunders that expose you to harm":

https://locusmag.com/2021/01/cory-doctorow-neofeudalism-and-the-digital-manor/

The tech giant is a feudal warlord whose platform is a fortress; move into the fortress and the warlord will defend you against the bandits roaming the lawless land beyond its walls.

That's the promise, here's the failure: What happens when the warlord decides to attack you? If a tech giant decides to do something that harms you, the fortress becomes a prison and the thick walls keep you in.

Apple does this all the time: "click this box and we will use our control over our platform to stop Facebook from spying on you" (Ios as fortress). "No matter what box you click, we will spy on you and because we control which apps you can install, we can stop you from blocking our spying" (Ios as prison):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

But it's not just Apple – any corporation that arrogates to itself the right to override your own choices about your technology will eventually yield to temptation, using that veto to help itself at your expense:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

Once the corporation puts the gun on the mantelpiece in Act One, they're begging their KPI-obsessed managers to take it down and shoot you in the head with it in anticipation of of their annual Act Three performance review:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/08/playstationed/#tyler-james-hill

One particularly pernicious form of control is "trusted computing" and its handmaiden, "remote attestation." Broadly, this is when a device is designed to gather information about how it is configured and to send verifiable testaments about that configuration to third parties, even if you want to lie to those people:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/08/your-computer-should-say-what-you-tell-it-say-1

New HP printers are designed to continuously monitor how you use them – and data-mine the documents you print for marketing data. You have to hand over a credit-card in order to use them, and HP reserves the right to fine you if your printer is unreachable, which would frustrate their ability to spy on you and charge you rent:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2024/02/hp-wants-you-to-pay-up-to-36-month-to-rent-a-printer-that-it-monitors/

Under normal circumstances, this technological attack would prompt a defense, like an aftermarket mod that prevents your printer's computer from monitoring you. This is "adversarial interoperability," a once-common technological move:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

An adversarial interoperator seeking to protect HP printer users from HP could gin up fake telemetry to send to HP, so they wouldn't be able to tell that you'd seized the means of computation, triggering fines charged to your credit card.

Enter remote attestation: if HP can create a sealed "trusted platform module" or a (less reliable) "secure enclave" that gathers and cryptographically signs information about which software your printer is running, HP can detect when you have modified it. They can force your printer to rat you out – to spill your secrets to your enemy.

Remote attestation is already a reliable feature of mobile platforms, allowing agencies and corporations whose services you use to make sure that you're perfectly defenseless – not blocking ads or tracking, or doing anything else that shifts power from them to you – before they agree to communicate with your device.

What's more, these "trusted computing" systems aren't just technological impediments to your digital wellbeing – they also carry the force of law. Under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, these snitch-chips are "an effective means of access control" which means that anyone who helps you bypass them faces a $500,000 fine and a five-year prison sentence for a first offense.

Feudal security builds fortresses out of trusted computing and remote attestation and promises to use them to defend you from marauders. Remote attestation lets them determine whether your device has been compromised by someone seeking to harm you – it gives them a reliable testament about your device's configuration even if your device has been poisoned by bandits:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/05/trusting-trust/#thompsons-devil

The fact that you can't override your computer's remote attestations means that you can't be tricked into doing so. That's a part of your computer that belongs to the manufacturer, not you, and it only takes orders from its owner. So long as the benevolent dictator remains benevolent, this is a protective against your own lapses, follies and missteps. But if the corporate warlord turns bandit, this makes you powerless to stop them from devouring you whole.

With that out of the way, let's talk about debt.

Debt is a normal feature of any economy, but today's debt plays a different role from the normal debt that characterized life before wages stagnated and inequality skyrocketed. 40 years ago, neoliberalism – with its assaults on unions and regulations – kicked off a multigenerational process of taking wealth away from working people to make the rich richer.

Have you ever watched a genius pickpocket like Apollo Robbins work? When Robins lifts your wristwatch, he curls his fingers around your wrist, expertly adding pressure to simulate the effect of a watchband, even as he takes away your watch. Then, he gradually releases his grip, so slowly that you don't even notice:

https://www.reddit.com/r/nextfuckinglevel/comments/ppqjya/apollo_robbins_a_master_pickpocket_effortlessly/

For the wealthy to successfully impoverish the rest of us, they had to provide something that made us feel like we were still doing OK, even as they stole our wages, our savings, and our futures. So, even as they shipped our jobs overseas in search of weak environmental laws and weaker labor protection, they shared some of the savings with us, letting us buy more with less. But if your wages keep stagnating, it doesn't matter how cheap a big-screen TV gets, because you're tapped out.

So in tandem with cheap goods from overseas sweatshops, we got easy credit: access to debt. As wages fell, debt rose up to fill the gap. For a while, it's felt OK. Your wages might be falling off, the cost of health care and university might be skyrocketing, but everything was getting cheaper, it was so easy to borrow, and your principal asset – your family home – was going up in value, too.

This period was a "bezzle," John Kenneth Galbraith's name for "The magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it." It's the moment after Apollo Robbins has your watch but before you notice it's gone. In that moment, both you and Robbins feel like you have a watch – the world's supply of watch-derived happiness actually goes up for a moment.

There's a natural limit to debt-fueled consumption: as Michael Hudson says, "debts that can't be paid, won't be paid." Once the debtor owes more than they can pay back – or even service – creditors become less willing to advance credit to them. Worse, they start to demand the right to liquidate the debtor's assets. That can trigger some pretty intense political instability, especially when the only substantial asset most debtors own is the roof over their heads:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/06/the-end-of-the-road-to-serfdom/

"Debts that can't be paid, won't be paid," but that doesn't stop creditors from trying to get blood from our stones. As more of us became bankrupt, the bankruptcy system was gutted, turned into a punitive measure designed to terrorize people into continuing to pay down their debts long past the point where they can reasonably do so:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/bankruptcy-protects-fake-people-brutalizes-real-ones/

Enter "subprime" – loans advanced to people who stand no meaningful chance of every paying them back. We all remember the subprime housing bubble, in which complex and deceptive mortgages were extended to borrowers on the promise that they could either flip or remortgage their house before the subprime mortgages detonated when their "teaser rates" expired and the price of staying in your home doubled or tripled.

Subprime housing loans were extended on the belief that people would meekly render themselves homeless once the music stopped, forfeiting all the money they'd plowed into their homes because the contract said they had to. For a brief minute there, it looked like there would be a rebellion against mass foreclosure, but then Obama and Timothy Geithner decreed that millions of Americans would have to lose their homes to "foam the runways" for the banks:

https://wallstreetonparade.com/2012/08/how-treasury-secretary-geithner-foamed-the-runways-with-childrens-shattered-lives/

That's one way to run a subprime shop: offer predatory loans to people who can't afford them and then confiscate their assets when they – inevitably – fail to pay their debts off.

But there's another form of subprime, familiar to loan sharks through the ages: lend money at punitive interest rates, such that the borrower can never repay the debt, and then terrorize the borrower into making payments for as long as possible. Do this right and the borrower will pay you several times the value of the loan, and still owe you a bundle. If the borrower ever earns anything, you'll have a claim on it. Think of Americans who borrowed $79,000 to go to university, paid back $190,000 and still owe $236,000:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/04/kawaski-trawick/#strike-debt

This kind of loan-sharking is profitable, but labor-intensive. It requires that the debtor make payments they fundamentally can't afford. The usurer needs to get their straw right down into the very bottom of the borrower's milkshake and suck up every drop. You need to convince the debtor to sell their wedding ring, then dip into their kid's college fund, then steal their father's coin collection, and, then break into cars to steal the stereos. It takes a lot of person-to-person work to keep your sucker sufficiently motivated to do all that.

This is where digital meets subprime. There's $1T worth of subprime car-loans in America. These are pure predation: the lender sells a beater to a mark, offering a low down-payment loan with a low initial interest rate. The borrower makes payments at that rate for a couple of months, but then the rate blows up to more than they can afford.

Trusted computing makes this marginal racket into a serious industry. First, there's the ability of the car to narc you out to the repo man by reporting on its location. Tesla does one better: if you get behind in your payments, your Tesla immobilizes itself and phones home, waits for the repo man to come to the parking lot, then it backs itself out of the spot while honking its horn and flashing its lights:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

That immobilization trick shows how a canny subprime car-lender can combine the two kinds of subprime: they can secure the loan against an asset (the car), but also coerce borrowers into prioritizing repayment over other necessities of life. After your car immobilizes itself, you just might decide to call the dealership and put down your credit card, even if that means not being able to afford groceries or child support or rent.

One thing we can say about digital tools: they're flexible. Any sadistic motivational technique a lender can dream up, a computerized device can execute. The subprime car market relies on a spectrum of coercive tactics: cars that immobilize themselves, sure, but how about cars that turn on their speakers to max and blare a continuous recording telling you that you're a deadbeat and demanding payment?

https://archive.nytimes.com/dealbook.nytimes.com/2014/09/24/miss-a-payment-good-luck-moving-that-car/

The more a subprime lender can rely on a gadget to torment you on their behalf, the more loans they can issue. Here, at last, is a form of automation-driven mass unemployment: normally, an economy that has been fully captured by wealthy oligarchs needs squadrons of cruel arm-breakers to convince the plebs to prioritize debt service over survival. The infinitely flexible, tireless digital arm-breakers enabled by trusted computing have deprived all of those skilled torturers of their rightful employment:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/02/innovation-unlocks-markets/#digital-arm-breakers

The world leader in trusted computing isn't cars, though – it's phones. Long before anyone figured out how to make a car take orders from its manufacturer over the objections of its driver, Apple and Google were inventing "curating computing" whose app stores determined which software you could run and how you could run it.

Back in 2021, Indian subprime lenders hit on the strategy of securing their loans by loading borrowers' phones up with digital arm-breaking software:

https://restofworld.org/2021/loans-that-hijack-your-phone-are-coming-to-india/

The software would gather statistics on your app usage. When you missed a payment, the phone would block you from accessing your most frequently used app. If that didn't motivate you to pay, you'd lose your second-most favorite app, then your third, fourth, etc.

This kind of digital arm-breaking is only possible if your phone is designed to prioritize remote instructions – from the manufacturer and its app makers – over your own. It also only works if the digital arm-breaking company can confirm that you haven't jailbroken your phone, which might allow you to send fake data back saying that your apps have been disabled, while you continue to use those apps. In other words, this kind of digital sadism only works if you've got trusted computing and remote attestation.

Enter "Device Lock Controller," an app that comes pre-installed on some Google Pixel phones. To quote from the app's description: "Device Lock Controller enables device management for credit providers. Your provider can remotely restrict access to your device if you don't make payments":

https://lemmy.world/post/13359866

Google's pitch to Android users is that their "walled garden" is a fortress that keeps people who want to do bad things to you from reaching you. But they're pre-installing software that turns the fortress into a prison that you can't escape if they decide to let someone come after you.

There's a certain kind of economist who looks at these forms of automated, fine-grained punishments and sees nothing but a tool for producing an "efficient market" in debt. For them, the ability to automate arm-breaking results in loans being offered to good, hardworking people who would otherwise be deprived of credit, because lenders will judge that these borrowers can be "incentivized" into continuing payments even to the point of total destitution.

This is classic efficient market hypothesis brain worms, the kind of cognitive dead-end that you arrive at when you conceive of people in purely economic terms, without considering the power relationships between them. It's a dead end you navigate to if you only think about things as they are today – vast numbers of indebted people who command fewer assets and lower wages than at any time since WWII – and treat this as a "natural" state: "how can these poors expect to be offered more debt unless they agree to have their all-important pocket computers booby-trapped?"

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/29/boobytrap/#device-lock-controller

Image: Oatsy (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/oatsy40/21647688003

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic #debt #subprime #armbreakers #mobile #google #android #apps #drm #technological self-determination #efficient market hypothesis brainworms #law and political economy #gadgets #boobytraps #app stores #curated computing #og app #trusted computing

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thedovesaredying · 7 months

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Hi I'm hyperfixated over your zombie! Ghost and I've been reading it every hour since it was up, it's the idea of him only acting upon his own primal urges get me going 🤤 i don't know if your zombie! Ghost is a dead person who became zombie or just an infected living human but either way I'm so down!!

I thought about what if reader leaves the muzzle on him all the time and do the usual stuff, pull him by it when they walk about looking for food and medicine, loosen it a bit when he tries to eat whatever is in his zombies menu and of course tugging it backwards as you ride him 🩵

- 🌋

Anon! Your brain!!

I’m glad I’m not the only one weak for our Zombie lad. I actually have a bunch more I want to write about him, so feel free to request more for him at any point uwu

A little snippet for you below the cut <3

Words: 780

Rating: NSFW

Warnings: Teratophilia, PnV, Unprotected Sex, Muzzles.

Reminder, this is an 18+ account!

Ghost has been in quite a huff with you recently or, at least, you think he is. It’s a little difficult to tell given his difficulty stringing full sentences together after the infection ravaged his brain. He’s still cognisant and able to get his thoughts across to you (even if most of those thoughts involve being hungry or wanting to fulfil certain urges).

However, his attention span isn’t the greatest and he’s constantly getting distracted by things in your surroundings. Wandering off like a toddler at every new sound, checking to see if there’s food or a potential threat hiding around every corner. No matter how many times you ask him to try and focus, he’ll inevitably end up finding trouble.

The other zombies aren’t much of a problem since he can chase them off with a few well-placed swipes and growls to remind them of their place. It’s the other survivors you’re worried about. It’s a lawless land out here and anyone that’s survived this long knows to shoot first and ask questions later. This doesn’t bode well for your zombified partner. He’s an enemy and when he has his sights on a potential meal there’s little you can do to deter him from attacking.

Hence, it’s easier to simply keep him at your side. The muzzle works wonders for when you need to gently steer him away from distractions, even if he occasionally gets a little grumpy at having to be pulled around by his face. He can’t nose his face up against you properly when it’s in place which often makes him grumble and sigh a tad overdramatically.

You take it off when you go to sleep, after all, it wouldn't do you any good to have your guard dog unable to use his best weapons. Ghost doesn’t require sleep anymore, so he makes an excellent protector for when you’re in your most vulnerable state.

He stays with you all throughout the night, his body pressed up against your back and his arms caging you to his chest. His lips are dry and completely missing in some parts, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to lave every inch of you with kisses. A soft rumbling sound always accompanies his affections, almost a purr.

But the uses of a muzzle don’t stop at simply helping to direct your companion whenever he starts to drift away. It’s particularly useful for manipulating his face to exactly where you want it, be it away from something he wants or toward the places you require his attention.

Riding him is only more intense when you’re able to grip at the thick leather straps keeping his muzzle in place. He tries to press his mouth to your throat, but you hold him back, forcing his milky white eyes to stare directly into your own as you slowly sink down on his cock. It’s beautiful, the way his eyelids flutter and a frankly sinful groan escapes him.

“Good boy,” you coo, earning yourself a rough jerk of Ghost’s hips. He starts rocking his body up and into your warmth, his gloved hands raising to grip at your waist.

He pulls you down and onto him over and over again in time with his rapid thrusts, snarling and growling all the while. Ghost might not be able to shift his gaze from your blissed out expression, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less in control. The pace he sets is downright brutal, bullying his entire length into your sopping cunt until it nudges at your cervix.

Even when you gasp at the sensation and one of your hands grips at his hair he doesn’t faulter. Your noises seem only to urge him on, his panting breath heavy as he endeavours to draw out at many sounds from your lips as physically possible. His intense gaze from where you hold his face only heightens the experience, his eyes scrutinising each and every expression you offer.

You grow close to orgasm almost embarrassingly fast, but all it takes is a raspy, possessive, “mine,” snarled at you to have your pussy clamping down around Ghost’s cock.

With your body growing weak from coming so hard, Ghost takes full advantage of your distraction, pushing you down and onto your back without missing a single beat in his current rhythm. He keeps going all through your orgasm, the slick from your tender hole only helping to easy his way. He doesn’t let up with his desperate chanting of, “mine, mine, mine,” right up until he spills deep inside you.

Your attempts to dominate him hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Perhaps next time you should use some handcuffs as well.

#writing #call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #reader insert #terato #ask dove #dyingdovefics #🌋anon

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yallemagne · 11 months

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Note that Dracula does not actively retaliate against Jonathan. He retaliates against the letter, for sure, but he does not punish Jonathan exactly as one would expect. He keeps the act up. Which is possibly an even worse punishment.

Jonathan already knows about the Romani, which is interesting. Of course, functionally, Bram is giving us world-building and using Jonathan as a vehicle for that, but the description of the Romani is not one that would lend to too much confidence that they would help Jonathan, as they are clearly aligned, however knowingly, with the Count.

Who must have told Jonathan about them? Possibly one of his previous hosts, but I opt to say it was the Count.

Imagine that: Jonathan inquires about the only staff he has seen so far in Dracula's lands, and Dracula's answer is to squash Jonathan's hope by saying those "lawless" men answer only to himself. However, Jonathan still tries, he can't let himself give into his despair and give up without trying such an obvious means of escape. He knows that, in all likelihood, Dracula could be lying when he says these people are unlike the locals that helped Jonathan in the past. Though, Jonathan still takes precautions to make sure the full extent of what he knows isn't revealed if this is a dead end.

Unfortunately, the Romani are aligned against Jonathan, but possibly not with ill intentions. In all likelihood, they don't know Dracula's nature, or, if they do, they have to ignore it out of desperation, because no one else would ever employ them. It is serve Dracula or starve. They parallel Jonathan, in a way. They see a frantic man trying to appeal to them in a foreign language, and all they can do is accept what they believe he might be saying and continue on with their work.

There's also the possibility that it is more of Dracula's duplicity. Who is to say the man that took Jonathan's letters and payment did not parse Jonathan's meaning? Perhaps he did but was killed on his way to deliver them to a post office. And Dracula reframes it as the men being completely loyal to him. The belief, then, is not that sending more shorthand letters through them is dangerous because the Count will intercept them himself, but that the Romani will deliver them to the Count whether out of ignorance or malice. The latter is quite hopeless. It means that Jonathan cannot get by on the grace of others-- that the only humans he has seen in so long are either unknowing or uncaring of the danger he is in.

Dracula burns the letter but allows the inconspicuous one to be sent. He's mocking Jonathan for his attempt, letting his message be sent but not the one that matters.

"The letter to Hawkins—that I shall, of course, send on, since it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?" He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence.

He, once again, reframes the situation. Oh, if Jonathan had simply written all he wanted to say clearly in that letter to Mina, there would have been no issue with it, since Jonathan's letters are sacred. Never mind the desecration of Dracula opening the letter to Hawkins. He then forces Jonathan to participate in the mockery by having him reseal the envelope.

When he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.

Remember Dracula's warning from before?

"Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then"—He finished his speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. [May 12]

Locking Jonathan in the study now is a passive threat that, if Jonathan does not stay in line, Dracula will relinquish his protection over him. Though the study is presumably one of the safe rooms, there is only guaranteed safety if Dracula provides it.

When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been sleeping, he said:— "So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours to me; but you will sleep, I pray."

Dracula locks Jonathan in the study so he has no choice but to fall asleep there and not in his room. Jonathan is only able to go back to his room once Dracula comes in to retrieve him. Before, Dracula placed the guarantee of Jonathan's safety in his own hands. "If you do this, if you don't do this..." But now he's taking it back. "If I decide you must die sooner than promised, you shall."

I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.

Sleep is only a short reprieve from Jonathan's waking nightmare. He can't rely on the help of his fellow humans, Dracula can and will take back his hospitality on a whim-- Jonathan has nothing to hope for except a night of dreamless sleep.

... I reframe the latter half of May 28 in my fic Orice-- *gets shot*

#dracula #dracula daily #re: dracula #jonathan harker #count dracula #may 28

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cowboyfromh3ll · 2 months

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Holy Mountains

(Arthur Morgan x Reader)

My comeback post is literally some dark angsty idea I had with a sprinkle, a mere DASH, of Arthur at the end. Very vague and sad. Not proofread :p

Warnings: mentions of suicide, death, dark and gritty

Top of the map, it was. Don’t feel that way. Feels like rock bottom. So dark there’s no end and you can’t see your own hand in front of your face. So cold you can’t feel it anymore after a few minutes. If you took ten steps into the night you’d probably fall into a hidden cavity of snow. You could look around you and you wouldn’t even know where you were. It’s all the same. What do you call a nightmare that you’re living in?

Northernmost settlement in Ambarino. Couple hundred miles from the nearest town. Name means “red”, but the only color you see for miles is white. Colter. There’s no road you can take out while valuing your life. Its rocky and mountainous terrain makes it hard to move elsewhere, even if your life depended on it. No plants, no fresh food, aside from what’s caught and hunted: fish, rabbit, deer, bison, elk. Days so cold and snowy you can hardly leave your rickety house. Nights are even colder and darker, you lose yourself stepping outside. A lawless land. People freeze to death after wandering into the snow in an episode of disorientation and hysteria. You suppose death is better than remaining here. The snow here is different. Dry. Every footstep sounds like a shriek beneath your foot. And the wind here; sometimes the howling is the only thing that keeps you company. Nearly 20 below. So cold your skin begins to burn at the slightest exposure. Freezing, but warming. When the orange sun is replaced by the bleary eye of the moon, the horizon turns into nothingness. And then more nothing in every direction. Just waiting for the sun to rise above it, so time can exist again.

Mining was the only thing Colter had. The only thing that gave the town any livelihood. Daddy’s come down real sick, won’t stop coughing. Fever’s real bad too. Sometimes all he can do is lay in bed and mumble to himself. His skin is so blue you forgot his original shade. You spend nights lying on his side tracing the hundreds of visible veins beneath his thin skin. Your brother had to be sent to the mine instead. Some days go by without you seeing him at all. Sometimes you can hear gentle sobbing coming from your parent’s room, you never ask your mom about it.

After the great storm of ‘84, half the town was decimated. You bid people farewells not knowing if they’d even make it out of Ambarino alive. “There’s nothing left for us here.” Your neighbors said. Not much more waiting for you in the snow either, you thought. Population dwindling slowly. So much so there’s no point sending your brother to the mine anymore. He treated the loss of his job more like losing a family member. Drank all of Daddy’s whiskey. You don’t know what’s worse: being cooped up all day or being in the mines. One morning he’s not in his bed. The footprints outside lead towards the mines. You never saw him again after that. Daddy died. Wasn’t no liquor left to help keep him warm. Mama killed herself. Found her a few paces away from home before seeing her collapsed body. There was already a layer of snow on her by the time you found her. The only thing that aided in your search was the bloody footprints and the bloom of red in the snow coming from her raw soles.

What do you call a nightmare that you’re living in?

You don’t remember too much, except thinking that you were just like those old loons from Colter that would wander into the snow in search of asylum from this place, only to inevitably die. All you had with you was the coat on your back, some clothes, and a few matches. It didn’t matter no more. You knew it didn’t matter whether you stayed or not. You anticipated collapsing. Feeling shivers wrack your body as your face carved into the snow. It felt so cold yet so comfortable.

All you do remember is feeling a new kind of warmth. Some stranger’s burly back. The furious footsteps of a horse beneath you that felt more like your mom rocking you in her arms. There was booming conversation between the man and a group of other men besides him, also on horseback. You dared open your eyes a sliver and saw the comforting orange of an oil lamp held in one of the man’s hands as he drove the horse. You pulled your face from his shoulder, only to slump it back down once the throbbing of your head settled in. You felt the cool pool of saliva you had left on his coat. The man seemed to sense the movement.

“You okay back there, sweetheart?” A smooth voice asked, feeling the way his back rumbled with each word. “Real nightmare out here. Don’t worry, we’ll get you to warmth and safety soon. We can talk once we’re there.”

You couldn’t respond, but you knew you’d made it.

Holy Mountains - System Of A Down

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption community #red dead fanfiction #writing #van der linde gang x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption angst #dark and moody

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cats-of-eden-valley · 4 months

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Laws of Eden

The Law of Mothers and Fathers

Mothers

A mother need not share the name of her litter's sire.

A mother must choose a sire from a coalition of opposing prides, to keep the blood clean and refreshed.

A mother may take a mate from a coalition, but their mateship will only be recognized is he joins the pride.

A mother is restricted to a maximum of two litters, barring tragic loss.

Fathers

During the Sleeping Year, toms must leave the Valley to allow their pride enough resources to survive the scarce year.

Toms may choose to remain in the Valley, especially if they are weak in body, mind, or spirit. They must swear to a bond of celibacy in order to do so.

Coalition toms may stay with their home pride with permission of the matrons, often to help their family. They must swear to a bond of celibacy in order to do so.

Coalition toms may also choose to join the pride of their mate. They do not need to be celibate, but may not return to their pride of birth.

A tom is restricted to a maximum of two litters.

Toms must never speak of the lands that the coalitions travel.

Toms may never enter the nursery.

Toms are forbidden from participating in battle.

-----

The Law of the Hunt

Prey should be killed quickly, to reduce suffering as much as possible.

Trapping is dishonorable and cruel; prey should not be snared and left in fear for sake of the hunter's ease.

When prey is killed, it must be groomed and cleaned before brought to Holt.

All prey have a piece of themself that must be returned to the earth with proper ceremony.

Signs and songs must be read and studied thoroughly before a hunt.

When prey has sickened enough to lag the herd, it is part of the natural cycle to take that animal's life. Though difficult to separate from their family, the herd becomes all the stronger, and the creature's final act will be to re-join the circle and feed the pride.

A raided nest should be left at half; it is dishonourable to take all.

A carcass found must be treated with caution.

-----

The Law of War

War can only be declared if two of three matrons, and a worthy chunk of the pride, support it.

A pride cat may never use a blade or weapon on another pride cat.

Murder is for the lawless. A beat opponent is more important than a dead opponent. Murderers can be tried in court during a Trading.

Battle may be conducted under certain circumstances: When another pride is caught stealing prey, herb, or stone from a holt or marked territory; under insult from another pride; when battle is initiated by another party; and unexplained trespass into marked territory (territory that is close enough to a pride's holt that signs of that pride can be seen).

When patrols meet to collect from the same resource on open territory, battle may commence if the resource is scarce/cannot be shared/etc.

All war must cease on the Close-eyes, when the Moons enforce peace and Tradings occur.

Marked Territory is territory where a pride's presence can be felt, with indicators ranging from colourful ties to scent markings to claw strikes on trunks to painted walls.

Open Territory is where pride ranges overlap. While the prides don't go out of their way to mingle, shifting ranges and need for resources can cause conflict.

No matter how bitterly war may rage, a pride may never be fully driven from their territory.

-----

The Law of Matrons

A tom cannot be a matron.

In order to fulfill the responsibilities of a Matron, a molly must have at least one litter raised to 'paws.

A Matron must have trained a 'paw to be considered for Speaker.

If a Matron dies, an heir (normally her eldest daughter) will take her place. If there is no heir, another family will take up the spot. If an heir has not met the requirements of matronhood, the pride must choose whether to wait or to replace.

No two discussions of matronhood, inheritence, and death are the same.

Even in the event of ordinary succession, healers and tellers of the pride should be consulted, and signs from the ancestors should be read.

A matron must be able to extend her motherhood beyond her children to the pride itself. A matron is a teacher, a mother, a leader, and a soother all wrapped in one.

The Speaker is decided between the matrons. The Speaker must be capable of taking command during emergencies, speaking to the pride as a whole, and representing the pride and its interests when addressing other cats.

#coev: setting #coev: laws and codes #worldbuilding #a work in progress #im not sure i can swing but i lowkey wanna aim for 9 separate laws/codes with 9 laws each #also ive decided Im gonna put laws in one post and codes in the other uwu compromise

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 months

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Such are the effects of mob law; and such as the scenes, becoming more and more frequent in this land so lately famed for love of law and order; and the stories of which, have even now grown too familiar, to attract any thing more, than an idle remark.

But you are, perhaps, ready to ask, "What has this to do with the perpetuation of our political institutions?" I answer, it has much to do with it. Its direct consequences are, comparatively speaking, but a small evil; and much of its danger consists, in the proneness of our minds, to regard its direct, as its only consequences.

Abstractly considered, the hanging of the gamblers at Vicksburg, was of but little consequence. They constitute a portion of population, that is worse than useless in any community; and their death, if no pernicious example be set by it, is never matter of reasonable regret with any one. If they were annually swept, from the stage of existence, by the plague or small pox, honest men would, perhaps, be much profited, by the operation.—

Similar too, is the correct reasoning, in regard to the burning of the negro at St. Louis. He had forfeited his life, by the perpetration of an outrageous murder, upon one of the most worthy and respectable citizens of the city; and had not he died as he did, he must have died by the sentence of the law, in a very short time afterwards. As to him alone, it was as well the way it was, as it could otherwise have been. But the example in either case, was fearful.—

When men take it in their heads to day, to hang gamblers, or burn murderers, they should recollect, that, in the confusion usually attending such transactions, they will be as likely to hang or burn some one who is neither a gambler nor a murderer as one who is; and that, acting upon the example they set, the mob of to-morrow, may, and probably will, hang or burn some of them by the very same mistake. And not only so; the innocent, those who have ever set their faces against violations of law in every shape, alike with the guilty, fall victims to the ravages of mob law; and thus it goes on, step by step, till all the walls erected for the defense of the persons and property of individuals, are trodden down, and disregarded. But all this even, is not the full extent of the evil.—

By such examples, by instances of the perpetrators of such acts going unpunished, the lawless in spirit, are encouraged to become lawless in practice; and having been used to no restraint, but dread of punishment, they thus become, absolutely unrestrained.—

Having ever regarded Government as their deadliest bane, they make a jubilee of the suspension of its operations; and pray for nothing so much, as its total annihilation. While, on the other hand, good men, men who love tranquility, who desire to abide by the laws, and enjoy their benefits, who would gladly spill their blood in the defense of their country; seeing their property destroyed; their families insulted, and their lives endangered; their persons injured; and seeing nothing in prospect that forebodes a change for the better; become tired of, and disgusted with, a Government that offers them no protection; and are not much averse to a change in which they imagine they have nothing to lose. Thus, then, by the operation of this mobocractic spirit, which all must admit, is now abroad in the land, the strongest bulwark of any Government, and particularly of those constituted like ours, may effectually be broken down and destroyed—

I mean the attachment of the People. Whenever this effect shall be produced among us; whenever the vicious portion of population shall be permitted to gather in bands of hundreds and thousands, and burn churches, ravage and rob provision-stores, throw printing presses into rivers, shoot editors, and hang and burn obnoxious persons at pleasure, and with impunity; depend on it, this Government cannot last. By such things, the feelings of the best citizens will become more or less alienated from it; and thus it will be left without friends, or with too few, and those few too weak, to make their friendship effectual. At such a time and under such circumstances, men of sufficient talent and ambition will not be wanting to seize the opportunity, strike the blow, and overturn that fair fabric, which for the last half century, has been the fondest hope, of the lovers of freedom, throughout the world. I know the American People are much attached to their Government;—I know they would suffer much for its sake;—

I know they would endure evils long and patiently, before they would ever think of exchanging it for another. Yet, notwithstanding all this, if the laws be continually despised and disregarded, if their rights to be secure in their persons and property, are held by no better tenure than the caprice of a mob, the alienation of their affections from the Government is the natural consequence; and to that, sooner or later, it must come.

—Abraham Lincoln, "The Perpetuation of Our Political Institutions," an address before the Young Men's Lyceum of Springfield, Illinois, Jan 27, 1838

[Robert Scott Horton]

#Abraham Lincoln #quotes

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strawberrys-starship · 9 months

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Ok so, I'm gonna warn you straight out the gate that this whole post is about a/b/o and the omegaverse, so if you don't like that scroll on 👍🏻

But basically I got thinking about how the omegaverse might add a whole new layer to queer identities and then I wrote all this! If you have something you'd like to add or comment on then feel free

(This also mentions sex and sexuality so beware I suppose)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

So I'm reading an a/b/o fic, as one does, and it got me thinking about how the a/b/o dynamic would affect the real world

So in this fic, basically as soon as the main pairing realized that they were an alpha and an omega, they like immediately start fucking. Like I'm not even joking they barely get into a private room and everything

And I was reading it and asking myself how realistic this would be if the omegaverse actually existed

And like, I know, its absolutely pointless to question the realism of a/b/o, because realism is not why it exists in the slightest, but it got me thinking anyway

So I very quickly came to the conclusion that no, obviously if the omegaverse existed not every single compatible omega and alpha would just immediately fuck eachother, just like how not every single compatible man and woman immediately fuck eachother

And then that got me thinking about how omegaverse sexuality works, just like, in general

Because from what I've seen and personally choose to believe, the omegaverse is kinda just an extra gender binary, right? Like it has a biological component, but also there's a larger social one on top of it. So is the omegaverse basically a new layer in the whole gender/sexuality cake? Are there specific labels for which a/b/o gender you're attracted to or identify as? Or is your secondary gender strictly a biological thing that doesn't branch into gender and sexuality?

What about ace people? How are they affected by it? What happens when a sex repulsed ace omega goes into heat? Does it give them a sex drive, or just make them run a high fever and nothing else? And the same things with ace alphas, do they just get a lot of morning wood and nothing else?

How do aro people navigate all this? Personally I like to think that the mating bites aren't inherently romantic or even sexual (and also don't have to be given during heats or ruts) so I imagine there's quite a lot of platonic bonds between people, like how some real aro people get married without any romantic intentions behind it. I imagine it's hard to navigate the world as an allosexual aro person too, seeing as in most cases, mating bites are seen as like, the ultimate goal when spending your heat or rut with someone, so trying to find safe avenues to actually deal with heats and ruts must be extremely difficult.

Rounding back to the whole labels thing, I'm wondering how specific they'd be, y'know? Like say you're a cis man, and also an omega, and you're only attracted to other omega men, how limiting or feasible is that as a concept? How many other omega men are also attracted to omega men, is it looked down upon? Does it even matter in this specific omegaverse society?

What about gender? Are there people who are say, a cis woman but a trans alpha? What about betas, are they the a/b/o equivalent of a nonbinary person? Personally I like to think of betas as basically the a/b/o intersex label (not an idea originally created by me, I'll say here) where they can show traits from both alphas and omegas in varying levels of intensity (which means that they often falsely present as one or the other, and usually that person doesn't know they're a beta till they get a medical examination or something similar)

But if that is the case and betas are just omegaverse intersex, then can there be trans betas? Obviously in real life, intersex is a medical thing not a gender identity and therefore you can't transition to become intersex, but we're working in the lawless land of omegaverse so who knows what's going on.

I think for my personal omegaverse headcanon, betas are intersex people and you can't transition to be a beta

Circling back again, what about the a/b/o equivalent of non binary and gender queer identities? Are there people who just don't identify or fall into the boxes of 'alpha' and 'omega' as gender identities? What would this be like for them? What would transitioning look like?

And again, this is all said in the assumption that the real life gender binary still exists, so could you be a cis person but be basically omegaverse nonbinary too? What would social transition look like? Because all the social hierarchy I've ever seen for a/b/o is based off of being able to smell someone's scent, right? So would a a/b/o nonbinary persons (I'm gonna start calling them gammas so I don't have to type that all out) goal if they decide to medically transition to be to get their scent as neutral as possible?

Would there be any social transition for a gamma person at all? Beyond how someone might be treated for their secondary gender, there's not a whole lot of so called 'gendered' language when it comes to a/b/o. Someone might refer to you by your secondary gender, but there's no pronouns or gendered names and terms related to it. So would you just be occasionally correcting people when they refer to you as an alpha or omega?

Also, what would just a general transition between one secondary gender to another look like? Like say you're an alpha who experiences gender dysphoria related to your secondary gender strong enough that you decide you want to take medical steps to change it. What would change with just hormones, what would need surgery? I imagine that your scent as well as scent glands would all change with hormones, but what about an alphas knot? Would you stop being able to knot once you started hormones, or not?

This also has the problem of an alphas and omegas general anatomy changing based on their biological sex too. Like, would a cis woman who was born an alpha but then later realized she was actually an omega need surgery to remove any alpha parts? (I still haven't decided what exactly a female alpha would have tbh)

How does all of this change if your just a regular trans person too? What would being a trans man who's also a trans omega look like and be like?

So many questions, so little time...

Ok, I think that's enough of pondering the orb for me...

#omegaverse #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o #queer #gay #bisexual #transgender #nonbinary #lesbian #ponderings #asexual #aromantic

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witch-and-her-witcher · 4 months

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For @asnowfern, a gift for @acotargiftexchange! The support and positivity of your responses left me brimming with creative inspiration, so please enjoy this Nessian First Hybern War (and after) AU.

Thank you @popjunkie42-blog and @wilde-knight for your beta reading and handholding. <3

Ao3 | 1, (2)

nessian | E | marriage of convenience, first hybern war AU, angst, whump, emotional slow burn

War brings them together, a bond binds them - but is that enough for two broken people to find love with each other?

When she tries to close her eyes, Nesta relives the heat of battle: the snapping of bones, the gnash of teeth, the stomach dropping dread as great wings and ugly, inhuman snouts descended from the skies. The visceral warmth of pissing herself the first heart stopping collision of her blade and warm body. How sharp and acidic the Fae beasts’ blood tasted on her tongue, smeared across her lips.

When she does drift to sleep, her dreams are nothing more than clinging to the bell tower as the hordes of ugly Hybernians descend on the village. There’s no Cassian, no red beams of focused killing magic to shred and mangle, to buy time — only Nesta offered as a delicious morsel to trip their thirst for human blood.

For soft, mortal bodies.

The loss of control in those dreams is the worst part, rather than her impending death. That same loss of control that has been hounding her and the other women in the human lands since the beginning of this conflict.

Suffocating fear grips her when she resurfaces. Spiraling her into a downward panic as she grips her chest where the searing twist of her anxiety seems to live.

She has to pinch her forearm, her thighs, to remind herself she’s in the present, in reality, and there’s no one pressing her into the mud, into the ungiving wall of a building —

It isn’t just the war that inspires the nightmare.

They’d shaken off the yoke of slave owners taking them at will only to introduce breeding grounds for lawless hordes of men and males alike that roamed, waiting for an opportunity to take what wasn’t theirs.

To overpower. To pick on the vulnerable.

That’s likely what had led the men to their doorstep, following her and Elain from the tavern where they’d enjoyed a rare hot meal. Unfortunately for them, it had only been her father to greet them at the door. It had to infuriate them when they had been drunk, seeking to steal pleasure, to only see the plump body of a man who had lived a far too easy life compared to most humans.

It was the only explanation Nesta could convince herself of, that blind rage from violent, unmet need had driven the dagger into her father’s belly, had driven the men to snap his neck.

It was no secret father wasn’t a courageous man. He likely hadn’t spat in their faces as they’d deserved, would have been more than willing to placate and offer gold to protect his daughters, but no other grand actions —

Only cold-hearted, cruel men could do what they had to her father, what they’d left her to clean off of the stoop of their home as her mind relayed the final snap she’d heard from her and Elain’s hiding place pressed beneath the stairs.

As with most failed attempts to sleep — or successful ones at that — Nesta has to scramble to the bathroom to empty the contents of her stomach.

“Gods-fucking-damnit,” she curses her own weakness, collapsing onto the floor and watching the floating remains of her meager evening meal.

Another failure to add to her list.

Even Elain doesn’t waste the food Nesta could find.

Nervous energy radiates from her center, itching and clawing under her skin.

Nesta rinses out her mouth, checks Elain is peacefully sleeping in her bed, before shoving herself into her too-small boots and pulling on her leather jacket. She’d shamelessly procured it from a slight of shoulder Hybernian soldier, one of the dozens that had been carried in by the winged soldiers and released onto the forest floor.

They had been vicious, no matter they didn’t have the same bulk as the winged Fae on either side. Fast, nimble.

Nesta wears the jacket like a trophy.

It also happens to be the best fitting piece of clothing she’s owned in ages, the male fit of it hugging her waist and hips because of the fabric making up for her ample chest. There’s something about sneering and chasing away the lingering male gazes with her icy eyes, it chases away the fear of her nightmares.

A band plays a jaunty tune, calming the crawling, too-tight feel of her skin.

She makes for the bar to order a drink and sit at a secluded table, but her relative peace is short lived.

“If it isn’t my lovely bride-to-be.”

#nessian #nesta x cassian #acotar winter gift exchange 2023 #acotar #acotar fanfic #my writing #CYLMWIHM

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ezras--moon · 1 month

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Disorganized Attachment - Chapter 1: Fibonacci

IT'S FINALLY HERE!

Dieter x adult actress reader (no age gap, both in their early/mid 40s)

18+ although this chapter does not contain any explicit smut yet.

This work contains a lot of cursing, talks about substance abuse, mental illness, violence, and I have not researched anything about the film or p**n industry, so if that's not your thing, scroll on. (it is surprisingly soft and fluffy though)

More warnings: Negative self talk/thoughts, body image issues.

word count: 5364

Where to begin?

You and Dieter met in high school, drama and art classes. You had a secret crush on him back then, but thought he was kind of a dick, too. He was envious, or even jealous, of your ability to memorize long monologues seemingly overnight. These ridiculous reasons were mainly why you didn’t become friends then yet, just secretly harbored certain feelings for each other. If just one of you had pulled their head out of their ass and talked to the other, you would have realized very quickly that you were two peas in a pod.

When you met again in college, you had all your acting, theater and film related classes together. You stuck to each other then, because you were both from the same hometown, and you’d both changed and grown. Experimenting with drugs welded you closer together, and you woke up in each other’s dorms after lawless nights quite a few times. Dieter began auditioning long before you both graduated, so did you. He was more successful pretty much from the beginning. You congratulated each other on a few projects, his always bigger than yours, and then at some point you just went your separate ways in Hollywood.

You still privately kept up to date with Dieter’s work and achievements; you watched the Oscars the year he won one of the categories he was nominated for, with a friend over the phone, squealing over the line and damn near rupturing her eardrum at the announcement of the winner. And he looked so handsome on screen, even with the sadness and hubris in his dark eyes that you were well acquainted with.

He’d told you all the stories throughout your time in college together. The abuse, the violent reign of his strict parents drilling him to be the best in all his classes, to always get the big roles he auditioned for… and the harsh punishment if he didn’t. The constant pressure to be perfect and likeable, the emotional neglect in between his successes. What they never really gave a shit about was if he was happy.

While Dieter went off to become a real movie star, you struggled and clung on to shadier and shadier gigs, until you finally landed in the adult film industry. You’d tried your best and worked really hard to make a name for yourself in this new field, and you did, you succeeded!

Your screen name was a secret to most people you interacted with in your daily life, you kept a strict line between your private matters and your work. Many of your loose acquaintances believed you were simply “in the film industry”, which was technically true. Sometimes, when you met someone new and they asked what you did for a living, you could see the split second of recognition in their eyes and then, as soon as possible, you’d drop them like hot potatoes. Better not to get involved with fans.

Now…

Around the time when you sign a contract with a new agency, Dieter’s spiraling into another crisis. He’s coked up to the max, never not high anymore, and during the short, intermittent down periods he thinks he’s worthless and needs to rebrand himself. All of his unusually bottomless lows are followed by particularly severe manic episodes lately, in which he comes up with things to do to revolutionize his public persona, and he won’t hear anyone out who tries to stop him. Because of the excessive amount of cocaine he consumes, he believes himself to be in possession of the necessary skills and fortitude to star in a real, professional porn movie during this particular spiral.

And thank Mother Gaia for modernity, because his manager isn’t even opposed to the idea.

“Get me the most expensive co-star you can find to do this with me!” he barks into his phone, ordering some poor fool at his agency out to get him a role in a big production.

There isn’t much hope, Dieter thinks, that he’ll get anyone exceptionally hot, no matter their price tag - he’s getting old and has gained a few pounds since the peak of his career. But then again, it’s mostly the women in porn who are under pressure to be perfect, fresh off the rack, if they want to make it in the industry. And not just in some niche fetish market, but instead the very top of the food chain, the big studios, like Brazzers or Tushy dot com. His other, admittedly quite reasonable, hope for a really fuckable scene partner is that having an actual Oscar winning movie star like himself, aging and getting heavy or not, fuck his pent-up frustration into a dimepiece on camera would drive sales exponentially more than if he did it to a bridge troll. Fuck, he really should see his therapist again. These horrible thoughts about people’s looks, including his own, can’t be beneficial to his already dwindling mental stability. But that guy is a leech; even as rich as Dieter is nowadays, the rates of a decent therapist are nauseating.

When you receive the offer, you’re just on your way to a set, somewhere up in the hills. You don’t read the e-mail until late that night. The header gives away what type of shoot it’s going to be - a celebrity, a real movie star, and this time not just for a private sex tape. No, this time an A-list Hollywood actor wants to actually publish the tape. It’s guaranteed to make headlines for weeks. This would most definitely be the next Big Thing for you.

It takes you a while to read the wall of text before you find the name of the actor at the bottom of the page. You gasp, then break out into a fit of bewildered little laughs.

Dieter Bravo! You damn outlaw.

You know he probably has no idea his people sent yours an offer, nor that you would definitely say yes, if he’s even aware you’re in this business - it isn’t likely that he knows your screen name either, because you would hope to have heard from him on social media if he had. You’ve followed him since you made your professional account.

The next morning, you wake up bright and early to give Dieter’s agent a call back, accept the job, make an appointment to sign the contract, and go get a fresh bikini waxing. You can’t wait to see Dieter again. Get to fuck him again, if the surprise of seeing you show up for the shoot doesn’t turn him off of it entirely.

As the aesthetician, a close friend of yours affectionately nicknamed Barbie, rips away at the wax strips to get rid of the bush you’d grown out for a vintage shoot, you think about him and what he used to mean to you.

You tell Barbie about him, in between wincing through the pain of the waxing; you tell her that when you were young, your bodies taut and lean, you enjoyed each other’s company very much. And about the things you’d say to each other in bed, how you could never stop praising his heavy cock, how deliciously it burned when he pistoned it into your welcoming heat; how he couldn’t stop sucking on your tits and emptying his balls into you, again and again for hours until there was nothing left to fill you with, always high on something.

You know what he looks like, you’ve seen him at red carpets from the comfort of your living room, even this year - Barbie remembers when you screamed at her over the phone and she tried to match your excitement. She also remembers all the times you were intoxicated and reminisced about past loves, your dreamy retelling of your experiences always circling back to Dieter in the end.

But the new memories all just come from images on screens, they’re not real memories of him. The last real one is over a decade old.

The contract you sign is your agency’s standard adult film production contract, you’ve signed hundreds like this before. Every rich adult film connoisseur who’s into “older” women wants a piece of you.

Several days pass after you sign, before you hear back and receive a shooting date very soon after.

“Mr. Bravo would appreciate it if we could make it happen as soon as possible.” your agent relays to you on the phone. “Fine by me. I can definitely squeeze it in next week.” you reply.

That day…

Rolling up to his house in the hills, your manager drives you through the LA afternoon traffic, and ultimately you're twenty-five minutes late. “We should have known it was gonna be like this” you complain to your manager, a woman your age named Tonya with round, red cheeks, who’s raised five children by herself. “Nonsense. I guarantee you, this guy’s going to be even later himself. These A-listers usually are, they’re too self important to be on time. Now go, get up there! I’ll be right behind you.”

You grab your handbag and your cosmetics, wallet and phone secure in your jacket, and make your way up the thirty-something steps to ring Dieter Bravo’s doorbell.

A stern looking woman with a sleek black librarian hairdo and penciled-in eyebrows of the same color lets you into the mansion; she’s surprisingly nice. You’re instructed to take a seat in Dieter’s living room, on a comfortable couch. You don’t mind the staff standing by the open doors, and change into your outfit out in the open there - a pitch black, crotchless leotard, equally dark ballerina flats, and a thin pink robe for modesty before the shoot starts. Someone from the production crew arrives and brings a make-up artist, who makes you look a decade younger. That takes almost two full hours and removes any remaining shred of your guilt about being late. It's a bothersome process, but might increase the chances he’ll recognize you.

Finally, after another ten more minutes of waiting for him, his majesty makes an appearance, coming from the garage. He’s dressed in a cornflower blue robe, a fluffy, well-worn thing, and chanclas, along with sweatpants. He holds a starbucks cup in his hand and peeks at everyone in the room over the rim of a pair of sunglasses, chewing gum. His hair is as messy as ever, a patchy, scruffy looking beard on his face now. He’s sporting several heavy rings on various fingers and has a chain with an upside-down cross around his neck.

And then he spots you. You can see the exact moment it clicks for him, and everything falls into place. A sultry smirk at him, a wink perhaps, should do, so that’s what you respond with, to the look of pure befuddlement he shoots you.

He crosses the room so fast, he spills some of the whipped cream peeking over the rim of the cup he’s holding with an iron grip.

“What on earth are you doing in my house, Dolphin?” Oh, God, not that nickname… you visibly cringe, but then sigh and go in for a hug. He accepts without hesitation, and you note that he’s wonderfully warm and soft. It almost balances out the reminder of that time he renamed you against your will, when you were sitting out on the fire escape stairs of your dorms, smoking a blunt together. It would be a good memory if it wasn’t tainted by that nickname designed to drive you up the wall, when your hysterical laughter at one of his jokes resembled the call of a marine mammal.

“I was hired to have a certain movie star fuck the shit out of me on camera.” you tell him nonchalantly, and he bites down a laugh to counter. “I didn’t know you do porn. I thought you might still be doing theater, because I never saw you at any award shows. Is everything okay?” “Yes, Dieter, I’m fine. I’m financially stable, I’m nominated for an AVN this year; the only setback is I’ve recently been pushed into the MILF category. Absolutely killing it there, though.”

Dieter laughs at that, finally - a hearty cackle, and it causes your already buzzing head to flood with memories of that same laugh that are aeons old. You realize he never laughs like this in any of the interviews you’ve seen.

He pats your shoulder almost fraternally and sets down his drink to give you another hug. “I missed you, Dolphin.” “Please don’t call me that again. I’ll fucking leave and go home, I swear to God.” “Didn’t peg you to be particularly religious.” “I’ll fucking show you a pegging, amigo.” Again, you make Dieter laugh; he seems like he hasn’t earnestly laughed much in quite some time.

The two of you waste everyone else’s time while you catch up; you hear about his last ten years, he hears about yours, while you wander around the house and he shows you his awards. At some point, his manager shows up in the dining room, where Dieter is feeding you with the best bread you’ve ever had and antipasti from the catering cart, and reminds you both that you’re here for work.

You think it’s odd that Dieter decided to shoot this film in his home. He doesn’t seem to care and says this house has seen weirder things. It’s more convenient for him to do it here. Your worries about the media backlash directed at him that would inevitably follow the release of whatever you tape today remain a secret for now. It’s not your job to bring it up and you trust that all the adults involved know what they’re getting themselves into.

The set in a spare bedroom is all done, assembled, lit up and prepared; as a last effort to prevent disaster, somebody wearing a headset is grabbing a sphinx cat and removing it from under the massive king size centerpiece of the shot. They just exit the room with their arm full of what you think is a raw chicken when you walk in with Dieter and both your managers, who know each other and proceed to go have a conversation somewhere in the corner.

He introduces you to the director, a Finnish-American talent of the erotic arts, who then introduces herself as Ansa, and who’s supposed to make Dieter’s filthy vision a reality. The six foot four blonde with an angular jaw, who looks like she could easily be a famous basketball player, explains the concept of the Golden Ratio to you, but you have difficulties following, with the way Dieter is already staring at your mouth. “...in each shot, your two bodies have to be arranged in the exactly right way to align with the ratio, which you might know under its other commonly known name, the Fibonacci sequence. Well, technically the golden ratio and the Fibonacci sequence are different things, but they are closely associated with each other. We’ve come up with a few positions that work, they’re shown here-* She rambles on, then hands you a thin stack of cards, each depicting a drawing of a sexual position in which the visual lines and boundaries of the lovers’ bodies resemble a spiral from a certain angle. You look through them, wide-eyed, while Dieter chews on an Olive and ogles you over the rim of his sunglasses - shamelessly.

Ansa continues, “Somebody might have to touch you to adjust the position of a body part for the perfect shot. I hope you have an active gym membership, you might be forced to stay still and hold a difficult position for a while, through up to a few dozen of his thrusts, so we have enough material from each shot.”

Can’t we just start fucking? Why does it matter how I sit on his dick? Besides, the whole Fibonacci sequence thing is kind of overplayed, isn’t it? Hasn’t this shit been done a million times before? There’s songs about it, media that’s structured according to it, stuff that won Grammys and everything. It’s been a meme online, too, people already laugh about it.

Those are the gripes coming up in your head in quick succession, and you don't fully realize that you say all of them out loud and worded exactly like that, making Dieter snort and bend over in a cackle. You blush, hard, and begin to stammer an apology for the bluntness, because she’s not used to your Modus Operandi yet and deserves some grace. This job could have very well been given to somebody else, somebody more demure and accepting of bullshit executive decisions.

Ansa just smiles at you, not quite as amused as Dieter seems to be, still giggling to himself. “You’re funny, I like your attitude,'' she says to interrupt your desaster of an apology before you embarrass yourself, and you notice that you like her subtle accent, although her non-answer annoys you.

You demand to know why they would ask you to sign a contract before letting you know this was going to be a cringefest, and then attempt to ask your questions again in a more respectful tone.

This is when Dieter realizes he’s missed you a whole lot more than he thought; you’re so quick on your feet, as you’ve always been. Just based on this, you haven’t aged a day. Ansa welcomes the rewording of your questions and finally grants you a real response.

She explains that that’s exactly the point of the scene. It’s supposed to drag this pretentious bullshit through the mud. It’s a direct parody of a short film Dieter starred in, ages ago, which you’d never seen, because it was such an obscure release with practically no advertising budget.

“I want to ruin that motherfucker’s career.” Dieter bites; he’s talking about whichever poor soul directed the atrocious short film. “He’s acting all uppity in the media after he landed a couple hits with some military propaganda, wastes of precious lifetime, bullshit ass movies.” You wonder why he’s so genuinely livid at this director, but he answers the question before you can ask it.

“This guy screwed me over so hard on that stupid short film, I almost died trying to appease him and his artistic sensibilities, because he convinced me he was doing something worth my while with it. He had me drenched outside at night in Whateverthefuck, Ohio, in the pouring October rain, wearing barely anything, contorting and curling up and posing like a spiral for hours, because no take was ever perfect. And then that garbage didn’t even make a profit, so I got pneumonia for nothing. I had to pay someone to take that disgrace off my Wikipedia and IMDB. I want to make fun of his yuppie ass, I want to make a pornographic parody of his dumb, pseudo-intellectual garbage movie that nearly cost me my life.”

You get it then. The second layer reveals itself to you from behind the curtain of your initial reaction. And with it, you drop the robe they’d handed you.

Dieter apologizes that he didn’t take the time to talk you through the project before you signed, but he wanted it done as soon as possible. You tell him it’s fine, usually your agency would have sent a request for more information, but you saw his name in that e-mail and didn’t hesitate.

He’s touched by this, though you begin to get a feeling that Dieter isn’t being honest about his intention to do this scene, or at the very least about his constitution. Constantly on edge, fidgeting, shifting his weight back and forth between both feet, extroverted. Friendly. He used to be quieter, and you wonder if he was miserable back then or if he is now, and if it’s your place to even ask.

There’s no time to, anyhow, with droves of production staff pouring into the room, until you and Dieter are practically pushed onto the bed while the camera tests begin. It’s busier than at any normal shoot, but he seems used to it, conversing with his assistant standing close by, about what he would like to order for dinner after. You’re puzzled when he turns to you to ask if you’d like to stay.

But again, no more time to answer questions, the stylist invades your space and touches up both of your faces and hair, and when the cameras are set to roll, everyone who isn’t essential to the shoot leaves the room. The question is long forgotten, when two more people roll a whiteboard into the room that has each of the possible Golden Ratio sexual positions pinned to it for easy review, before leaving as well.

Dieter is awfully quiet over the next few minutes, when the last round of preparations begin, right before they have some time to get each other turned on, and then the cameras are going to start rolling.

But it never comes to that.

What happens next is Dieter is having a panic attack. A full-on hyperventilating, pacing up and down, cursing and yelling and… crying? He’s crying, crashing. A second ago you were busy holding still for the touch-up, and now he’s sobbing.

You’re immediately overwhelmed with the situation, in your leotard and the ballerina flats, adjusting the shoulder straps and wordlessly watching as Dieter’s team attempts to calm him down. His manager seems to be desperate to get him to stay away from the set while he’s melting down, so he doesn’t ruin the professional relationships they were able to forge over it.

He’s so loud when he yells, you’re speechless. A moment ago he was content, laughing, talking about having dinner with you… Oh. You hadn’t given him your answer. You completely ignored his advance. He asked you to have dinner with him, and you ignored him, and now he’s breaking down in front of everybody.

It can’t be because of that. Can it? You stand up and put your pink robe back on, tying it in the front. Then, tip-toeing around the expensive equipment and slipping past all of the people outside the room, you make your way up to Dieter, who’s currently trying to vandalize the dining room, wielding some kind of award, ready to smash a glass table to bits with it. However, he’s being held back by his apparent crisis team, his manager trying to talk him down.

Now it makes sense to you that the set was so crowded, with half of the workers not even doing any active tasks. They’re there to monitor him and mitigate the damage in case he goes off the rails. On second thought, that sounds cartoonishly conspiratorial, like they’re drugging him on purpose or something.

You decide then and there to find out and try to help him, through whatever it is he’s burdoned with.

A step closer to him earns you a glare of disapproval from his manager, but you ignore it and take another. He’s like a feral animal, if only they had Steve Irwin here with a tranquilizer gun.

“It’s okay, Dee… it’s me. Look at me.” you say calmly, raising your hands to show him you don’t mean to restrain him like the others, and it’s not like you would even stand a chance to. He looks at you and you almost start crying too, he looks fucking miserable. “I don’t know what to dooo, oh God” he whines, still looking right at you, fat tears spilling from his wide open eyes that are so dark you can’t tell how blown his pupils are.

His manager looks surprised that he hasn’t tried to swing a fist at you yet, you’re stepping so close to him, and finally she gestures for the two burly guys holding him back to release him and give you both some space.

The out-of-control Hollywood actor in his giant mansion is coming back to his senses slowly, closing the remaining two or three feet of distance to pull you into a desperate embrace, soaking the strap of your leotard with his tears.

You wrap your arms around his middle and shush him, swaying him in place like a big baby and whispering reassurances into his ear. The entire thing is so fucking surreal, everyone’s eyes on you, and when they start whispering to each other so you can’t hear what they’re saying, you ask Dieter where you two can be alone.

You don’t expect him to be able to answer coherently, but the finger he points at a door down the hallway is enough. Keeping one arm around his waist, you lead him there step by step, past all the gawkers. It’s on you now to shoot them a glare, causing them to scatter behind you.

The door leads to another bedroom, which is in complete disarray and stuffed full of boxes overflowing with all kinds of shit. You lock up behind Dieter as he stumbles to the dusty bed and curls up on top of the covers, and you realize he’s been butt ass naked the entire time.

You grab a thin blanket hanging over a chair in the corner and make your way through the narrow path to the bed, past all his stuff. Climbing into bed behind him, you cover him and yourself with the soft blanket and spoon him, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. He grabs your hand and squeezes it with a trembling sigh.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” you ask quietly, so careful not to tread him loose again with the wrong words. He breathes for a minute, deep inhales and long exhales, then croaks, “I hate myself.”

It’s a simple response, easy to understand in theory, but the reasons aren’t clear to you and you’re not sure if you should ask. “Why?” you whisper, pressing your cheek to the side of his neck and nuzzling closer to him. He’s so fucking soft and warm.

He scoffs, like it should be obvious, and you have a hunch but don’t dare to bring it up. “I’m such a fucking waste of space. I’m a piece of shit. I’m so sorry.”

Barely coherent through his tears, you just tighten your arm around him and give his shoulder another kiss. “Don’t say that. Let me help. We can figure this out.”

He shakes his head, “No, it’s fucking pointless. I’ve b-been to rehab so many times.”

“Are you high right now?” you continue to pry some answers from him with the patience of a saint that you’ve really only ever had for him, nobody else. He nods, sniffling and turning around in your grasp to face you. His eyes are red and puffy, cheeks wet, tears soaking his mustache. Up close like this, you can see the state of him clearly in his fully dilated pupils and everything else, and you swallow the emotions so you can be there for him, because what else are you supposed to do?

Thumbing away the tears that still keep coming, a seemingly endless well of them hidden under his eyes, you give him a soft smile. “I missed you, Dee. I’m so sorry we lost touch. Wish I could have been there for you all this time.”

“No, no, that’s not your fault. I’m an asshole, I should’ve called.” He brushes your hair behind your ear with a gentle touch that stands out in overwhelming contrast to his earlier demeanor, when he was about to smash his table with his award.

“Oh, you stop it. It doesn’t matter, I’m here now. And I’m not going to leave, unless you want me to.” you reassure him, and that finally seems to help, his features soften and he manages a crooked smile to try and match yours.

A harsh rap at the door startles you both, and suddenly he looks like a cornered animal again, sitting up and clutching the blanket to his chest. Giving his calf a reassuring squeeze, you slowly get up and walk to the door, unlocking it and cracking it open to peek out at whoever would have the audacity to knock like a cop right now.

It’s Tonya, your manager, behind Dieter’s manager whose name you’ve forgotten since you were introduced. You make an effort to look annoyed at them breaking the brief moment of peace, expecting an explanation. “We’re all leaving. I’ll call you in the morning, alright, sweetheart? Take care, and let me know if you need anything.” Tonya says, looking apologetic and her motherly nature appeases you. “Let me speak to him for a minute, please.” Dieter’s manager demands, but you refuse her with another glare. “Absolutely not.” Then you look back at Tonya with a much less furious look and a nod, “Drive safe, Tonya, I’ll text you if… yeah, I’ll text you.”

Tonya leaves, Dieter’s manager reluctantly follows, and you see some more people leaving and carrying gear out of the house. It’s suddenly very quiet, not even Dieter is making a sound anymore.

“Are they gone?” he asks after a while, when you shut the door again, locking it just in case.

“Yeah, they’re gone.” you assure him, and he lies back down on the bed with you, facing each other and holding hands. Yours are cold from clutching the door knob so harshly, and he warms them in his.

“Did I fuck it up?” he asks you after a while, the silence starting to make him uncomfortable.

“No, you didn’t fuck anything up. I promise.” You hook your pinky around his and look into his deep brown eyes, still filled with residual tears. “Pinky promise.”

He laughs again - not loud like earlier, it’s a quiet chuckle, but it seems even more genuine now that it’s between the two of you. “Pinky promise.”

You end up staying the night. It turns out he didn’t mind you not answering his question on set at all, you were busy. He orders dumplings for dinner and rolls a joint you share by his pool out back, huddled together on the side with your feet in the water. The pool is fucking heated and the emerging steam billows around you in the lights like the smoke you blow out your noses.

You haven’t smoked weed in so long, you’re a lightweight and he smokes most of it himself, content with just handing it over whenever you lift your hand to request a few tiny little puffs that make him giggle at you; he still thinks you’re adorable after all these years.

Dieter has make-up wipes for sensitive skin and scrunchies in his en-suite bathroom, and you even discover a half empty box of tampons under the sink. You don’t need any right now, but the fact that he has them on hand at all makes you a little emotional.

He gives you a shirt that’s three sizes too big and puts on a quiet movie for background noise, turning down the brightness of the enormous TV mounted to the wall opposite his bed. You toss the fake lashes into the bin, burying them in there like a casualty of the disaster of a set.

You finally properly meet his cat, which you’d mistaken for a whole raw chicken earlier as he was being carried off set. The friendly little guy - named Mad Max - lets Dieter put a sweater on him with no complaint, strutting his stuff all pretty in pink as he goes to devour the contents of a can of wet food from a bowl on the kitchen floor.

Dieter offers you a guest room, but you decline, climbing into his unbelievably comfortable kingsize bed, the effects of the weed making you feel heavy and deeply content. Exhaustion creeps into your bones as you curl up next to him with your head and hand on his chest, your eyes falling shut. His slow even breaths and the shapes he gently draws on your back with his fingertips lull you to sleep soon after.

This is not how you expected this day to end, but you’re the opposite of upset about it. If only it could be like this forever.

#dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo fic

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niragisimp · 7 months

Text

The Pain Before (Niragi x Reader) Part 14

Part 13, Series Masterlist, Part 15

Kuina paced the empty lobby, her thumbnail firmly placed in between her teeth as she bit at it. Her eyes wouldn't focus, no matter how much she tried. Tears welled up in her eyelids, and she quickly wiped them away as she took a deep breath. The only thing she could do was keep glancing back to the second floor, watching and hoping that either you or Chishiya, or both if she was lucky, would come walking down any moment now.

The noise of those walking past her was drowned out by her own thoughts, the guilt and anxiety finally catching up to her. Kuina had never thought, even in this awful and lawless place, that she would turn against another woman like that; to leave another so defenseless, even if it was all part of a larger scheme. Even during her toughest games so far, she hadn't felt the urge to light up a cigarette so badly since she arrived in this world.

Kuina suddenly felt a firm shove from behind her, her hands rising up quickly to catch herself before she hit the wall. Her head whipped around, ready to turn all that pent-up anxiety and guilt into anger before her eyes landed on the man behind her. She held her breath, her eyes widening slightly as she pursed her lips inward.

Niragi took a step forward, his rifle prominent in his hands as he glared at Kuina. It was only a second before she found herself cornered against the wall, her mind going blank before racing to figure a way out of this; whatever this was. "Can I help you with something?" She tried to sound dumbfounded, hoping he would back down. Regret filled her stomach instantly as Niragi's hand slammed into the wall beside her head, making her flinch just slightly.

"Maybe you can. You were with Y/N last night, weren't you?" Her eyes couldn't look away from his as he continued to glare, his voice firm and unwavering. Kuina felt herself gulp audibly, her hands beginning to sweat. "It's funny. See, she was fine right up until she met up with you and that little snake friend of yours. But then, she happened to come across a little case of amnesia. Any idea how that happened?"

Before she had the chance to speak, Niragi's finger slid up to the trigger, holding the barrel firmly under her chin. "You were working with that fucking snake, weren't you? And don't you dare try to lie to me either." For the first time, Kuina was seeing Niragi not just mad, but nearly furious. His eyes were stone cold and accusing, "He knows," Kuina thought inside her mind. "Fuck."

The look in Kuina's eyes told Niragi everything he needed to know as he lowered the barrel, stepping back almost hurriedly. Kuina breathed a sigh of relief before tensing at the sound of your voice, "What's going on?" Her head moved so quickly that Kuina could've sworn she nearly got whiplash. "Y/N..." Niragi couldn't help but smirk as he heard you, taking another side step back as you walked closer to the two of them.

"I was just having a little chat with your friend here," Niragi said cockily, his eyes focused on Kuina's reaction to seeing you. He couldn't help but feel a bit proud, having figured everything out in the short time that had passed. His tongue glided across his teeth, as he smirked, his eyes softening almost immediately as he finally looked over to you. The red nose, the puffy eyes. He took notice almost immediately, fighting the urge to publicly walk over to comfort you.

Your gaze moved back and forth between the two of them, a horrible feeling settling in your stomach. "What were you guys talking about...?" Your voice was soft, a bit timid, even. This day was not going as well for you as you had hoped, considering how you had woken up this morning.

Kuina's head dropped, all that guilt rushing back to her as quickly as it had left. She slowly licked her lips, feeling her vision go a bit blurry as she looked up at you, noticing the state of your face; you had been crying already. Kuina's heart was pained at the sight, taking a deep breath before she tried to speak. Unfortunately for Kuina, Niragi was just a moment quicker.

"Turns out, your memory loss from last night was a team effort," Niragi said coldly, his eyes glaring at Kuina. You couldn't help but tense your shoulders, your heart speeding up. Looking at Kuina, your lips began to tremble just slightly.

"Kuina...?"

Kuina slammed her eyes shut and looked down again, crossing her arms over her chest and holding herself. "I... Y/N, please understand, I didn't--"

Kuina gasped and nearly jumped back as Niragi's rifle was quickly pointed at her, his finger resting just over the trigger. "Tell her. Or I will." Kuina could feel the tears start slipping down her cheeks, her eyes focused solely on you. Oddly enough, she wasn't even worried about the gun pointed at her, nor the madman behind it. She was only worried for you. You, and the friendship she thought she had earned.

"I-I... I'm so sorry, Y/N... When we went drinking, I... I got you drunk... On purpose..."

You felt your heart sink to the bottom pit of your stomach, your lungs beginning to burn from the lack of oxygen from holding your breath.

"You... What?" You could feel your eyes start to burn again, blinking rapidly as the pieces quickly came together.

Kuina could see the look of hurt and betrayal in your eyes, quickly trying to counter herself. "Y/N, please listen! It's not like that, I swear--"

You tried to blink back some tears, failing to do so as you quickly turned and bolted back up the stairs, ignoring Kuina calling after you desperately. It seemed like around every corner, there was another problem. Another issue rising without regard or warning.

Niragi held the gun to Kuina whose eyes followed you up the stairs, his voice firm as he spoke, "Man, you guys really are such a pair, wouldn't you say?" He scoffed, a bit irritated she wasn't even looking at him as he threatened her, Kuina's eyes keeping on you desperately as her knuckles turned white from holding the railing of the stairs on the lobby floor, fighting the urge to run after you as her lip started to quiver.

Lowering his gun, Niragi immediately began his ascent up the stairs. He followed after you hurriedly, his feet carrying him towards the muffled sounds of you holding back sobs down the hallways. It was as if it was the only sound he could hear; the music from outside drowning out even as he got closer to it.

Reaching the basement, Niragi looked around, sighing as he could no longer hear nor see you. He scratched the back of his head in frustration, his rifle still firmly in his other hand. "Oh, fuck it..." He muttered to himself before picking a direction, following the edge of the hallway as he searched. It wasn't long before he found you, your body turned towards the corner of the wall, your head huddled down with your hand covering your mouth as you gently sobbed into it.

Niragi silently walked towards you, gently placing his hand on your shoulder to avoid startling you. You turned around, your cheeks stained with tears and your eyelids puffy and red. With your lips still slightly quivering, you buried your face into Niragi's shirt, ignoring how he tensed up the moment you touched him so suddenly. Within seconds, your hands were wrapped around his back, tucked under his arms as your hands grabbed onto the back of his shirt, holding yourself into him.

He held his breath for what seemed like forever in his mind, his shoulders slowly relaxing as he sighed softly to himself. Niragi awkwardly slung his gun over his shoulder by the strap, placing his arms over and around you, holding you to him as he rested his chin on the top of your head. He could hear you sobbing quietly, ignoring the wetness slowly being absorbed by his shirt.

Niragi ran his hand slowly up and down your back, staying silent as he couldn't quite figure out what to say or do. This affection was still new to him, so new that he wasn't even sure if he was doing the correct thing or not. It was often that Niragi felt unsure of himself like this, it wasn't a pleasant feeling either. He felt conflicted by so much. On one hand, he was beginning to realize that he truly cared for you in a way he couldn't quite grasp. The urge to protect you, to defend you from harm and anything that could hurt you made his ability to think clearly almost entirely mute.

On the other hand, when he wasn't with you, he was free to do as he wished. He could do whatever it was that he whimmed, no matter what. He could kill, he could torment, he could laugh at the most undesirable state of the world and nobody would dare to question his authority or judgment on things. It was as if he was two separate beings, trapped and sharing one body.

It wasn't until you slowly pulled away from him that he snapped out of his thoughts, his eyes wandering over you as his hands slid across your back and to your shoulders, his thumbs gently rubbing the softness of your skin. Niragi lifted your chin up to look at him softly, carefully wiping away a stray tear that was mid-fall. His voice was oddly soft as he spoke to you, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment.

"We should get you back to your room, yeah?"

He noticed you hold your breath for a moment before shaking your head to the side, looking down briefly. "I... I would rather not go back there, for now..."

Niragi thought for a moment before grabbing your hand, pulling you gently along with him as he started to move.

"W-where are we going?" You asked genuinely, the moment of you leaving Chishiya behind in your room flashing through your mind briefly.

"To my room."

Niragi spoke nonchalantly, and you were glad he was leading the way facing forward as you felt the slightest blush rise on your cheeks. "O-oh... Okay," you mustered up to say, recalling this morning when you, quite literally, woke up atop Niragi. The walk up the floors wasn't as long as it seemed, as a matter of fact, the time seemed to fly by as your mind honed in on the feeling of Niragi's hand around yours.

The weight of the world seemed to push heavily on your shoulders the moment you walked into Niragi's room, nearing stumbling over yourself in exhaustion the moment you closed the door behind you. Niragi quickly grabbed you by the shoulders, reaching an arm around your back to better support you as he looked at you with mild concern.

Niragi silently helped you into the bed, sitting on the edge as he watched you intently. You struggled to keep your eyes open, the puffiness still present as Niragi pulled the covers over you, the light shifting of his rifle still slung over his shoulder being the only noise that could be heard in the silence. You felt your mind begin to shut down, your eyes fluttering softly as you struggled to keep them open, your lips gently parting as you watched Niragi.

Maybe you wanted to say something to him. Or maybe, you just wanted his presence near you in this moment. But nothing came out, as you quickly drifted asleep, the events of the day having taken their full toll on you, leaving no emotion spared.

Niragi watched you for a moment, making sure you were fully asleep. He sighed lightly to himself, closing his eyes as he stood up, careful not to wake you. The wheels in his mind turned for a moment before clicking in place; his next move apparent. He knew what he had promised you, the way you begged for him to spare that snake hidden in the grass. But was it really breaking a promise if you never found out the truth? He could convince you if he tried hard enough, he was certain of that. After all, there weren't many that would correct him if he lied.

He silently walked out of the room, turning off the lights and taking one last look at you sleeping peacefully before quietly closing the door behind himself. Once he heard it click in place, he slung his rifle back into his hands, a cocky smirk rising on his lips as he began walking down the hallway.

His plan was almost perfect. All he needed was a good enough reason, and he was set. Niragi would finally be able to protect you from danger, even if it meant you lost some friends in a more permanent way than most. It was the one rule in the Beach that he completely agreed with, and for good reason. It gave him the privilege of ending any and all that would dare go against him. After all, never forget the third rule of the Beach; "Death to all traitors."

Kuina sobbed into her hands, quickly wiping away any tears that fell hurriedly to no avail. She didn't even hear the knock on her door until she felt a pair of eyes on her back, not bothering to turn to look at him.

"We fucked up, Chishiya... We fucked up so badly..."

Chishiya stood there, glad Kuina hadn't turned around. It wasn't often he felt defeated in any way, and the feeling wasn't exactly an easy one to get rid of. He kept his hands tucked away in his pockets as he thought for a moment, "We can fix this."

Chishiya jumped at the sudden movement of Kuina standing up, turning around quickly to face him. Her eyes glared at him, her face scrunched up as she balled her hands into fists. "Fix this? How the hell are we going to fix this, Chishiya?! She knows! She knows everything, and so does Niragi!"

He nodded his head slowly once, "Of course he knows too..." He said with an unbothered look on his face, more talking to himself than Kuina. "But we can win her back. It might take time, but we have plenty of that." Kuina looked down, trying to take deep breaths as she attempted to calm herself.

"Okay, okay... So what's the plan here?"

Chishiya opened his mouth to speak, immediately holding his words as the speaker rang throughout the hotel, the television in the room turning on with a white screen.

Kuina's eyes widened as she looked between Chishiya and the television, the eerily familiar voice ringing throughout the hotel.

"We'd like to thank our guests for staying at Seaside Paradise Tokyo. As a token of our appreciation, we would now like to commence a game with all residents."

"Game Difficulty: Ten of Hearts."

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hc-geralt-23 · 11 months

Note

Ragnarrsons reaction to finding out ivar was raped

Title: The Betrayal of Ivar the Boneless

It was a dreary winter evening in Kattegat. Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd, were gathered in the Great Hall, sharing stories and drinking ale. Suddenly, the doors burst open and a figure stumbled in, badly beaten and bloodied. It was Ivar, the youngest of the brothers.

The brothers rushed to Ivar's aid, helping him to a seat at the high table. As they tended to his wounds, Ivar whispered something that shocked them all. He had been raped.

Silence fell over the hall. The brothers looked at each other in disbelief. This was a crime that not even their most bitter enemies would dare to commit. The violation of their brother left them feeling helpless and furious.

Bjorn, as the eldest, stood up first. "Who did this to you, Ivar? We will find them and make them pay for what they have done."

Ivar shook his head, "It was a group of men. I don't know who they were or where they came from."

Ubbe's face twisted in anger. "Then we will track them down," he growled. "We will scour every village and town until we find them."

Hvitserk's eyes flashed with hatred. "We will make them wish they were never born," he sneered.

Sigurd, usually the quietest of the brothers, was trembling with rage. "I will personally tear them apart with my bare hands," he seethed.

The brothers were united in their determination to avenge their brother's honor. They would stop at nothing until the perpetrators were brought to justice.

Days turned into weeks, and the brothers scoured the land, searching for any leads or clues that would point them towards Ivar's attackers. They questioned anyone who might have seen something, made deals with informants, and even resorted to torture to extract information.

Finally, they received a hint from a trader who had overheard a conversation in a nearby tavern. The men who attacked Ivar were from a rival clan, known for their brutality and lawlessness.

The brothers immediately gathered their army and set out towards the enemy's stronghold. They arrived at night, creeping silently into the camp, ready to attack.

In the chaos of the battle that followed, the brothers fought with a ferocity that even their enemies had never seen before. They cut down men with ease, their movements fluid and coordinated. The enemy was caught off guard, and soon the battle was over.

The brothers searched the camp, looking for any signs of Ivar's attackers. Finally, they found them – a group of men huddled together, terrified.

The brothers dragged them to the center of the camp, and one by one, they began to exact their revenge. Bjorn beat them with his fists, while Ubbe cut off their fingers and toes. Hvitserk burned them with hot coals, and Sigurd gouged out their eyes.

It was a brutal and bloody scene, but the brothers didn't care. They were consumed by their need for vengeance, and nothing was going to stop them from delivering it.

As the sun began to rise, the brothers stood over the battered bodies of Ivar's attackers. They were exhausted, but their faces were grim and determined. Ivar, who had watched the entire scene from a safe distance, approached them slowly.

"You have avenged me," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The brothers turned to him, their faces softening for the first time since the incident. They had done what they set out to do – they had punished those who had dared to harm their brother. But now, they knew they had to help Ivar heal from his trauma.

They gathered around him, their arms embracing him tightly. As they stood there, they knew that they would always stand by one another, no matter what happened. They were brothers, bound by blood and loyalty, and no one could ever break their bond.

#bjorn ironside imagine #ubbe ragnarson imagine #hvitserk ragnarson imagines #sigurd snake in the eye imagine #ivar the boneless imagine

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helianthus21 · 8 months

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accompanying fic to this fanart in the Early Adoption AU by the amazing @nalivaa who wondered what would happen if rival mafiosi exploited the weakness Vin's cute little brother posed and kidnapped him,,,,

The mafia business is a lawless one but there are some rules, unspoken or not, that you just have to adhere to.

Such as, Never rat out your friends.

Or, Don’t start a fight you cannot win.

And perhaps the most important one in Milanese circles: You are not to touch a hair on the head of Vincenzo Cassano's little brother.

Like with most rules, they get established after the transgression has already been committed, even if just once. And the poor sons of bitches who tried are example enough to deter any madmen from even trying to copy them, even though, or rather because all but one of them did not live to tell the tale.

Having such a reputation is a relief to Vincenzo, though he has regrets about the way it was built up. Not because of what he had to do to get there – he doesn’t give two fucks about the poor suckers who became victims of his wrath – but because of what Han-seo had been forced to endure.

Han-seo should’ve never gotten dragged into this. He should not even be a blip on the radar of any mafia members. Unfortunately, no matter how careful Vincenzo thought he was in keeping Han-seo's existence a secret from the mafia circles, trying to keep hidden someone who is such an essential part of your life is something of a herculean effort.

He still remembers, all too vividly, the numbing fear he'd felt back then, when Luca had approached him and told him that his brother was gone. Taken. Fear that had quickly transformed into white-hot rage: he would kill everyone who had dared lay a finger on Han-seo, and everyone who got in his way would burn to cinder.

Without waiting for Luca or any of the other guys Luca had been trying to rally as reinforcement, he'd taken his Father's precious Cadillac and sped to the location he'd been told.

Apparently they'd demanded ransom – an insane amount at that – as well as some land Don Fabio had appropriated but Vincenzo couldn’t care less about any demands, let alone about fulfilling them. All he would fulfill that night was the blood-thirsty need for revenge that raged inside him.

They had taken Han-seo.

They were going to pay.

When Vincenzo arrived at the scene, there were four armed men guarding the entrance to the warehouse that held Han-seo captive. As a rule, it is foolish to take on four armed men single-handedly. The four armed men seemed to think so too, which must have been why they did not even lift a brow (or move a trigger finger) when they saw Vincenzo approaching.

Underestimation, Vincenzo had long since understood, was man’s greatest downfall, right next to pride.

That was why, when Vincenzo raised his gun, aimed, and shot the nearest guy right between his eyes, it took them a second to even process what was happening.

A second too long.

A second enough for Vincenzo. Taking advantage of their delay in action, he shot off two more bullets. One hit Goon Number Two in the heart, the other one missed by a hair's breadth and got Goon Number Three at the shoulder instead. By then, Vincenzo was close enough that some of his blood splattered on his hands.

Number Three and Four had caught themselves enough to coordinate each other: taking off in different directions, they tried their luck by coming at Vincenzo from different angles at once. But Vincenzo didn't hesitate for a moment. He let out another shot to his left, didn’t even stop to check if he'd hit home before whipping around again, anticipating Number Four pouncing on him.

That was his second mistake.

"Guns are a long-distance weapon, stupido!" Vincenzo commented as he dodged Goon Number Four's attack, grabbed him by the wrist to kick the gun from his grip and spun him around to use as a shield just in time for when Goon Number Three recovered and fired off his own shot in their direction.

Vincenzo pushed a limp Goon Number Four on him and shot Goon Number Three in the aorta.

There was no time to lose.

"Where is he?"

With the weight of Goon Number Four squarely over his chest and bleeding out, Goon Number Three glared at him. "Testa di cazzo!"

Unimpressed, Vincenzo pushed his foot down on the hole in his leg and repeated his question, voice raised over the man's scream of pain. "Where. Is. He."

"Third door down the corridor to the left."

Expression impassive, Vincenzo nodded. "Keys. And I'll make it quick for you."

From his pocket, the man pulled out the keys to the warehouse and handed them to him

As promised, Vincenzo blew his brains right out.

Vincenzo took a moment to reload his gun. This time, he had every intention of going in with a plan. A more solid one, maybe find a way to see how everyone was positioned around the room before entering or such.

Until he heard Han-seo’s voice.

“Hyu–”

It went muffled at the end, like someone pressed a hand to his mouth to silence him.

Someone put a hand on him.

And silenced him.

And Vincenzo saw red.

What happened next is a blur to Vincenzo to this day. He knows that he bullied his way inside, somehow, that at one point he lost his gun – someone must’ve kicked it from his grip – so that he’d have nothing but his fists and whatever he could leverage from his surroundings. He doesn’t know exactly how he fought against all of Han-seo’s captors and came up on top, all he can say is that there were four more dead men, and three gravely injured, once he was done with them.

What he remembers, though, all too clearly, is standing in that room, gun still firm in his hand like an extension of himself, and looking for his brother in the midst of all that grime and death.

Han-seo was standing, staring, wide-eyed.

Some blood had splattered on his face and clothes when Vincenzo had shot the man who’d been holding Han-seo in the cruel attempt to use him as a shield. It had been, perhaps, the scariest moment for Vincenzo in this whole mess. In his entire life thus far, perhaps: the risk he had to take when he aimed with Han-seo so close to his target. But he’d hit home, hit the man in the shoulder, not enough to kill, but enough to make him stumble away from Han-seo. Then, he followed up with another bullet, to his thigh this time, just to keep him from running.

Han-seo had tumbled to the ground, hands and knees breaking his fall. Wincing, Vincenzo took a look at the stone floor. That must have hurt, he thought, and rage flared up once more at that. “Han-seo,” he rasped, taking a step towards him. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

There was a mirror, just behind Han-seo, a little to the left, and it caught Vincenzo’s eye the moment he moved. It was leaning against the wall, an old thing, with cracks at the upper left corner and dust sticking to the rest of it, distorting Vincenzo’s reflection into a grotesque form, like a specter. Blood was splattered all across his suit. Blood sullied the white of his collar. His own blood dripped sluggishly down a cut on his cheek, and blood stuck to his hands: the blood of the people he killed to get here.

He looked like–

He looked like a monster.

He couldn’t look Han-seo in the eyes, wouldn’t bear to see fear reflected in them: fear of his own brother.

“Hy- hyung?”

Han-seo’s voice sounded so thin, so shaky, and this made Vincenzo seek his gaze after all. His feet brought him the rest of the way to him, closing the distance. He dropped to his knees before his brother. Han-seo was still wearing the same jacket he’d been wearing when Vincenzo had dropped him off at school that morning. An ugly atrocity of brightly colored patterns reminiscent of eighties fashion that Han-seo had zoned in on at the mall and absolutely insisted on. He was the same boy from that morning, yet ages had passed behind his eyes.

Taking care not to touch Han-seo directly, he examined the handcuffs that chafed the skin around his wrists. Bastardos, he thought. To do that to a child! Don Fabio had clear rules about never involving women and children in their work, never harming the innocent and he demanded from his men to abide by this law religiously.

These men were worse than trash for putting Han-seo through this hell.

With practiced ease, Vincenzo unlocked the cuffs with a safety pin, careful not to let the metal scrape against Han-seo’s skin any more. They fell to the floor with a clang.

Throughout it all, he felt Han-seo's eyes on him, and the urge to hide his face, to shield Han-seo’s eyes from all this grew by the second. He dreaded to know what Han-seo was thinking now, how the picture of his big brother had, undoubtedly, changed irrevocably. He never wanted Han-seo to see this side of him.

Instead of meeting Han-seo's eyes, Vincenzo focused on his hands: the scratches on his wrist were an angry red, and Vincenzo reached out, then, by instinct, but he caught himself before his hands (the hands of a killer) could meet bare skin, and gripped Han-seo by the arm instead, as though the fabric of his jacket was barrier enough from his tainting touch. Instead, his bloody hands sullied that damn jacket, pink mixing with red, but despite the disgust at himself, Vincenzo needed to make sure he was real, solid. That he was fine.

“Hanseo-yah,” he whispered.

Han-seo stared at him.

His knees were bleeding, and Vincenzo was partly to blame for that. There was a cut on his right cheek, smaller than the one Vincenzo sported, yet enough to make his heart constrict at the sight.

Almost more incriminating, tears were welling in his eyes. When one spilled over, Vincenzo reached out a hand to his left cheek, by instinct, to wipe it away with his thumb. “Han-seo,” he whispered again. “I’m sorry.”

Horrified by the way his touch left a stain of red on Han-seo’s face, he wanted to draw back, but Han-seo was faster. Like a dam breaking, more tears spilled from his eyes and he launched himself at Vincenzo, scraped knees hitting the cold hard floor once more and it was all Vincenzo could do to catch him in his arms as Han-seo began to cry for real.

For a moment, Vincenzo was too stunned to do more.

Wasn’t he scared of him? Wasn’t he horrified?

“Hyung!” Han-seo got out between sobs. “They– they…”

They hurt him.

Any other thought flew out the window, as Vincenzo’s heart flared with the feeling that had risen in him since the first time he’d laid eyes on Han-seo, when Vincenzo had sworn to protect him, that small boy that got left behind just like Vincenzo himself had been left behind.

Vincenzo pulled Han-seo closer, tightened his hold on him, so tight it might almost hurt. “It’s okay.”

“I was so scared!”

“It’s okay, I’m here now.”

“They hurt me.”

“I know.” Vincenzo swallowed. He pushed down another wave of nauseating rage. “I’m sorry.”

“Hyung.”

“You’re alright,” Vincenzo promised “I’m here now. You’re okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.” One of his hands rubbed back and forth soothingly across his back. “By my first father’s grave, I swear this. Anyone who tries, I’ll…”

He’ll pay them back tenfold, and his currency is pain. He’ll make them feel every second of blinding fear he’d felt for Han-seo since the moment he realized he was missing. Every second that Han-seo was scared, that he had to live in a world where he wasn’t safe, where Vincenzo had failed him.

Eyes drifting, he caught another glance at the mirror.

He looked awful.

Like a killer.

Like a monster.

Suddenly, he couldn’t bear to be near Han-seo. His innocent, carefree dongsaeng had been pulled into this world, his world, and he was the one to blame. He couldn’t stand to touch him with his filthy hands, hands full of blood.

But as he loosened his grip to draw back, Han-seo only clung to him more tightly.

“Hyung, please!” Han-seo wailed. “Please stay.”

Stunned, Vincenzo didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere,” he assured. “I’ll keep you safe, from now on. I promise.”

While Vincenzo was wearing the blood of his enemies, the blood on Han-seo was mostly his own. His knees. His cheek. His wrists were full of scratches from where he had likely pulled against his too tight restraints. He must’ve been so scared.

Vincenzo would kill them all again, would shoot another load of bullets in their bodies. Make it hurt this time, draw it out, for what they put Han-seo through. For every drop of blood they drew from him, he’d draw a hundred, for every tear that fell from his eyes, he’d tear off a limb.

He doesn’t know how long they stayed like this, how long until Luca arrived with the cavalry. But when their medic tried to rip them apart to treat their injuries, Han-seo wailed even louder than before.

"Han-seo," Vincenzo chided carefully, not letting go either. "You need to let them have a look at you."

"No, I'm fine, I just–" he sniffed, and Vincenzo's heart melted.

He didn’t spend more than a furtive second wondering what Father’s men will think of him now, seeing him fold so easily for this kid. That was less important. More important was to keep Han-seo close, to reassure himself that he was here, that he was fine. He hadn’t been able to breathe since he found out Han-seo had been captured, and now he finally could. He closed his eyes, took in the vague smell of candy and Han-seo’s strawberry shampoo and, most damningly, the iron smell of blood that now clung to his little brother. Instinctively, Vincenzo hugged him a little tighter.

“You’re alright.” He couldn’t in all sincerity tell anymore if the reassurance was for Han-seo’s or his own sake.

Now that he knew that Han-seo was largely unharmed, the thing he most abhorred about this day was the fear these men put Han-seo through. The fear that shook his world view, burst the bubble that his world was a safe one. The fear that stripped him of the belief that as long as his brother was around, things would go alright, that he’d never let any harm come his way.

Because he had been there, and harm had still found Han-seo.

In the worst way, Vincenzo had failed. If something worse had happened to Han-seo, he’d never have forgiven himself…

In the end it was Luca who managed to dislodge Han-seo’s iron hold on Vincenzo.

“Han-seo,” he’d addressed the boy directly. “We really need to have a look at the both of you. Your hyung doesn’t look so good himself…”

Immediately, Han-seo drew back to look Vincenzo over. There was a determined look in his watery eyes fighting to overthrow the state of distress he was obviously still in, his cheeks marked with tear tracks. Vincenzo reached out to wipe them away but the sight of blood on his hands made him waver.

He wanted to drop his hand to his side, but Han-seo was faster.

"Hyung, your hands!" His brother caught them between his smaller ones, the same delicate fingers that had pieced together a toy car at the breakfast table this morning brushing over Vincenzo’s bruised knuckles, where skin had ripped open when he’d punched his way through Han-seo’s captors. More blood transferred from Vincenzo onto Han-seo’s skin, and his stomach lurched at the sight, urge to pull back growing exponentially but Han-seo was insistent. “You need a band-aid!”

And in front of the eyes of his Father’s most trusted men, their medic and the corpses of their enemies, Han-seo reached into his pants’ pocket, pulled out a strip of dinosaur-themed bandaid and, very gently, stuck it right across Vincenzo’s knuckles.

Wide-eyed, Vincenzo stared at him. A small smile brightened Han-seo’s miserable face as he examined his handiwork and Vincenzo remembered what he had said to Han-seo, on that fateful day when Han-seo was hand-delivered to his doorstep by an uncaring former brother.

Let's just take care of one another from now on.

Han-seo never failed to save Vincenzo right back, it seemed.

He let the man go, the one who had used Han-seo as a shield. Someone needs to live to tell the tale. The tale of what happened when you dared to mess with Vincenzo Cassano's little brother.

The saying doesn’t specify for how long that person should be allowed to live, however. But Vincenzo was a patient man when he wanted to be. He liked to play with his food.That man was how Vincenzo earned the title of the gatto sazio, but that's another story yet to tell.

#fuck around and find out💁🏼‍♀️#vincenzo #early adoption au #jang han seo #pls hand-wave the action scene im bad at this #and if young adult vin is already larger than life and his enemies are dumb and incompetent #that's just consistent with the show y'know #heli writes #posting this to ao3 soon #ficlet

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acourtofthought · 8 months

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Would you prefer Elucien in Spring Court or Day Court??

I'm so torn. On one hand, I'd like for Elain and Lucien to bring the magic back to Spring and unify its people. Lucien knows it's people, but he's lost their trust (because of what happened with Feyre, but I think he could overcome it, and I think that's where Elain comes in, she's described as someone who can light up a room and people naturally like her.

I think the spring court would love Elain.

But what draws me to Day Court is just new location and worldbuiding, we already read about Spring, I want to read about other courts so bad lol, but I can do see SJM bringing things full circle in the series and concluding with Spring with Elucien. But if Lucien is the heir of Day, why set up that plot if he isn't going to be HL,

But no matter what I love that SJM has given Elucien TWO possible outcomes based on canon evidence and possible foreshadowing, three if you count the continent 🤗🤗🤗

Either way, SJM has set up their story.

I would prefer Elain and Lucien in Day Court for all the reasons you mentioned and the aesthetic (how incredible is Elucien Day Court fanart, right?). Not to mention the Spring Court is a reminder of unpleasant times for Lucien while the Day Court is a new beginning.

But......if SJM is keeping Helion around then I'm not sure what they'd be doing in Day.

For me it's not enough to say, "well, just let them chill and relax for a few centuries". Lucien has been the sidekick for far too long, the right hand man, the "son of a High Lord" waiting to have purpose, and I think it's time for him to step into being a leader. I don't really like the thought of him as the Crown Prince in waiting in Day and I feel the same for Elain, where she ends her book waiting for a greater purpose that won't come about for centuries.

Feyre ended her series as the High Lady of the Night Court.

Nesta ended her book knowing she's the leader of a group of female warriors.

Their stories both ended with them in a clearly defined role and not, "well someday when this character dies, they'll step into that role".

I want Elucien's book to end with them reaching their potential and not just left open ended for what they'll someday accomplish. Things could change in the next book but as it stands, there's no place for Elucien in Day at this time, there's no void needing filled. Helion is an extremely likeable character, SJM said she's obsessed with him and he and the LoA have an unfinished love story so I don't think he's going anywhere or expendable.

But when you look at Spring....it's current High Lord killed his own sentries back when Mor took Feyre away from there. He allied with Hybern which caused his people to lose trust in him. He chose Ianthe time and again, causing further uncertainty in him within his court. In the novella and SF, we're told he no longer cares for his people at all, leaving his borders unattended, refusing Rhys's help for guards to be stationed at his borders (sorry but no matter how much he hates Rhys, he should care more about the safety of his lands and accept the help. Even Rhys would have allowed Amarantha to continue using him if it meant saving their world), turning a blind eye to the lawlessness within Spring.

I have no doubt that Elain and Lucien are going to be the ones to turn Spring around.

But is that so Tamlin can find his way back as ruler? Would it be believable that his people would even WANT to follow him again at this point? In my opinion the answer to that is no. I think he's abandoned his people and been too volatile for far too long for anyone to respect him again as a ruler.

But Elain and Lucien......

Not only was there the major hint that Spring had been MADE for someone like Elain but Lucien is also tied to the magic of the land through the Great Rite. Lucien expressed sorrow at not being able to return to the lands outside of Tamlin's manor because the people believed him complicit in the lies Feyre told. He also expressed sadness over Tamlin's court not turning out the way he once hoped it would.

But he and Elain could turn the court into everything the people need and everything he wanted.

I also don't think SJM just casually threw in that the position of HL can jump bloodlines when necessary for no reason at all unless she plans on replacing Rhys and Feyre in the NC (which I don't see as happening especially as they now have Nyx).

As Lucien is Helion's bloodline, it doesn't apply for Day.

I'm pretty sure Eris is going to be HL of Autumn and he's the rightful son of Beron.

I can't imagine Tarquin going anywhere either, he's likeable and a new HL set on making the world a better place.

And the other courts aren't a major focus at this time.

So why would SJM have given us that information unless she was building up what's going to happen in Spring. Tamlin is the only HL (outside of Beron) that really needs to go.

I think SJM, being a girl power author, is probably looking to shake up the system of the HL too. Why couldn't the magic choose a High Lady for once? Elain is not ready to rule over a court on her own of course but Lucien, as her mate, could easily stand beside her and help her. Just like Rhys walked Feyre through the process of High Lady of the NC. Lucien has literally trained for the role his entire life and spent centuries beside Tamlin in what was basically an apprentice like role.

If you think back on ACOTAR, Tamlin was no more fit to be a High Lord than Elain would be High Lady (though Elain's natural ability with people already sets her apart from him). Tamlin never wanted to be HL so he turned his back on the teachings of how to rule yet ended up in the role whether he wanted it or not.

And maybe, Lucien will also add the High King role to his bag of tricks. I don't think it's a role that one steps into unless it's during times of extreme unrest, I don't think he gets to command other courts during times of peace but he does seems to be best suited to unify all the courts and the human lands when there are major issues threatening them all.

Centuries later when Helion is ready to step down maybe Lucien will step into his role of High Lord of Day. By that time I imagine he and Elain will have children, one of who might be ready to come into power in Spring.

For me, that's the scenario that makes the most sense with what we've been given and knowing that she loves Helion. Maybe some new information will be introduced in the next book and it'll change my stance but as it stands I can't imagine her killing off Helion and I can't imagine Tamlin being redeemed to the point that his court is happily ready to accept him as their leader once again.

#high lady elain #high king lucien #pro elain archeron #pro lucien vanserra #elucien #pro elucien #acotar theory #anti tamlain #elain archeron #lucien vanerra #lucien spell cleaver #elucien supremacy

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wingedblooms · 2 years

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Blooming spring

Her sister’s delicate scent of jasmine and honey lingered in the red-stoned hall like a promise of spring, a sparkling river that she followed to the open doors of the chamber. (ACOSF)

Elain is frequently compared to light and color and blooms, so it is no surprise that Sarah equates her with a specific time, dawn (when light is reborn), and a particular season, spring (when life is reborn). I’ve wondered if this symbolism might be related to a number of things, including Blodeuwedd; witches; shifting powers; healing powers; Starborn heritage; Dawn and her consort, Dusk; and even lightsinging. What can I say? I love to consider all the possibilities. However, one idea I have yet to touch, but have chatted with others about, involves her inheriting the magic of Spring Court. Though I love the Night Court, I don’t think it matters where Elain ultimately calls home. Some of my favorite Maas characters (Aelin and Elide, for example) have had love interests follow them rather than the reverse. In Prythian, that would be something new and different, but not unrealistic since we have recently learned that the Starborn heir connected to Dusk is female, rather than male.

So why on earth would I speculate that Spring magic would pass to someone outside of Tamlin’s bloodline? Sarah conveniently dropped this on us in ACOSF:

It wasn’t a guarantee that a High Lord’s firstborn would be his heir. The magic sometimes took a while to decide, and often jumped around the birth order completely. Sometimes it found a cousin instead. Sometimes it abandoned the bloodline entirely. Or chose the heir in that moment of birth, in the echoes of a newborn’s first cries. (ACOSF)

Sometimes court magic, which is deeply connected to the land, abandons the bloodline entirely. Why would Sarah choose to include this specific information in ACOSF? Could she be planting a seed she wants to develop in upcoming books? I certainly think that’s a possibility, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this post. And why would this have anything to do with the Spring Court? Well, let’s be honest: the court and its High Lord are in a sorry state.

It was Spring, and yet it wasn’t. It was not the land I had once roamed in centuries past, or even visited almost a year ago. The sun was mild, the day clear, distant dogwoods and lilacs still in eternal bloom. Distant—because on the estate, nothing bloomed at all. The pink roses that had once climbed the pale stone walls of the sweeping manor house were nothing but tangled webs of thorns. The fountains had gone dry, the hedges untrimmed and shapeless. The house itself had looked better the day after Amarantha’s cronies had trashed it. Not for any visible signs of destruction, but for the general quiet. The lack of life. (ACOFAS)

And since last solstice, Spring and its High Lord have only deteriorated more:

Rhys halted in the middle of the orchard, located to the north of Tamlin’s once-lovely estate.

Eris looked toward the hills beyond the orchard, green and gold and glowing in the sunlight. “They say a beast prowls these lands now. A beast with keen green eyes and golden fur. Some people think the beast has forgotten his other shape, so long has he spent in his monstrous form. And though he roams these lands, he does not see or care for the neglect he passes, the lawlessness, the vulnerability. Even his manor has fallen into disrepair, half-eaten by thorns, though rumors fly that he himself destroyed it.”

Eris and Rhys held each other’s gaze. Eris said, “You’ve been trying to bring Tamlin back for a while. But he isn’t getting better, is he?”

“I have every right to kill trespassers on my lands.” The words were guttural, nearly impossible to understand. As if Tamlin had not spoken in a long while. “Are these still your lands?” Nesta asked coolly, stepping out from behind Cassian. “Last I heard, you don’t bother to rule them anymore.”

Despite Rhysand’s and Lucien’s efforts, Tamlin is not improving. He has remained in his beast form for so long that some believe he has forgotten his other form. What happens if he is in his beast form and the magic leaves his bloodline? Will he lose his shifting ability and remain a beast forever? Why does any of this matter?

If war was coming, they needed Tamlin and his forces in fighting shape. Needed Tamlin ready. Rhys had been visiting him regularly, making sure he’d be both on their side and capable of leading.

Azriel said quietly, “We are weakened—all seven courts. Even more at odds with each other and with the rest of the world since the war. If Montesere and Vallahan march on us, if Rask joins with them, we will not withstand it. Not with Beron already turned against us and allied with Briallyn. Not if Tamlin cannot master his guilt and grief and become what he once was.”

These concerns are even more pressing now that we have learned about the Asteri’s past in Prythian and endless desire for revenge. Discord is an effective tool for those who aim to divide and conquer. In fact, I suspect that the Asteri—through their army of mystics or a relative of theirs (Koschei?)—may be behind the discord and conflict we have seen thus far, ensuring Prythian is ripe for invasion.

And why would the magic pass to Elain, specifically? It’s pretty straightforward:

She is consistently associated with spring imagery throughout the original trilogy and spin-off series, particularly roses.

Both Feyre and Nesta associate Elain with the Spring Court. Feyre thinks of Elain’s little garden when she is imprisoned in the Spring Court and Nesta believes the Spring Court was made for someone like Elain.

There are hints that Elain may possess the ability to shift form. Shapeshifting is a power associated with Spring Court magic. Is that why she is a trembling fawn and fanged beast? Does she have a beast form like Tamlin and all other court leaders?

As a gardener, Elain brings the land to life and her senses are particularly sensitive, which may be similar to the magic Tamlin shared with Feyre by kissing her eyes. Without a glamour, she listened to the ethereal music of spring, noticed the rainbow of water, and smelled the jasmine, lilac, and rose scent of magic. She compares the experience to a lovely dream and falls asleep, peacefully. Is it possible that Elain senses all of these things if she is becoming the heir of Spring? And is that why she smells like sweet blooms and lulls her nephew to sleep in her gentle arms? She may be a promise of spring destined to revive the Spring Court as High Lady in the near future.

Elain seems to be the obvious choice as the next caretaker of Spring and its people. In fact, the scene where Azriel leads Elain out to the garden, like a graceful courtier, might foreshadow their future in Spring. Azriel’s eyes also reflect the hues of the earth—green, brown, gray—when Elain brings them to life with deep joy and laughter in ACOFAS. And I wouldn’t hate that outcome, especially if it involved tea in the garden, romps in the forest, and dips in this lovely pond of starlight:

There, in a clearing surrounded by towering trees, lay a sparkling silver pool. Even from a distance, I could tell that it wasn’t water, but something more rare and infinitely more precious.

The silvery sparkling water that dribbled from his hand set ripples dancing across the pool, each glimmering with various colors, and—“That looks like starlight,” I breathed.

He huffed a laugh, filling and emptying his hand again. I gaped at the glittering water. “It is starlight.”

“How?” I asked, unable to take my eyes from the pool—the silver, but also the blue and red and pink and yellow glinting beneath, the lightness of it …

The liquid was delightfully warm, and I strode in until it was deep enough to swim out a few strokes and casually tread in place. Not water, but something smoother, thicker. Not oil, but something purer, thinner. Like being wrapped in warm silk.

I hardly had to put any effort into it—the water was so warm, so light, that it felt as if I were floating in air, every ache in my body oozing away into nothing.

I’ll be honest: I want Elain to visit the Spring Court for this pool alone. It is described in a way that reminds me of Hope in liquid form (you knew that was coming, right?). That seems fitting for Elain, since she is also connected to water: blue streams, sparkling rivers, etc. And this enchanted water seems like it might have healing powers since it removed Feyre’s pain. Elain is the embodiment of colorful, healing light, which is warm and rosy. This pool is full of colorful, healing starlight. Could it also be connected to the cosmos? Will Elain use it to See, like a mystic? So many possibilities.

It’s also possible that Elain and Azriel will carve out their own place together in the Night Court as many have theorized, and the garden imagery they share is meant for his theoretical secret manor, Rosehall. But if Elain isn’t destined for the Spring Court, then who is? Some have wondered about a future for Lucien in Spring, but he made it fairly clear that Feyre ruined his chance of ever returning to live there permanently:

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Before I could object, he said, “You ruined any chance I have of going back to Spring. Not to Tamlin, but to the court beyond his house. Everyone either still believes the lies you spun or they believe me complicit in your deceit. And as for here …” He shook off my grip and headed for the door. “I can’t stand to be in the same room as her for more than two minutes. I can’t stand to be in this court and have your mate pay for the very clothes on my back.” (ACOFAS)

There is, however, another redhead option and her name is Gwyn Berdara. Why would I dare to suggest this as another possibility?

Sarah chose her words carefully, stating the Spring Court had been made for someone like Elain and they appear to share too many parallels to be dismissed: (1) they are more sheltered; (2) they wear magical bracelets with Nesta; (3) they are rescued by Azriel from Hybern’s army; (4) they can charm others; (5) they are connected to the gods, as seer and priestess; and (6) they have warm light and water imagery.

In the same book we learn about magical inheritance, we also meet Gwyn—who has unknown parentage—for the first time. We do know that she has both Autumn and Spring heritage, and she was conceived on Spring’s most prominent holiday: Calanmai. Given her age, this likely means the male stranger who sired her was not confined to UTM during Amarantha’s reign.

Gwyn’s singing reminds me of the music in Spring. When the sun outshines the night on solstice, Feyre calls the music a thing of wonder and joy and beauty. She loses herself to it and compares it to a siren song, and the melody to a lodestone (magnetic force). She was powerless against its lure and it fills her with sunshine. Similarly, Gwyn’s lovely voice draws any listener in and it is full of sunshine and joy and determination. She would be right at home in Spring.

And this leads me to the rose amulet and why, of all people, it found its way to Gwyn when it was originally meant for Elain. Could the rose amulet—a thing of secret, lovely beauty—be a hint for her connection to and inheritance of the Spring Court? She glows when she sings and sunshine reveals the golden strands of her hair…much like the golden, glowing Tamlin, who has a halo of sunshine around his head. Are these signs she is becoming the heir? If Gwyn is destined for Spring, could she use her song to shake Tamlin from his guilt and grief, and save the fate of the Spring Court from manipulation and violence? Only time will tell.

#elain archeron #elriel #a promise of spring

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