#purely theoretical knowledge of what to do on father’s day
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I feel like we, in the DL fandom, do not talk about how the Church organization people who send in the brides, are fucking trash as well to make a deal with Karlheinz, send in young girls who have faith in them to a bunch of sadistic 100+ year brats who torment them for sport, all for the “greater good” of humanity (ofc young women have to be sacrificed 🙄). Like, THEY should be risking themselves (they’re vampire hunters, like Seiji) for the sake of humanity, not these clueless, young girls.
Yes! I totally agree with you as much as I like portraying Yui’s childhood as something idyllic and much happier than her current state. It's undeniable the church is at partial fault for the atrocities and tragedies committed by the boys.
Now as controversial as it sounds the boys are not wrong to feed or hunt humans for blood, it makes sense for their father to set up a feeding system so there would be less disarray.
I mean it makes sense, according to the Diabolik lovers wiki page all of the demon clans can feed on blood however vampires are the only ones who gain nutrients from it.
This makes them natural predators of humans, as a race you can't expect them to starve so being sent to humans only seem as natural as humans slaughtering livestock. They are royal too, obviously, their blood supply would be of fine quality, so “pure blood” I'm assuming is healthy girls who don't eat junk food, haven’t smoked or drank or even touched drugs which is why a church is such a perfect cover. Also, I think the whole virgin thing doesn't play a part, it's probably an old wives’ vampire tale but knowing someone's dick hasn't been in your lunch probably makes it much more appetising.
Now, this under no circumstances means I'm defending the boys, I am looking at it from your average vampire’s viewpoint discarding human morality of well putting “an innocent lamb” for slaughter mentality.
But it's very apparent because both vampires and humans are intelligent creatures with free will. The silver line between a food source and an inferior race is very blurred. I will extend the difference on this another day but I'll focus on the actual church feeding system from what I've gathered; I just wanted to portray it from a different point of view for all those who rightly disagree with the sacrificial bride system.
Now don’t get me wrong if used correctly I think the sacrificial bride system is pretty great if you tweak some areas if you have a voluntary group of individuals who get paid to let the boys feed from them with full knowledge and consent of what’s going on as well as full insurance on their safety it is far more practical then no feeding system at all. What makes this feeding system even better is that it’s backed by both the vampire nobility and human hunters. Both are sides that have been at war for who knows how long and have had tremendous impacts on both sides, whether they be socio-political, or financial and physical.
See how on paper this looks like the perfect theoretical solution, but the show hints to us that there’s a lot more corruption involved.
I didn’t plan for this to become headcanons but here we go I guess:
I'm assuming Yui is not the only church girl who is kept unaware of the vampire's existence but one of the only girls who hold any relation to a vampire hunter probably plot armour.
Vampires and humans dislike each other. This is not new, they've probably been at war for centuries and whilst humans are extremely adaptable but the only reason they could reach a truce with the vampires is probably that they became a nuisance to the vampires and this would be the lesser of two evils for the church.
The funding comes from the vampires, each hunter gets as much money as the girls they send, and the girls that are sent must be of the highest quality.
Docile, sweet, easy on the eyes and most importantly with good-tasting blood.
However the war is over, and there are truces and pacts. The original hunters are replaced and hand their titles down to their eldest son and the training to prepare continues, but traditions and principles become lax, and discipline is lost.
Nepotism and corruption don’t take long to consume the system, the men bid the girls in between themselves selecting which church sends the most girls for funding.
Many smaller factions soon join under the powerful ones, you would think the church that doesn't sell as many girls would be happier no?
No.
The funding is taken away and the church is forced to give up and sell its girls to the bigger factions.
The girls are monitored closely, indoctrinates with weak morals, and made as vulnerable and trusting as possible, the not as pretty girls are given into the red light streets for spare change, and some are promoted to nuns only to take care of the new batch of girls or giving birth to them.
And the rest is history, the cycle continues. the vampires long predicted this as human nature repeats itself often.
#diabolik lovers headcanon#diabolik lovers#diahell#yui komori#headcanon#dl headcanons#diabolil lovers lore#church lore#yui lore#reiji sakamaki#ayato sakamaki#shu sakamaki
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pincera (part 2)
Summary: pincera- Latin, 'cup-bearer, one who mixes drinks' || Damien has to fit in as a councilman. Whatever it takes.
Pairings: Damien/DA, Celine/Mark, Celine/Will
Tags:Alcohol, Bootlegging, Adultery, WWI, Fights, implied Overserving, Abusive Parents, Autistic!Seer!DA
Parts: 1
find it on ao3 | donate to my kofi
@opprose @statictay @volbeast @otterlyinluv @flerpdederp @hapikiou (and if anyone else wants to be tagged lmk!)
In university-- and during poker nights, really-- Damien gained a bit of a reputation of being a drain.
Not emotionally, no-- he’d always prided himself on being courteous and amiable, easy to get along with and happy to lend a helping hand or listening ear. No, he was a drain in that, whatever was set in front of him, he didn’t mind in the slightest downing it.
It all served the same purpose when he was young, or when he just wanted to take a load off. After the first few drinks, you stopped tasting it and started having fun, so flavor didn’t matter much, anyway.
Such drunken revelry, however, isn’t exactly regarded very highly in his new circles. Men who spend long days pouring over documents and arguing over laws and city ordinances aren’t really the type to pull out bottle after bottle to drink, and certainly aren’t going to dare or do anything dangerous.
He never expected as much, of course-- his father’s parties were strictly political, and the volume or intensity never rose higher than a foxtrot on the dance floor-- but the men here expected things of him.
He isn’t high ranking, but even so he has to ingratiate himself with the community at large-- the only way a newly-minted councilman can get anywhere is by following along with his seniors, whether he likes it or not.
The social nature of the gathering isn’t the issue. He’s been trained in this sort of setting, in etiquette, his entire life. It wouldn’t do for him or his sister to be caught lacking in social skills, or worse, manners. He can talk politics and mundanity and nothing as well as the next man at the table, and with the ease that comes with training.
The issue is, post-dinner, post-smoke-- though thankfully a few other men don’t partake, so he happily skips following that particular tradition. In the midst of conversation, a platoon of servers come from the kitchen area, some to the left of the table and others to the right. One by one, they take another order-- not of dessert, but of a drink.
A drink, and from the murmurs he manages to catch from down the table, not the kind he partook of in university. Whiskies, cognacs, some others he’s not quite certain he’s heard of, despite his research, all with distinguishing words like ‘single malt’ and ‘Napoleon’.
Old spirits, and expensive spirits, at that. Nothing like the harsher drinks he shot years ago, fighting through the burn to the merriment on the other side. These are things to sip and savor and ponder over, discuss with your fellow aficionados.
Things that, despite his intrigue, he has very little experience in.
He can’t be left out, though. Skipping the smokes was one thing, as others seemed to share his disinclination for the habit, but as far as he can see, everyone at the table is partaking in this one. He’ll have to in order to save face, but he can’t seem as a novice.
Say it with confidence, but without eagerness. Don’t screw up your face at an off flavor, and don’t wince if it burns your mouth. Be knowledgeable but not smug, and truly seem to savor the experience.
Not too different to fitting in, otherwise, really. If he figures out a drink in time, it ought to be easy.
The only question remains which digestif to choose. He peers down the table, listening out for drinks. As far as he can tell, brown liquors reign supreme, with hardly a neutral spirit to balance it out. He hasn’t yet been able to experiment with anything aged, so what he’s gathered isn’t going to be of much help-- he’ll have to be purely theoretical.
Or… his eyes shift to the man just beside him. Miller.
He’s known Miller since he was a boy, really, precocious and feet dangling from a chair in the corner of his father’s office. Councilmen often gathered there, though somewhat equally for business or socializing, and they all knew of Damien, but Miller was the only who seemed to like him being there; he helped with Damien’s notes as he grew older, even, and took the seat beside him now.
If he could trust anyone here, it’d be Miller. He wouldn’t steer him wrong.
“Rye, if you have it,” Miller says, turning to give the server over his shoulder an amiable smile, “and neat, thank you.”
Rye. Damn it, Miller.
Damien knows about rye whiskey. Again, it’s in a purely theoretical sense, as he hasn’t had the pleasure or time to try his own hand at it, but he knows something about it. A type of whiskey, from made from mostly rye, often aged.
Whiskey is popular. He prefers rye when he purchases his bread, if that makes any difference in it. It should be relatively inoffensive.
“I’d like the same, if you don’t mind,” he tells the server when he comes, giving his own polite smile and radiating as much confidence as he can muster. “Thank you very much.”
In the corner of his vision, Miller raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say a word about Damien’s choice of beverage; Damien, too, doesn’t remark on it, however much that expression shakes his confidence.
Their drinks arrive in short order, and Damien takes a moment to look his drink over. It’s a rich amber color, perhaps a finger or so in the crystal, and quite similar to many of the other drinks lining the long dining table, though sight does little at all to prepare him for the flavor.
Scent will do a much better job of that, he knows from his experiments in wine and mead, but with a spirit… he slowly raises the glass, cautious of inhaling a lungful of pure alcohol and burning out his nose.
Yes, alcohol, and something spicy. Like pepper and some other spice he can’t put his finger on. It’s not bad, per se, but it isn’t the most pleasant of scents.
Down the hatch, he supposes, and takes his first sip of the room-temperature rye.
He tries his absolute best to maintain his decorum, keep a neutral if perhaps curious expression, even as the spice and burn kick him right in the taste buds. He figures he must be doing well, until Miller chuckles next to him.
“Not to your taste, is it?”
Damien manages down the sip, face burning in embarrassment. “And here I thought I was being discreet. No, it’s… not.”
Miller leans over the table to see his face better. “Why’d you get it, then, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“You need a drink.” Damien gestures around the table, then returns his free hand to the glass, tapping his fingers and watching the rye ripple from one side to the other. “It’s hard enough to fit in, and then you’re inexperienced as well…”
After a hum and a sip of his drink, Miller nods. “Suppose that’s true, but some of these aren’t just straight spirits. Try that one in a cocktail-- it won’t kick you so hard, then.”
A cocktail… and if he looks a bit closer, a few of those drinks down the way look a bit fuller, have sprigs or slices or rims. It’s a good idea, really, if he can find the right cocktail.
So, when he’s somewhere a little more forgiving of experimental drinks, and somewhere he isn’t expected to run to and fro and placate his seniors, Damien approaches the long bar.
He’s only had a beer so far this get-together, and it’s not enough to touch his formidable tolerance. Through both his efforts and whatever new suppliers Mark has been dealing with, he has enough at his disposal to test freely; that in mind, he takes the rye, some bitters-- grabs an orange from the table before anyone can spot it missing from a dozen siblings.
“Wait-- hey, look, look.”
Damien can’t help an amused smile. Mark’s orders followed to the letter, judging by the sudden silence that fills the room. It isn’t his first time being on this end of Mark’s jokes, and it’ll be far from the last; now they’re as good as brothers, it doesn’t bother him. Too much.
“Damien’s first time behind the bar,” Mark says, unrestrained glee in his voice above the soft footfalls on the carpet, his joy buoyed by his own escapades behind the bar. “What are you making?”
“Something they’re doing in New York,” Damien replies amiably, throwing in a barspoon of this, a jigger of that. “I wanted to try something new. Since I’m up here, I’ll make something for any of you if you ask, once I’m done.”
The room bursts into murmurs, but one voice, quiet as it may be, pipes up above the din. “I think that’s really kind of you, Damien, thank you.”
He smiles, unable to stop himself. His friend, coming up to bat for him, as always. He looks over the bar to find them in their nest on the couch, an equally fond smile on their face-- though their eyes can’t seem to focus on much of anything. Speaking of Mark’s time behind their bar-- he has a bit of a heavy hand. “Not for you, Songbird, but I’ll bring you by a water in a minute.”
Cat-like, they blink their hazy gratitude at him, slow and deliberate like they always do, and open their mouth to say something.
“After all you give them already at poker, I’d be expecting an announcement soon!” Wil bursts into laughter, his guffaw ringing through the small room, mixing in with Mark’s cackle as they sling their arms around each other. Celine’s smirk speaks volumes, peering over her drink and swallowed up in a massive armchair.
It’s not something that’s never crossed his mind. He’s come to term with his feelings for them time and time again, realizing the depth soon into their college years. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, and at times he wonders if they feel the same way, if the future he daydreams of isn’t actually so far away.
There’s a time and a place for such daydreaming, however, and from the other side of the room, his friend sends him a panicked look.
That means enough is enough. “I’m certain you’d owe me a full ranch by now, Wil,” Damien says dryly, the thunk of his newly-emptied cocktail glass betraying his true feelings on the matter. “Plus, after all these years… you’d best bring me back some ivory next safari.”
There’s a pause as he finishes up his drink, the only sounds being the pouring of liquid, the rasp of the orange peel coming loose. As he pushes forward the completed drink, the tension breaks, and the room falls into another round of laughter-- none louder than Wil, tossing his head back.
Even his friend is laughing, eyes shining over their soft blanket. “Thank you,” they say, taking the glass of cool water as he reaches them. “Both for the water and the rescue, but you didn’t have to do that.”
“It serves him right.” Damien makes to sit beside them, sighing as he sinks into comfortable cushions. Once settled, he takes a sip from his drink.
It’s no longer harsh, spicy and strong. Still strong, yes, but rounded out into something warm, not too far in either direction. Pleasant, and easily savored.
He smiles around another sip as the conversation picks up once more. This thing might just catch on out west.
--------
Perfect Manhattan
--
50ml/2oz rye whiskey
12.5ml/2 barspoons sweet vermouth
12.5ml/2 barspoons dry vermouth
2 dashes Angostura bitters
orange peel, to garnish
Add chilled ingredients to mixing glass filled with ice and stir until well-chilled and cohesive. Strain into a similarly chilled cocktail glass, garnish, serve.
Well-balanced-- stable and dependable, a popular drink. Sweet at first blush, then dry, but strong either way.
#fg writes#mayor attorney#wkm celine#wkm damien#actor mark#the colonel#da y/n#wkm fic#wkm fanfiction#pincera
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Winter Kept Us Warm
It was a good thing, he mused somewhat grimly, that he was so very much in love with Miss Hale; otherwise, he might have been put off marrying her altogether – though he knew he could never own to such a thing, on pains of being laughed out of Milton proper.
A North and South ficlet. Sex-repulsed asexual!John Thornton.
It was the night before his wedding, and John Thornton was lying wide awake, wishing like never before he could rely on his father’s guidance on this most delicate venture. He was thirty-two years of age, and while not entirely ignorant of the mechanics of marital congress, his knowledge up to this point had been purely theoretical – save perhaps for a handful of instances in which he had been unfortunate enough to stumble upon a couple of illicit lovers in a darkened alleyway in Princeton, and he had been most desperate to purge the unpleasant memories of it at the time.
Even as a young lad, he could never understand what all the fuss was about; while all other boys at school spoke of nothing but lusting after this or that girl, and the most daring ones boasted of their conquests, real or otherwise, his eye had never been caught by the female form in so unbecoming a manner. Even as a grown man, he still retained the impulse to excuse himself from any room in which the particulars of bedding a woman were being discussed, as frequently happened in the company of his fellow mill masters; some of them appeared to take a sort of perverse pleasure in discussing the intimate details of their latest encounter with some female of lower standing – and quite possibly in desperate need of coin, he reflected bitterly, not quite bothering to hide his contempt for those so-called gentlemen who saw fit to conduct themselves in so unbecoming a manner.
Tomorrow, he would wed the only woman he had ever – and would ever – love. To his utter mortification, his mother had thought it her responsibility to warn him against the roughness of his supposed desires; his new bride, she had told him, would be shy of him, and it was his duty to be gentle with her and do his utmost to ensure her comfort. The act, she had then proceeded to inform him, came with a certain amount of discomfort for a woman, even more so the first few times; he ought not impose upon his wife too often, and there would be several days each month in which she would be indisposed and therefore unable to allow him into her bed.
It was a good thing, he mused somewhat grimly, that he was so very much in love with Miss Hale; otherwise, he might have been put off marrying her altogether – though he knew he could never own to such a thing, on pains of being laughed out of Milton proper as not at all a man, as a disappointed widow of dubious morals had once accused him of being, after he had rebuffed her offers of a very specific kind of comfort without so much as a second thought.
He would take Margaret as his wedded wife, and he would do his duty by her, as was expected; no one needed ever know about his own deficiencies on this account, and besides, he was most eager for any children that might come out of this marriage. It had been painful enough to give up any hope of a family of his own, in the aftermath of Miss Hale’s first refusal; he would not allow any unnatural inclination – or disinclination, as it happened – on his part to prevent this most cherished wish from coming true.
.
Suffice to say, it did not go well. Oh, his intentions had been everything that was good and proper as he knocked on the door that led into his wife’s chamber; Margaret had welcomed him with such bashful tenderness as to make his heart soar, and for a fleeting moment, he had nearly convinced himself all his previous reservations were nothing but unfounded.
Then they began in earnest, and it became too much for him almost immediately. When she winced in pain, as he had been told to expect, he found he could not go on, and hastily withdrew from her despite her earnest protestations that she was well, and they should proceed like before.
He was a beast, he was all too painfully aware, for abandoning his new bride in so unconscionable a manner; even now, as he approached the washbasin on shaking legs and attempted to clean himself with pitifully trembling fingers, he could hear her sobs through the connecting door, which he had locked and bolted in his blind rush to put as much distance as could be contrived between himself and the proceedings.
If he were any sort of gentleman at all, he would go to her this instant, humbly throw himself at her mercy for the terrible slight he had inflicted upon her, regardless of how unwittingly done on his part. Instead, he merely stood there, struggling with his every breath to gain some shred of composure, and loathing his own cowardice with every fibre of his being.
.
“Is it because of me, John? You need not lie for my sake – indeed, I would rather have the full truth, no matter how hard to take in.”
He laughed – a hollow, somewhat pained sound. “It’s not that, Margaret, not even close. God knows I have never met another woman worth putting myself through all that. With you, I thought it might be different; that I’d be able to overcome my inadequacies, and be with you as a man with his wife.”
She regarded him pensively, yet there was such unbidden kindness in her countenance he knew himself most undeserving of. “My Aunt Shaw told me that all men desire it above all things – that they take great comfort in the marriage bed, and they wish for it, constantly.”
“There you have it, then. Not only I’m no gentleman, as you correctly assumed at the beginning of our acquaintance – I'm no proper man, either. Heaven knows what I am – except a liar and a cad of the worst kind, for proposing marriage to you under false pretences.”
He turned to look out of the window then, facing away from the only woman he had ever envisioned his future with, and whom he was now honour bound to set free as soon as an annulment could be petitioned for. There had been no consummation to speak of, and it was no great stretch of the truth to attest to his inability to perform his husbandly duties; at that moment, he did not even care that such a thing would inevitably make him the laughing stock of the town, as he could think of no worse fate than being made to renounce all prospects of happiness he had dared to believe himself secure of.
“Of course you are a man, John,” his wife promptly dismissed his doubts, and with a few decisive steps joined him near the window. “And you know very well I was quite mistaken in dismissing you as anything less than a gentleman.”
“Any gentleman worth the name would do his duty by his bride,” he pointed out, feeling every bit as bitter as he sounded. “And as a magistrate, I am perfectly aware no marriage is valid in the eye of the law that remains unconsummated.”
Margaret smiled, unaccountably, and went to place her hand upon his arm. “It is a good thing, then, that it was Jane who came in to change my linens this morning – I daresay the entire household has been informed by now, and is under no doubt that I have become your wife in every respect.”
“And how would you like it, Mrs Thornton, to be a wife in name only?” he pressed then, his sense of duty urging him on against every dictation of his heart. “To find yourself tied to a husband unwilling to share your bed, precluding any possibility of children from your future?”
He saw her determination waver, but it was only for a moment. “I was resolved never to marry, when I thought your regard irrevocably lost to me, so you see, it would be no great inconvenience to carry on as before. If you do not wish for children, then we shall have none – think only of the Boucher children, and there are so many more – we could do so much good, you and I.”
“I do wish for us to have children, Margaret,” he interrupted in his desperation. “Can you not see how impossible it is? The one thing that is clear to me is that I should never have placed you in this position, and I am sorry.”
“Have faith, John,” his wife murmured in so affectionate tones he was powerless to do anything but to gather her to himself. “God will see us through, one way or another.”
Her body was warm and pliant in his arms, but it did not cause him any revulsion now, with their shared love a living, pulsing thing surrounding them like an embrace. He tucked her head under his chin and closed his eyes in a silent prayer.
.
It took John many a week – and several failed attempts at completing the act in a manner conductive to the creation of children – to swallow his pride and consult Doctor Donaldson on so personal and delicate an issue. Unfortunately, the physician was at a loss to identify the root of his problem, and therefore unable to prescribe a remedy for it; everything appeared to be in working order, so to speak, and surely there could be no other obstacle preventing him from bedding his wife as he wished? Of course, as a medical man, he knew that some men’s proclivities went in a rather different direction, but surely Mr Thornton’s did not – ?
Mr Thornton assured him, most vehemently, that they did not, and took his leave with a great deal of mutual embarrassment on either side. He was by this time resolved to fix whatever it was that was wrong with him, and was debating the merits of taking himself to London to see one of those Harley Street doctors – the only thing preventing him from jumping on the next train southward being the sheer horror at the possibility, however remote, that word of his difficulties might somehow reach Margaret’s London relations, revealing the whole extent of his unsuitability as a husband way in excess of their previous objections.
It was close on two whole months after the wedding when John quite accidentally discovered that things went along considerably more smoothly if he could take his mind off the immediate proceedings and focus on something else entirely for the duration. This unexpected disclosure, coupled with Margaret’s growing confidence in all matters pertaining her wifely duties – which he strongly suspected to be the result of a timely intervention on his mother’s part, though he most definitely did not wish to know about it – ultimately produced the desired outcome, much to the relief of Mr and Mrs Thornton alike.
It would still take several months for Margaret to conceive, but the worst of it was behind them, and John’s strong distaste for the activity began to fade to a more manageable level of discomfort with familiarity and time. By early April, Doctor Donaldson was called in to confirm that Mrs Thornton was indeed with child, and Mr Thornton was at last granted a much-needed reprieve from his marital duties for the time being.
.
“Come back to bed, John. He will need feeding soon enough – we ought to get some rest while we can.”
He shook his head somewhat ruefully, his gaze still trained on the arresting sight that was his tiny son fast asleep in his crib. George was much smaller than his cousin had been at the time of her birth, but he was growing fast, and it had not taken long for his proud grandmother to declare that the boy would undoubtedly grow as tall and handsome as his father.
In the months leading up to Margaret’s confinement he had discovered that, once freed from any expectations of bedding her, he gained much comfort from sleeping with Margaret at his side; he was still in the habit of doing so, and although that meant he was often awakened by his son, he was still reluctant to quit this peculiar intimacy with his new family. He knew he would have to, once Margaret was recovered from her confinement and the time came for them to resume their efforts towards providing Master George with a younger brother or sister; for the time being, he was content to enjoy every opportunity of admiring the wonderful miracle that was the child he had worked so hard to bring into existence.
With that, he did in no way intend to make light of all the hardships his Margaret had had to face to bring their son into the world; she had carried the child within herself for several months, nurturing and protecting him, until the time had come to be delivered of him with considerable pain and suffering on her part, let alone the very real risks that came with childbirth for women and babes alike.
He owed the joys of fatherhood in great part to her courage and strength, and he was deeply grateful for that. With one final glance to his beautiful, beloved son, he finally retired to the bed, resuming his rightful place in his wife’s waiting arms.
#North and South#John Thornton#Margaret Hale#Margaret/John#asexual character#sex-repulsed character#self-worth issues#I don't even know#I wrote a thing
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Armed with a Mind
The mind is its own place, and itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven, aye? I’m at the office and a little loose at work, so I decided to pure my anxiety into this shit. As a human being, we must have experienced suffering. No matter how fucking rich or noble your parents, even if your grandma’s queen Elizabeth or your father is Elon Musk. As long as u human, u will suffer and it’s inevitable. Mark my word.
I often listen to the stories of my friends. Usually they vent about things that make them suffer, such as love, career, family and so on. What really attracted me to listen to their stories wasn’t actually their storyline, or my fondness for seeing their emotional outbursts. However, my interest is more to “how can these things cause them to suffer and where does the suffering really come from?” As I listened to stories about what made them suffer, I came to one conclusion. A conclusion which is of course based on my personal opinion which has not been tested theoretically. The truth is up to you. However, this is my perspective on suffering.
If wealth, occupation, knowledge are not guarantees for someone to avoid suffering, then what is it? With my sense of naive, I would say it is our thought. Based on my personal experiences, I tend to complicate things that are actually simple. For instance, I was a person who likes to complain about things that I really don’t need to complain about. This complaint then makes my day worse and ends up making me suffer. The part of the chicken that doesn’t match with my request, the traffic jam, the coffee that’s too sweet, slow internet, and complicated client for example. These things often becomes the cause of my suffer which it shouldn’t be. The chicken is not wrong, but my mind is.
We live in a world of thought, not reality. Sydney Banks once said “Thought is not reality; yet it is through thought that our realities are created.” Each of us lives through our own perceptions of world, which are vastly different from the person right next to us. For example, you could be sitting in a coffee shop having a fucking quarter-live existential crisis, completely stressed out of your mind about how you have no idea what you’re doing with your shit when it seems like everyone else has.
Without our usual thinking about a particular event or thing, our experience of its completely alters. This is how we live in a world of thought, not reality, and how our perception of reality is created from inside out, through our own thinking. Therefore, you can change the reality by changing your mind.
My advice is, don’t fight your mind, its just futile endeavor. The analogy is like quicksand. The more that we fight our thinking, the more it amplifies the negative emotions and the worse it gets. The same is true for quicksand. if we’re in quicksand, the way out isn’t to fight it. If we panic and frantically try to fight it, it only makes things worse by tightening the grip it has on us and pulling us under faster. The only way out is to stop struggling and allowing the natural buoyancy of your body to take over to bring you back up to the surface with ease. The only way to break free from our thinking is to let go and trust that our natural inner wisdom will guide us back to clarity and peace like it always has.
Our reality is neutral event, but we put our meaning, thinking, or interpretation to it so it becomes something -either pleasure or suffer. Any meaning or thinking we give the event is on us and that is how our perception of reality is created. This is how our experience of life is created from inside out.
It’s not about the events that happen in our lives, but our interpretation of them, which causes us to feel good or bad about something. Maybe this is how people in third world countries can be happier than people in first world countries and people in first world countries can be more miserable than people in third world countries -remember calmness is the orientation of eastern philosophy. Our feelings do not come from external events, but from our own thinking about events. Therefore, we can only ever feel what we are thinking.
From there, if I can only feel what I’m thinking, didn’t I need to think positively to feel that way rather than complaining about the part of the chicken that doesn’t match with my request? Hmmm…
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🙉 HEAR-NO-EVIL - what is the worse thing your oc could hear from someone?🌱 SEEDLING - what is their most vivid memory from childhood?- kym, ast
Emoji asks
🙉 Kym:
I think, honestly, she has already heard most of the worst things she could hear. She's heard her father tell her she's inadequate, both to her face and to others behind her back. She's heard Ekentros' claims that their father never cared for any of them, that he's most likely dead somewhere, and good riddance. And from most random strangers, I can't think of much they could say that she would even care about. If you'd just like an easy way to piss her off, then truly you can say most anything and it'll probably do the trick.
Ah, no, wait, I got it. Worst thing you could say to Kym is 'I know your secret' and then do not elaborate. She does not keep many, but they are well guarded. Even better if you truly don't know it, she will lose her mind searching your memories for something that isn't there.
🙉 Ast:
General insults don't do much, Astathis kind of enjoys a fight. You have to find the insecurities and prey upon them like a conversational vulture. He's far from perfect, what little personality he does have is grating and intolerable, he is fundamentally unlikable. These are things he knows, deep down, but they always hurt more to hear out loud.
🌱Kym:
Failures tend to stick in her mind much stronger than anything else. But I am sick of defining her by her feelings of inadequacy, so we will pick a different vivid memory.
One of the first times she walked among mortals to do some errand her father had sent her on, she decided, purely for the sake of knowledge, to consume some of their food. It was a major city on a fine summer day, naturally many street vendors were open and active, soliciting all types of local delicacies.
Food is food, though. Varieties mean very little to her, as long as the meal contains the sustenance her body requires. But perhaps just this once, sampling the flavor palette could provide information, and a perspective, not available elsewhere.
She had decent knowledge of the flavor profiles found in the city, and a theoretical familiarity with all of the dishes, but with no personal frame of reference, she just sort of picked something at random.
A fried bready thing with some sort of dry, pasty filling. She could probably provide you with the exact recipe if you asked, but it isn't important right now. She was, reluctantly, excited. She wasn't doing this for excitement or pleasure, of course, she has to remind herself of that. Still, she took a large and eager bite.
It was... disgusting. The texture of the bread was so crumbly, the filling so sparse and dry and gritty. Tasted like it was filled with mud, quite frankly. She adored it, the disappointment it filled her with. For some reason it's a fond memory, that buildup falling flat. Discovering the joy of being a hater. One of the first and only things she'd ever spent money of her own on, and it was that.
🌱Ast:
Most of Astathis' childhood memories are a solid black emptiness. With very little reason to stay at home, Ast wandered the void of space for much of his youth. And it was much more of a void back then, only one star had ever properly formed, and it was the one supporting all life in the universe. It wasn't empty, though. While it was an infinite darkness, there were many clouds of gases and random, strange little anomalies. While this is more of a genre of memory rather than a specific one, they are both the most vivid and some of the fondest memories Ast has. Oh, the solitude. The peace. His home was not Idemer, it was out there.
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Gone Fishin’
Father’s Day 2/2
Peter Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr
-🎣-
Even Peter could barely believe how long he’d sat still – like, actually sat still without zipping off to get something else done while he waited – in the garden behind the school. Sure, it’d only been about twenty minutes, but that was an eternity for him.
Oh, looked like the waiting was over. Peter caught sight of Erik walking down the back stairs. Perfect.
“Hey!” he called out.
As Erik glanced in his direction, Peter decided to be polite and walk over to him and a normal pace.
“Not going on that mission with the others?” Peter asked.
“Several world powers would rather prefer that I didn’t,” Erik said dryly, “So, no. I remain in retirement.”
Peter grinned. “Great! That means you’ve got the morning free, then, right?”
A suspicious look crossed Erik’s face.
“I suppose I do,” he said, and it almost sounded like a question.
“Well, come on! We’re burning daylight here.”
Peter grabbed Erik’s arm with one hand, bracing his neck with the other.
“Peter, I don’t-”
He took off without giving Erik a chance to finish his thought. This was only sorta kidnapping, considering this guy was one of the most powerful mutants on the planet. If he absolutely wanted to leave, Peter would take him back to the school before he could, who knows, yank out all the iron in his bloodstream or something.
Peter came to a halt where he’d left the gear earlier that morning. Thankfully, it was all still there. He wasn’t sure somebody would want to steal a bunch of borrowed old fishing gear, but dumber things had happened. He slowed back down to normal speed, making sure Erik didn’t faceplant before releasing his hold.
“- know what you’re getting at,” Erik finished, just a little dazed. “Where on earth are we?”
The little lake was a few miles outside of town, just below a dam. When he was running errands one day, Peter heard a couple of older locals discussing it as a good fishing spot. It was secluded enough – just a little access road leading to a small boat launch, without even a fishing dock. Peter kinda figured that, for as much time as Erik spent at the Xavier mansion years ago, he’d probably never been down this way.
“I heard it’s a good spot for fishing,” Peter said. “And it’s boring to go alone, so…”
“Fishing,” Erik repeated flatly.
“Yeah.” Peter paused. “Unless… you’ve got something else going on?”
He held Erik’s gaze for a second, certain he was going to demand to be taken back to the school rather than be forced into a trivial outing.
But Erik just sighed. “Alright, then. What do you fish for?”
“Me? Validation, mostly.” Peter laughed, then broke off, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Right, sorry. The professor said I should stop using self-deprecating humor as a defense mechanism.”
“That… certainly sounds like something Charles would say.”
Welp, that couldn’t have gone worse if he’d tried. Peter busied himself with checking over the fishing poles, and took a second shot at answering Erik’s question.
“Bass, I think,” he said. “At least, that’s what people say. I’ve never actually caught anything. I get bored after five minutes, y’know?”
He grinned, handing Erik one of the poles. Erik took it with an expression of complete exasperation.
“Why on earth did you drag me all the way out here if you don’t catch any fish?” he asked, massaging his forehead.
“Wha-? What kind of a question is that? Fishing is fun! That’s the sort of thing that people do on… on days like today, right?” Nearly blew it again right there. Peter turned away. “Where did I leave those worms?”
“You didn’t bring any,” Erik said flatly.
“I… oh.”
Shit. At a loss, Peter stood motionless for a second, staring down at the now-useless assortment of fishing gear. He’d made a mess of things, like usual. Well, nothing else for it now. He straightened up, turning back to face Erik with a smile.
“That’s fine!” he said cheerily. “I’ll just run back and-”
“Peter, wait,” said Erik, grabbing his arm as he went to turn away again. “I know.”
Erik released his arm and regarded him in silence. Panic was setting in. Was this the plan? Peter couldn’t remember how he’d wanted this conversation to go. He shifted his weight, rubbing at the back of his neck in a desperate attempt to appear casual.
“You, uh… You know?” he floundered. “What, exactly, is it? That you know?”
“I know that you’re my son.”
Peter’s stomach dropped. Erik was hard to read to start with, and Peter couldn’t begin to figure out what he was thinking. Every chaotic conflicted feeling Peter had had since he was a kid washed over him at once, and sent him reeling inwardly.
“You, uh… Huh.” Peter’s mouth felt as dry as chalk. “I didn’t think you… did.”
“Of course I know,” said Erik. “How could I not? Do you think I can look at you and not see your mother in your face?”
Peter suddenly found it very hard to meet Erik’s gaze.
Ever since he’d put two and two together himself, Peter had worried that he reminded his mom too much of Erik, that even looking at him would bring up painful memories for her. So hearing that Erik saw something of his mom in him, too… It made him happy, honestly – but it was hard to know how Erik meant it.
“I kinda figured, uh…” Peter frowned for a moment, struggling to find the right words. “When I was a kid, at least, I kinda figured that you knew about me, and you just didn’t want anything to do with me because I was always such a screw-up. But I wanted you to care, I guess.”
With a flick of his wrist, Peter sent the stone sailing across the water. It didn’t skip even once, just hit the water with a dull plunk and sank to the bottom. Wow. What appropriate imagery.
“But then Cairo happened,” he went on, “And when they told me everything that’d happened to you, I just… I knew it was the wrong time. With everything you’d lost, I couldn’t. I’m sorry for bringing it up. I’m making a mess out of this, I know. It’s just… maybe there won’t ever be a right time. I didn’t want to wait too long and be too late, y’know?”
A breeze, barely cooler than the hot June sun, skated across the lake. Ever since Peter hit his late twenties, it’d gotten so much easier to match the pace of the rest of the world without getting impatient. Not now, though. The seconds he waited for Erik to reply passed at an agonizing crawl.
“You’re right, you know.”
Peter’s gaze snapped back to Erik as he finally spoke. Erik watched him for a second more, smiling sadly.
“I wouldn’t have been ready to hear it then,” Erik went on. “I want to thank you – for giving me time to grieve.”
“If you need more time, that’s okay,” Peter said hurriedly. “I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, I just-”
Erik shook his head. “I think I’ve made you wait long enough. You’re already a better man than I’ve ever been, Peter. Please understand that I don’t say this lightly. Your unflinching courage, the hope you bring to those around you – these are things to be proud of.”
Peter looked away again, falling back on his usual self-deprecation.
“I don’t… I mean-” He broke off suddenly as he felt Erik grip his shoulder.
“I know that I’ve hardly been a father to you, and for that, I am sorry. But I’d be proud to call you my son, Peter.”
Dammit, he didn’t think he was gonna get choked up over this. But whenever he’d thought through how this conversation would play out, it always seemed to end in rejection or indifference. That Erik might actually, honestly be proud of him was something Peter had never really considered.
Peter sped up for just a second – just long enough to wipe at his eyes without Erik seeing – and then cleared his throat to steady his voice before answering.
“I’d like that,” he said. “If, y’know, if you’re okay with it.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” Erik smiled, releasing his shoulder and taking a step back. “Now, run off and get us some worms. It sounds like you’ve got more fishing experience than I do, so you’ll have to teach me.”
With a grin, Peter sped off. Part of him still kinda expected to find the shoreline empty when he got back, but no – Erik was still there waiting for him.
Him and his dad having their first ever fishing trip. Huh. Peter couldn’t think of a better way to spend Fathers Day.
#peter maximoff#erik lehnsherr#dadneto#x men fanfiction#xmen fanfiction#xcu#fox x men#Peter’s like ‘it was either this or golf. and I really feel like golf would’ve been a mistake’#purely theoretical knowledge of what to do on father’s day#the poor guy#XP
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Could I request the brothers (and maybe Diavolo, if you're comfortable) reacting to a knightly/chivalrous m/c, please?
———————————————————
I haven’t written Diavolo in a hot minute, I’m glad he’s being requested again. I’m guessing you mean an MC with the attributes of a knight? The same sort of mannerisms and traits and not an actual knight! MC? Lemme know if I did this ask wrong because I was low key confused lmao.
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The Brothers + Diavolo with a knightly/chivalrous MC:
Lucifer:
-He really didn’t like you upon first meeting
-He hated how he couldn’t intimidate you into not being a nuisance the way he could with most of his brothers
-But, to be honest, you had gained his respect rather early on
-I think, even though it may have annoyed him to no end, Lucifer was very fond of your bravery a lot of the times
-The way you would stand up for Mammon or that time you protected Beel and Luke from his outburst
-Courage is not a trait one would usually associate with humans, especially when more superior beings like demons are involved
-Your humility was also a characteristic of yours that he, surprisingly, was really fond of
-And your overall mercifulness was something to be congratulated as well
-I mean, him and his brothers put you through so much shit and for you to forgive and move on without an angry word at any of them kinda speaks on its own
-I think he understands, to an extent, the reason you’re so loyal to the people you care about too
-He has a certain devotion for Lord Diavolo and his brothers, more than he lets on
-To him, having someone like you around is something to be appreciated
-Because you are similar but also completely different and nothing like he deemed you to be at the beginning
-yo i think you remind him of himself back when he was angel tbh
-He’s sort of tired of saving your ass tho because you are very just, so you feel the need to help people all the time which leads to you getting involved in fights
-Bring him his 20th cup of coffee for the day please, it’s hard being a single father of 8 children (yes I’ve added Lord Diavolo he counts as one of the kids)
-He’s the definition of this incorrect quote I stumbled across a while back
- MC: “FIGHT ME RIGHT NOW!”
-Lucifer, from behind them “ Do not.”
Mammon:
-Ok so this random human comes to DevilDom and has the audacity to slap his hand away while he’s trying to steal from Diavolo’s castle????????
-“MC ya’re forgetting I’m a demon, my moral scale is wayyy different than yours-“
-“Put it back.”
-“......ok.”
-You’re coming at him with rightfulness and honor and your presence is gonna hit him like a truck
-Cuz he ain’t stealing anything when you’re around (lucifer uses this to his advantage ofc.)
-That was basically the only thing he disliked about you
-Other than that, after your first week in DevilDom, he thinks you’re a goddamn S A I N T
-Everytime you stand up for him when his brothers are being assholes-pls he melts into a puddle of goo from your perfection
-OOFFS AND ALL THOSE TIMES YOU GAVE HIM GIFTS BECAUSE GENEROSITY BBY
-Good thing he was wearing sunglasses, because holy fuck was he weeping under those Gucci shades
-He’s gonna give ya props for having the courage to stand up to him and his brothers
-Lucifer especially because big bro scary
-Think about it like this: literally every single one of them could have you seasoned and roasted for lunch, love
-And yet you still have the bravery to look them in the eye and tell them: “Ya’ll are dysfunctional as fuck and need family therapy.”
-Again, he doesn’t understand your morale, he’s the Avatar of Greed, if he sees something he likes or seems worthy of his presence, he takes it
-But with that look you’re giving him, he honestly feels so guilty he can’t help but put it back
-He also appreciates your patience with him when it comes to anything that involves him talking about his emotions and thought process
-Because at this point he is widely known as scum so-
-Ahhhh, in the end, he thinks you’re pretty badass for a human and would low key want to see you in an armour of sorts agajwhisebhwjwwhehgdhdh
-And he really likes it when you make the effort to open doors for him too but he’ll never have the nerve to admit it
Levi:
-Believe it or not, he warms up to you in less than a day...?
-It’s probably because he’s a navy commander and he’s used to having soldiers around and you sort of remind him of that
-Out of everyone, he reacts the least when he sees how you carry yourself because to him it’s second nature
-Even if he does tend to slouch most of the time
-Almost dropped to his knees and started worshiping you when you yelled at Mammon to give Levi his money back on your first day
-And then a friendship started to blossom (im not friendzoning y’all, relax)
-Levi has a tendency to just walk into your room with his laptop, point at the screen which is paused in the middle of an anime and go “Look, the protagonist is a knight. You’re also...really knightly. I like the protagonist. I, uh I like you too, I guess.”
-He loves how honest you are because he knows that no matter what you wouldn’t lie to him
-“MC, do you think I’m a yucky otaku?”
-“No.”
-“But-“
-“No.”
-“Oh ok.”
-But on the inside he’s like 🥰🥰💞💞💞💞
-I just think that a knightly MC would connect on an emotional level with Levi for a lot of reasons, idk
-He’s gonna be a sputtering mess when he realises how much effort you put into this relationship (platonic or romantic) and how loyal you are to it
-Like how you actually bother learning all of his stupid passwords because you are just as serious about them as he is
-He just crashed, give him a moment to reboot please
Satan:
-He takes a while to warm up to you because for some reason your overall demeanour reminded him of Lucifer lol
-He thought you might be just as stuck up as him
-It didn’t take him longer than a week or so to come to the sudden realisation that you are way more pleasant than his brother
-Like his daddy, you manage to earn his respect pretty quickly after that
-He just thought the way you handled everything that was thrown at you in DevilDom was very sophisticated but firm nonetheless, if that makes sense?
-Like, you weren’t itching to escalate fights or anything but your tone of voice could easily end a whole conversation if need be
-You were still a human of course, it would be real easy for some low rank demon to kidnap you or something
-But for some reason, your confidence seemed to intimidate a few of the weaker ones into leaving you alone
-Obviously, that didn’t mean you were completely safe or anything
-There were still others that could effortlessly overpower you
-Even so, Satan found it sort of reassuring that unlike some humans, you weren’t one to back down without a confrontation
-Don’t get me started on all those times you rebelled against Lucifer, because that’s what truly got him to get to know you better
-He found you pretty interesting and then that interest sort of evolved into actual fondness
-Another thing that caught his eye was that even though you have very strong feelings about justice and fairness, you are completely level headed most of the time
-And patience, while it’s something he can manage, is the one that he has been trying to control for centuries
-He learned a lot from you about behaviour, whether you intentionally taught it to him or not
-And if there is one thing Satan thinks highly of; it would be knowledge
-Therefore, from that point onward, your existence was so much more precious to him than your soul could ever be
Asmo:
-What can I say about our sweet Asmo?
-You could have the personality of a trashcan and he’d still love you
-You were so polite and honourable from the beginning to the point you managed to get the attention of the Avata of Lust himself????
-He thought you were pretty hot basically
-hoWEVER
-Your righteousness always sort of nagged him because he low-key believed Diavolo snuck in another angel into the program, I-
-And for some reason, your loyalty to everyone in general ticked him off immensely at the beginning
-Mainly because he recognised that’s one of the traits he lacks entirely and he came to the conclusion that he needs to revaluate himself on that one
-He is so desperate for your attention, he will tattle on his brothers just to get you to yell at them and then comfort him
-“MCCCCC, MAMMON STOLE MY NEWEST MAKE UP KIT AND IS ABOUT TO SELL IT ON AKUZON!”
-he is so petty istg
-Your nobility still catches him off guard every now and then
-Because you’ve been living with demons for so long and yet you’re still, theoretically speaking, pure?? get your head out of the gutter people
-He probably applauds you on the fact that you can even scare Lucifer on some occasions because imagine having a scarier death glare than the eldest prince of hell
-Asmo will personally buy you clothes that he thinks suit your “aesthetic” (wtf Asmo)
-Might’ve bought you a sword and then got shouted at by Lucifer because oops turns out it was cursed
-Again, supportive mom vibes
-“MC, do you know how stunning you look strutting around with that confidence of yours? Don’t get me started on your posTURE!”
-You pulled a chair for him once and he practically swooned lmao
Beel:
-He figures you’re really nice from the start
-Mostly because you kept running errands and opening doors for him even though he let it slip that he might lose control and eat you
-Like most brothers, he finds you comforting in a way
-Beel appreciates your honesty to him too because he can count on you to tell him when he’s doing something wrong
-And he sort of needs the validation that even though he blames himself for a lot of things that took place in the past, his brothers and you are more than ready to forgive him (even if they didn’t blame him to begin with)
-Rather than respect, Beel puts a lot of trust into you, which I would believe to be more intimate
-If it’s just the two of you hanging out, he has an easier time opening up about Lilith because he knows you would never judge him and respect his feelings enough to let him get it out of his system
-You always share your food with him and give him a bigger portion and he goes so soft-
-Like who allowed you to be this generous?
-Tbh, he thinks it’s sort of refreshing having someone like you around
-Beel has been surrounded by demons for millenniums now and he’s gotten used to their...uh ‘evilness’
-Ever since you got dropped off in DevilDom, you really stood out with your nobility and morals
-It was like a breath of fresh air in a way
-He may or may not believe you’re a good influence on his siblings-if you can even influence demons of all things
-I’m not saying he invites you to work out with him and give him honest criticism, but he definitely invites you to work out with him and give him honest criticism
Belphie:
-“Out of all the humans they could’ve chosen, they picked the most annoying one, oH MY FUCKING GO-I MEAN DAD-“
-You go up to the attic that one night after tricking Lucifer into vibing to some classical TSL tunes
-He spotted you and was immediately irritated
-Like, he KNEW you were going to be a pain in the ass just by judging your posture and how you carried yourself (very knightly)
-At the start, he’s even hesitant to lie to you because he had a suspicion you wouldn’t buy his bs
-(Spoiler alert: you didn’t but you went with it either way)
-It takes a while for you to forgive him when he literally fucking kills you because that was rude af but you got over it in time
-AFTER of the whole ‘Sorry-for-choking-you-can-we-be-friends-now’ incident, you still get on his nerves a lot but at this point, he believes that’s his punishment for being a murderous dickhead
-You don’t really piss him off tho, you just confuse him a lot
-Why are you so polite? You keep pulling chairs and opening doors for him??? Why are you treating him like royalty?? Stop it, he doesn’t want to be like Lord Diavolo (he def likes it when you do that)
-Pls stop dragging the poor man to breakfast, he just wants to sleep in-
-He doesn’t understand how you’re always one time for everything
-My dude tries to wake up 20 minutes early to get somewhere in time and he is still 2 hours late
-sTOP TRYING TO FORCE YOUR IDEALS ONTO HIM, HE’S A LITTLE SHIT WHO ENJOYS WATCHING PEOPLE SUFFER
-All the same, you’re a very forgiving person so he’s just grateful you don’t hate him or anything
-And in the end, it doesn’t really matter how much your chivalry and righteousness and all of that pisses him off every now and then
-Because he can’t deny the fact that you brought him and his brothers the peace they needed
-And he so loves it when you and Lucifer go head to head mhmm
Diavolo:
-This big tittied man right here takes a liking to you immediately
-A couple of days in DevilDom and he’s already inviting you for tea at his castle
-You managed to befriend the prince of hell faster than the demons you live with, huh
-He’s lonely ok? He loves having people over and having cozy chitchats
-Not to mention he thinks you’re such pleasant company!
-Most demons would be afraid to even say anything in his presence but you always speak your mind while continuing to be respectful and he’s so happy, you don’t understand-
-Only demons in close relations to Diavolo like Babrbatos and Lucifer actually know how much it takes for someone to anger him
-He doesn’t take offence to much lol
-And he’s really content that you acknowledged that
-He sometimes visits you in his spare time just to talk and hang out since Lucifer is a big meanie who doesn’t want to indulge him and Barbatos is busy making him dinner >:(
-SPEAKING OF- if you and Barbatos don’t bond then i don’t know what to tell you
-I mean, you would both have so many things in common (strong sense of loyalty, honesty, just in a way etc.)
-You’re his favourite guest to have over at the palace, sorry Luci you’ve been replaced
-He genuinely finds you interesting as well so please tell him stories from the human realm!! He’s dying to learn more!
-Diavolo notices you demeanour sort of gives off warrior vibes so-
-He really considered making you into a knight bc it’s Diavolo-what he says; goes
-“I know they’re human but they’ll be fine. Look how tough they are! They managed to survive a year with you and your brothers didn’t they?”
-“My Lord, that doesn’t amount to anything, please don’t get our human killed-“
#obey me#obey me asmodeus#obey me beelzebub#obey me belphegor#obey me imagines#obey me leviathan#obey me lucifer#obey me mammon#obey me satan#obey me diavolo#obey me shall we date#obey me hcs#🕯 general#☂️ demon brothers#👑 Diavolo supremacy#⭐️ requests
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Starlight - Prologue: Before
Pairing: Din Djarin x OC, Din Djarin x OFC
Rating: Mature
Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence
Warnings: Blood, Violence, Explicit Language, Trauma
Words: 2000
Summary: What's past is prologue.
There's a new trend since the fall of the Empire, everyone is rising from the dead.
She's haunted by memories of the Empire that abandoned her, he's plagued with thoughts of what if and doubts of the future. The stars align in a string of constellations which guide them to their fates, decided long before them.
Tortured with echos of before, they're alone in an endless galaxy. But orphans have a funny way of finding each other, and the gods have a sick sense of humor.
Read on AO3 Here
Tatooine was the galaxy’s own personal hell, Mustafar at least had the pleasure of fauna. Demonic nightmarish fauna that was more than likely poisonous, but fauna nonetheless. Tatooine? Tatooine was a barren wasteland that had gone to the dogs, and even the dogs had decided they wanted no part in its misfortune. At least on Mustafar she could go inside and be relieved of the heat, at least Mustafar could be considered home.
Or at least it used to be, before.
“Maker,” An assassin mutters, crossing over a sand dune. The red tracking fob in her gloved hand sounds, it’s light flashing a similar color. To her relief, she was close. The sooner to the target, the sooner she could leave and never set foot on sand again.
She could count the total number of visits to Tatooine in her lifetime on one hand. The first she couldn’t have been more than fourteen, then again at an older age to meet with the Hutts. Nine years ago, her father had sent her on a reconnaissance mission to some abandoned moisture farm. It had been terribly boring, full of memories of family dinners and old beaten up droids.
The irony that that very mission essentially caused her to lose everything wasn’t lost on her.
Five years ago she sat in the very cantina she walks to, warned to run away. A mere twenty-one years old—give or take, her birthday after all was a random day chosen by her and the waking sun. There was no telling her true age, so with her knowledge of human anatomy and development, nine years ago she decided on being seventeen.
“Why seventeen?” He asks her. Entering hyperspace she sits behind him, tracing passing stars on the window.
“Because,” she begins matter-of-factly, “Seventeen is a completely insignificant year to be alive. Sixteen is old enough that I won’t be questioned for traveling alone, but still too young to be taken seriously. I’m not quite ready to be an adult yet, but next cycle I will be. So I am seventeen now, so that I may be prepared to be eighteen later.”
Eighteen hours later, the first Death Star exploded.
The events which follow guide her on a fragile string of stars throughout the galaxy, the culmination of which lead her back to hell. Or Tatooine, as the New Republic liked to call it.
Maybe if she had listened things would have been different.
Or maybe they would be worse.
Either way she would be here. The designer of her cruel fate and dictator of her misery have decided this long ago. Forever would she be trapped in hell with her memories.
And everyone else’s.
Condemned to relive the worst of what humanity had to offer, over, and over, and over again. It wasn’t so bad anymore, it’s easy to get numb to that sort of thing when your entire life was filled with it. Still, out of all the places in the galaxy, why did it have to be Tatooine?
She could understand the appeal for those on the run. Away from the New Republic’s oversight, moisture farms as the only viable landmark, and everyone being too overworked to give a damn. Theoretically it should have been easy to hide, the only issue was every criminal in the Outer Rim had the same idea. Originality be damned.
A detached hood and mask shield her identity, not that she believed anything with a penchant of life would be anywhere near. All that surrounded her was sand, rocks, and sand. Still, she could never be overly cautious. Walking up to the cantina, her eyes roll. It was like they wanted to make her job difficult. She could only assume the bar would be crawling with other criminals. Defected imperials, thieves, murderers.
It could have been a family reunion.
Eyes fall on her entrance, the suns backlight her into a silhouette. She becomes the one cascade of darkness in the light of the desert.
“Boys,” she greets, walking in. Her eyes scan the room, there couldn’t be more than ten men. She counts the passing of ten seconds before one approaches her. Within those seconds her mind remarks on the state of the bar, essentially unchanged. Same busted chairs, same creaking floors, same hideous decorations.
“What’s someone like you doing here?” a man grunts, stalking up to her. The most she does to acknowledge him is an eye roll. He grabs her arm, holding her in place. “Does your daddy know you’re out here?” he asks, leaning down to her ear.
She mocks a laugh. “Does yours?”
The man spits at her boots. “Bitch,” he says, walking away from her. His spit slowly rolls off her toe, leaving a glimmering streak along the leather in its wake. She pulls her blaster out, pointing the gun behind her, she shoots the man in the back of the head. He drops, his body heavy with a thud.
The cantina falls to silence. Nine bodies are now watching her. No one makes a move, even the bartender stops his clinking glasses. She’s almost inviting them to try her next.
“No?” She asks, holstering her gun. “Pity,” she mutters.
She walks up to body number seven, he sits in the same spot she had all those years ago. She places her soiled boot on his seat, grabbing his attention. Motioning for him to stand, she barely makes eye contact.
Her fingers run across the tables’ wood, rubbing over permanent stains and rotting cracks.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” he says. He always worried too much about her, “Whatever he’s planning, you won’t come out of it.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore,” she says. “I can take care of myself now.”
“I know. That’s what scares me. You’re not safe anymore,” he replies.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been safe.”
Seven stares at her incredulously, slurping his liquor.
“Come with me,” his voice echos around her. If she closes her eyes it’s like he’s still sitting in front of her. Pleading.
“I don’t like making messes inside, it’s bad manners,” she says, reaching for her blaster. “Get up.”
“Am I supposed to be scared, girl?” Seven asks. He scans her appearance and truth be told she was no Rancor, certainly no Hutt. While her build was athletic, her height physically left her the smallest in the room.
“You owe a lot of credits—” Seven stands, “—That’s better.” She drops her foot. “Now—“
“Step aside,” a modulated voice speaks behind her. She catches a reflection of the intruder in the glass of the framed artwork above Seven’s head. A Mandalorian, covered in pure Beskar, stands a whole head above her. Of course a fucking Mandalorian would show up right now, this had to be his doing. Even in the grave he had to fuck with her.
“Mando,” Seven laughs, he wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers. “I was uh, I was just talking to the missus here,” he grabs the girls shoulder. “Say, now’s not really a good time so how about we—“
“I don’t have time for this,” the Mandalorian says. He drops a bounty puck on the table, in blue holograms Seven’s profile appears.
WANTED: EDI MOURI
“Let’s go,” Mando says.
The girl shakes herself from Seven. “Listen Shiny, I was here first so move along.” The Mandalorian’s head tilts.
“Are you with the guild?” He asks.
She picks up the bounty puck, examining the emblem. “Not yours.”
Mando’s head turns to One’s fallen body on the ground, a growing pool of blood by his head.
“Your work?”
“You could say that.”
Seven clears his throat. Whispers of bets trail within the crowd. “In fairness. She did find me first.”
The pair are incredulous in their stare. “You want to go with the assassin?” Mando asks, a slight twinge of amusement escapes past his modulator.
Seven’s face turns to ice, his deep emerald skin becoming a pastel like hue. “On second thought. I always loved the Mandalorian stories I heard as a kid, I’m a big fan. Let’s go big guy.” He takes a step towards Mando, the assassin pulls out her blaster, pointing it to his head. At the same moment Mando pulls out his own, pointing it to her.
“Drop it,” he says. “I need him alive.”
She cocks her head to the side, pressing her forehead against the barrel of the gun. “Do it,” she purrs.
He’s motionless.
She grabs the Mandalorian’s wrist with one hand, striking the bend in his arm with the other. A blaster shot fires, Three falls to the ground with a hole in his head.
Mando lifts her by her neck and slams her into the table where Seven sits. Her vision flashes white and she groans on impact. Her hands fumble across the wood in frantic search of anything to defend herself with.
“Wait for me, I’ll come for you in two days.”
She smashes Seven’s plate against the table, shattering it. With a jagged edge of porcelain she slashes the Mandalorian’s arm, staining the edge with his red blood. In his stumble back she rolls off the table.
Harsh stabs are swung to the openings between the pieces of armor, he easily blocks but her movements are quick in succession. He ignites the flamethrower on his arm and she flips out of range.
Six isn’t so lucky.
She lands on his table, he’s charred and slumped over. She grabs a baton resting against his chair, cringing at its touch. Jumping of the table she strikes his helmet. The tune of impact horrifically melodic.
Brought to his knees, Mando grabs her leg sweeping her onto her back. The baton falls out of her grasp. They tumble on the ground, scathing for any advantage they could find on the other. She slaps a taser disk on his armor, the shocks malfunction the electronics.
The Mandalorian lays on the ground, emitting heavy gasps for air. Sounds of passing credits come from a back table. She straddles him, pulling out the knife kept in the welt of her sleeve. It’s metal presses against his capes fabric gathered around his neck.
A smile twinges under her mask. “Not bad,” she pants, leaning down over him.
The cantina doors automate open, in perfect eye-line, a green little creature. It waddles in, cooing with bright eyes at the patrons, greeting them all. It locks eyes with her, head tilted. The veil of her mask conceals her dropped jaw.
The Mandalorian takes the chance of her distraction; flipping their bodies over, he straddles her waist, pinning her hands above her head. The assassin’s chest rises and falls heavy from under him. “I told you to wait outside,” he grunts. The green thing coos, waddling to the pair. It reaches out for her. “No,” he says next, raising a scolding finger to it. It whines, plopping on its rear.
Past the visor, his eyes lock onto hers, he clears his throat. Suggestive positioning aside, he had claim to victory. Though, had it not been for the child he would have been a dead man, throat slit under her knife.
He could still kill her, his blaster was in reach, so was her knife.
He should kill her.
But he doesn’t.
“Hey Mandalorian,” she breathes. “Where’s your bounty?” Seven’s seat empty, table broken, shattered porcelain fallen on the floor.
“Fuck,” he swears. He stands, pocketing the knife she held. He picks up the creature, sparing her one last glance. “Stay out of my way,” he warns. Exiting the building she’s left on the floor.
The surviving witnesses avoid her glare. There are holes in the flooring, broken furniture, blood stains splattered on every surface.
So much for not making a mess indoors.
She scoffs, picking herself up. Her muscles ache, bruises are forming under her clothing, her head pounds.
Carelessly, she shoots Five on her way out.
It’s a redemption of sorts.
Officially, Tatooine was worse than hell.
Chapter One: The Meeting
#Mandalorian#the mandalorian#Din Djarin#din djarin x original character#din djarin x original female character#din djarin x oc#mandalorian fanfic#din djarin x reader#Starlight#the mandalorian fanfiction#mando x oc#mando x ofc#mando x original character#mando x original female character#din djarin x female oc
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Day 1 of Fëanorian Week: Maedhros and Medicine
Hello, my lovelies! I hope you are all having the most amazing Monday. Anyways, it's my first Fëanorian Week as an active creator in the Silm fandom (cue confetti and balloons), and I'm trying my best to participate in (hopefully) every day! Wish me luck, friends!
Anyways, I thought I'd start out with some Maedhros-themed meta. I chose to work with the prompts "torture," and "adjustment/coping." Many thanks to @feanorianweek for all their hard work on this. You all are awesome!!
(TW for discussion of: torture, medical procedures, severe injuries, general body stuff)
Disclaimer: I'm not a doctor or a nurse and I haven't extensively studied medicine. I'm just into speculative biology and speculative medicine (pretty much speculative anything, tbh), and I wanted to write about this. I invite all you wonderful medical professionals out there to add on if you care to. Just be kind, please, okay? :)
Now, on to the meta!
Most everyone knows about Maedhros' capture by Morgoth. There's a lot of writing on the subject, and on the subsequent topic of his recovery (the ever-so-lovely @outofangband has many resources on both of these things if you want to check their work out).
Maedhros is tortured for approximately 30 years before Fingon rescues him. Think about that for a minute. 30 years. To put that in perspective, that's more than double my entire lifetime. It's slightly under half of my father's.
I'm going to guess that the amount of time Maedhros spent hanging on Thangorodrim is much longer than the amount he spent in Angband itself, simply because he's more useful as a visible trophy/symbol than hidden away in a cell somewhere. This is definitely speculation, but for the purposes of this, I'm going to say he spent 8-12 years in Angband and 18-22 years on Thangorodrim.
Now, we know that Morgoth is an, er, less-than-courteous host. Maedhros probably would've been beaten, starved, burned, experimented on, assaulted, maimed, poisoned, and otherwise harmed in all sorts of ways before he ever gets on Thangorodrim.
And then there's the matter of those 18-22 years he spent hanging from a mountain, suffering respiratory damage from the polluted air and the hanging, starvation, thirst, extreme damage to his bones, muscles, and tendons, hypothermia, potential animal attacks or parasites, infection of previous wounds, sleep deprivation, and, well, you can imagine the rest.
(And this doesn't even include the psychological consequences. We'll get to that later.)
But anyways. He gets rescued. What then? I highly doubt that any elf had actually returned from Angband before, so....do the doctors know how to handle Maedhros' injuries? They've probably seen missing limbs, broken bones, stab/slash wounds, etc. from battle, but what about a partially collapsed/stretched diaphragm (yes, this happens if you are hanging from your hands/arms for a long period of time), or extreme blunt force trauma, or internal bleeding, or repeatedly opened and probably gangrenous wounds, to name a few?
Unless there's a REALLY dark side to the Valar that we don't know about, elven medical professionals wouldn't have had to deal with these things in Valinor, and probably not even on the Helcaraxë. Which leads me to believe that most, if not all, of the healing techniques used on Maedhros were experimental, purely theoretical, or the highly respected Fëanorian method of"guess we'll wing it."
This means that Maedhros probably never healed right in a lot of places. Even if elves have different physiognomy than humans, his immune system and his capability for recovery were both probably compromised from extreme strain. Chances are, Maedhros wouldn't have been able to walk for years after his return. He would've had to relearn a lot more than just how to write and fight with the other hand. And even if he managed to get close to how he'd been before, he would never have been the same physically, and he would've been constantly pushing through fluctuating levels of pain. For the rest of his life. For thousands of years.
Oh, and he probably would've needed to relearn how to talk to a degree. During the mountain years, he probably would've created a whole new vocabulary of words for things that weren't connected to his former linguistic knowledge. At the beginning of his recovery, it's possible that most of his speech would've sounded like babble to everyone else, even if it made perfect sense to him.
And then there's the psychological and neurological effects! PTSD, severe anxiety, suicidal ideation, chronic depression, selective mutism, extreme dissociation, eating disorders, hallucinations, paranoia, phantom pains, no/low self-worth, memory loss--these are just a few things that can come out of having been tortured.
All of this leaves me with a lot of questions: did elves have physical therapy? Did they understand nerve damage? Would their surgical techniques have been helpful to Maedhros? Were they aware of the extent of his injuries? How good were their painkillers and antibiotics? Did they even have those? Were new procedures developed because of Maedhros? Did he, as king and after, advocate for better medical understanding of torture survivors, or write about his experiences to help others? Did he spend time with recovering elves? Did he have to hide his pain because ableist views were widespread? Did he use mobility aids? Did he have nonverbal episodes? Did he always have lingering respiratory/lung problems? Was he really sensitive to light (hint hint: ask me about my eye headcanons)? Did he ever forget who people around him were, or become disoriented and afraid?
Whatever the answers here may be (and there are many, many possible theories) my conclusion remains the same: it was an absolute miracle that Maedhros survived--and not only survived, but continued on to be a ruler, an accomplished diplomat, an incredible soldier, a caretaker, an ambassador, and so much more, all while persevering against physical and emotional pain and probably facing ableism.
And probably most people never even realized just how strong he was.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this big honker of a piece and/or learned something. I'm glad I got to write about this, because Maedhros matters a lot to me. Like, a lot a lot.
May the Valar smile on the rest of Fëanorian Week! I look forward to appreciating all of your wonderful creations and commentary. 😘
#feanorianweek#maedhros#meta#tw torture#nelyafinwë#maitimo#russandol#nelyo#fëanorians#silmarillion#elves#tolkien#my writing#silm meta#feanorianweek2021#my first feanorian week!!#long post#tw injuries#elven medicine#the silmarillion#middle earth#arda#jrr tolkien#fandom#sad disaster boys#tw medical procedures#speculation#thangorodrim#ableism#angband
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Unexpected bonding
(The short fanfic based on the first proper meeting between Musa and Riven on “Fate: The Winx Saga”. English is not my first language, so apologies for the possible grammar- and spelling-mistakes.)
Musa walked across the yard, among training and chatting students, trying to calm her twirling thoughts by firmly holding the combat stick. Usually, she enjoyed the lessons and this place felt like a second home to her. But in all honesty, these last few days could've gone a lot better. For some reason, this complicated mix of excitement, worry and determination around her was harder to take than usual. Everyone was restlessly and impatiently waiting for something to happen, even though they didn't fully know what it was. But it was there, hiding in the plain sight. This was the time her help would be needed the most, but she had never felt herself so...damn useless. How she wished she could've already been in her room, put her headphones on, focused on the music and let the rest of the world keep turning by itself for a while.
The sudden flash of obvious arrogance and more hidden anger was an oddly welcoming change in the common atmosphere and attracted her attention. It didn't take long for her to figure out its source: one of specialists was training with a battle rope a few long steps away from her, clearly apart from the others. His technique appeared to be nearly flawless, but she didn't need her powers to notice that behind it there was a deep need to let his frustrations out.
Musa didn't actually know much about Riven. Of course, everybody had heard of him - other than being close with Sky, he had gotten quite a bad reputation in Alfea, and his questionable habits with drugs didn't exactly help on the matter. These "stormy and unbalanced"-kind of energy auras were often too much for an empath like her, and that fact alone put him among the people she had usually been avoiding.
Still walking forward, she answered his sharp glance nonchalantly – a neutral, silent hello, that didn't expect any kind of discussion. However, hearing quiet, out of the blue chuckle made her stop reflexively, full of doubt. They hadn't changed more than a few words with each other before and she had had no reason to believe it would change now. He stopped his training too and looked at her, estimating.
"You like holding that big stick?"
His slightly amused, undermining and suggesting tone after a long and exhausting day made Musa react quickly; with secure grasp, she rotated the stick swiftly and bent into an attack-position, holding the stick very close to his face – staying still, half waiting for some kind of anger or offended surrendering-movement. However, her intuition was wrong again: instead, the youngster touched the head of the stick lightly and lowered It, raising his eyebrows and smirking almost flirtatiously. "I'll take that as a yes."
Young fairy repressed her will to roll her eyes: sadly, Riven was also well-known for his narrow-minded, obnoxious and somewhat prejudiced comments and opinions. This year Terra and Dane had seemed to have gotten the worst blows of them. Even though Terra hadn't admitted it to anyone, Musa had lived with her long enough to know that some of the remarks had really gotten under her skin. And that was saying a lot, when it came to a generally happy person like her. Some people just couldn't take a hint of crossing the line, and the boy standing in front of her was definitely one of them.
To show him that she really wasn't in a mood for such behavior today, she partly leaned on her stick and titled her head. "I think I just threw up."
In spite of the loathing tone in her answer, Riven couldn't help feeling a tad impressed: this tiny fairy seemed to have more fierceness and spunk in her than the most of the well-trained Specialists. After the lackey-like, avoiding or somewhat fearful reactions he had faced lately, this strictness from someone else than his best friend or mentor – especially a girl - certainly was something new. There was no denying that Beatrix had offered him quite a portion of that as well in her own, seductive and slightly twisted way, but this lass had some exceptional gentleness, vision and different kind of honesty in her that Beatrix just... had not.
Still a hint of smile on his face, he came a little closer to her, unwilling to change the subject. "I saw you on the support rounds with Miss Dowling at training." His tone was trying to pursue neutrality, but even the fool could've seen that he wanted to prove his point.
Musa tried to separate her own feelings from all the other auras around her to process his new, startling attentiveness. Was she honored or bothered – and more importantly, which one was the right way to react? At the moment, even the Expert of Emotions herself couldn't tell. What was the catch here? It would've made more sense for him to keep an eye on assertive and strong people like Stella or Aisha. She stayed quiet, letting a little patient smile crack her poker face, wondering where he was going with this.
Being wise enough not to test her patience any longer, Riven decided to answer the unspoken question himself. Without fully meeting her eye, he let his gaze linger at her feet. "I wouldn't have expected a mind fairy to have such good moves."
Without an invitation or permission, Mrs. Dowling's task-orientated but friendly voice echoed in her ears again.
"Not all fairy magic is suited to combat roles. Support is equally, if not more, important. Your magic can help us assess the fragile states of minds and uncover hidden enemies."
It was a common knowledge that the Headmistress was encouraging to the core, cared for her students, and meant well. Still, Musa's speculative mind constantly found hidden subtexts in her words, which started with "too theoretic" and ended up at something like: "Insufficient" or "powerless when things actually go wrong."
"I used to be a dancer." The words escaped her lips, before she managed to stop them. Whether it was because of Mrs. Dowling, her own defense mechanisms against Riven's prejudices, his infuriating abilities to give compliments and offend at the same time, or just pure tiredness, she was surprised by her own transparency. She had told about this only to her very few close people in her life. Not even her roommates knew. And now she had blabbered it in front of a basically complete stranger! But on the other hand, it was really refreshing to talk to someone, who didn't pry or force their curiosity on her out of duty or responsibility. Unable to help herself, she admitted: "I kinda miss being physical."
When she had been younger, her mother had taught her to dance and they had made it something they shared. It had been wonderful to dive deep into music and focus on the movements and the different worlds, in which melodies had transferred her into. But when her mother had passed away, she hadn't been able to bring herself in that flow anymore. No matter how persistently she had tried, it hadn't felt the same. Now it only reminded her of everything she had lost.
Abruptly, she returned back to reality and noticed that Riven's gaze had found its way in her eyes again and his posture had returned to its natural defensiveness.
"Yeah, well, too bad", he spat out in a slightly husky voice. "You're a fairy. They don't care what you wanna be in this place, only what they want you to be."
Quite a nice reward for being honest! It would've been so easy and rightful for Musa to get mad at him. But her mother had always used to say that no one's story and melody should be shut out, and she had chosen to live through that code. Even with the douchebag like Riven.
Now that she looked closer, with a little help of her own, she was able to see the dark circles under his eyes – eyes that were actually really observant and sincere, like they were trying to convey her an important message. Under the arrogance and "know it all"-attitude, there was buried bitterness and sadness. This wasn't just a cocky boy fighting for his territory. It was a sincere warning, born by his own, long-term experiences.
When one really stopped to think about it, this guy had gone through quite a rough year. The first more hidden emotion Musa sensed – perhaps because it had been also her friend for the last couple of days – was the fear of not being enough. Mr. Silva had always been righteous and fair leader and mentor who wanted to treat everyone equally, but still there was a little...guess it could be called conflict of interest. Even though Sky’s bloodline had guaranteed him the place in this school, he had been motivated and trained himself to the top and hadn't expected any special treatment. But after his father, Andreas of Eraklyon, had passed away in a battle, Silva, as Andreas' best friend, had taken him under his wing and now saw him basically as his own son. Due to this fact and his carefree and rebellious stoner-history, Riven must have felt overshadowed and the need to prove everyone that he belonged here.
Obviously, there was also worry and complicated feelings about Beatrix on his mind. Despite her... interesting personality – kindly expressed – and her shady and threatening motives that were becoming clearer by the moment, they had been close. She had been one of the few people who didn't judge him in one way or another. And now she was imprisoned and not many people knew what the faculty was planning to do to her. He probably also wondered how big role he had played in causing the danger – partly by being nasty to Dane – that was now hanging above everyone. He clearly tried to act like it didn't have an effect on him, but Musa and Aisha had witnessed his lousily finished training this morning. All of this would've a lot to bear to anyone, and Musa couldn't help feeling a little sorry for him.
"You really hate being here, don't you?"
She hadn't even acknowledged she had used her powers on full force until she saw the look on Riven's face: it was disoriented, almost blank, and there was a hint of surprise in his eyes. Musa was fully aware of what her powers awoke in others: being mentally and emotionally exposed without their own control could be terrifying.
Suddenly, Riven snapped out of his slumber, obviously startled, and pointed his finger at her accusingly. "Stay the fuck out of my head!" His voice was loaded with as much poison as possible, but a tiny, unintended smile screwed his cover up.
Snorting, he shook his head a little and turned around, away from the control of her bright eyes. "Mind fairies..." Still somewhat confused, he started to walk away, mumbling something like: "Walking red flags..." Nosey even at their best, thinking of being know-it-alls because of their abilities... He had been a careless idiot for letting his guard down. There was no doubt that the girl would go straight to Dowling, perhaps Silva, too, to report that the school's unstable rebel should be watched under this big threat...
Annoyed, he lifted his gaze off the ground just in time to see Sam, Musa's boyfriend, approaching them. Personally, he had nothing against the lad: if anything, despite being a loner, Terra's brother always seemed to be nice to everyone. Truth to be told, there was nothing to complain about his fighting skills, either. Perhaps those traits ran in the family. Passing him by, he tapped Sam's shoulder heavily. "Good luck with that one, mate!"
Without his own will, the fairy had awoken something in him, something he both feared, wanted to forget and also secretly missed...things from last year, that almost seemed like another life... Needing his own space, he sped up his steps and headed inside, the image of deep purple eyes oddly and fascinatingly haunting him.
Musa couldn't help smirking to the different auras of these two boys: one reminded of the serene, sunny summer day, while the other one was pretty more like an autumn storm.
For a moment, Sam looked after Riven and then turned his confused gaze to his girlfriend. "What was that about?"
Musa came closer to him, smiling and enjoying his calming and innocent presence. "Nothing." Technically, she wasn't lying. She had no room in her heart to be offended; over the years, she had become quite familiar with those kinds of hostile reactions to her powers. Whatever that had been, she didn't have energy to analyze it now. Besides, she had more pressing, romantic and distracting matters on her mind right now. "Wanna head back to the suite?"
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Hey! Are you willing to answer lore questions about Nehrim? Specifically Narathzul... the timeline for his imprisonment doesn’t seem to be right.
Do you know how long he was imprisoned for? Because somewhere before then, he had to imprison his dad... and Baratheon took over presumably right after. Beats me how Tealor survived like that for however many years Narathzul had him there.
Always, and thank you for asking! =D This is a tricky one, but I’ll do my best. At the end of the day, I can only speculate. I’ll divide it into two parts, one for Tealor and one for Narathzul.
[ Spoilers for both Nehrim and Enderal below. ]
Starting with Tealor! He didn’t survive imprisonment. The Tealor Arantheal you engage with in Enderal is not the real one, he is the Emissary; the personification of what he failed to do/wished to be, as any Emissary is, you kinda have to die for one to be created. Yes, they -say- he’s alive and nobody can really discount that fact because I mean, he’s there, living and breathing in front of people, vouching for himself, and as we all know, it’s -really- hard to argue with that man! Plus, our Enderal PC wouldn’t really have any reason to be able to call him out, they don’t have the knowledge the player might about Nehrim’s story beats.
Now, the timelines between the games are obviously wildly different, but whether it was 30 years or 1,000 for Tealor, he -died-. He would’ve had to. Narathzul doesn’t mention his father when he tells you what he did to the paladin’s spirits, so unfortunately we don’t have hard confirmation -from- a Nehrim source, we can only say he’s likely to be dead because of how Emissaries work.
-Strictly- speaking to Nehrim, Tealor is a spirit, or some kind of undead, bound to the Temple, which is why once he realizes you’re not Narathzul, he disappears and all them black skeletons come wreck your shit.
Looking back to Enderal, there’s another time something like this happens! Down in the ancient Pyrean city too, when the High Ones be pulling their bullshit, a whole shitton of Lost Ones are raised to hamper your path in that very specific red lighting.
I mention -that-, because -Nehrim- Tealor is guarding the Predestination in the Creator’s Temple, even reciting it as you progress through the dungeon, which we know are created by the Eliath (who may or may not also be High Ones, I can make a whole other post about that). He could’ve just teleported away of course, but there’s no casting animation for that, he just despawns and then the lighting goes red and the skeletons show up. Details are important.
I can’t give a clear answer, but for the sake of trying to link the two game’s lore on the subject, -I- personally believe that Narathzul killed his father, but unlike the other Paladins, didn’t bind him there. That would come later, from the High Ones. Narathzul slaying him could’ve been a similar catalyst to how the Prophet was killed by the Veiled Woman, only Narathzul couldn’t have known what became of it. So! The way Tealor “survives” his imprisonment, is being an Emissary- they’re immortal, they don’t die until their purpose is fulfilled, and given the High Ones are timeless creatures, it stands in my mind to reason they easily could’ve held onto a pawn for decades/centuries to bring about The Cleansing.
Onto Narathzul!
Due to retcons, it’s a pretty solid cleave between Nehrim and Enderal’s lore deciding how long Narathzul was imprisoned. There is technically a definite answer in the sense Nehrim being strictly canon seems not be the case anymore, so he was imprisoned for 30 years.
A book from Forgotten Stories attempts to clear up the matter about why Nehrim uses 1,000 years and Enderal uses 30, and frankly, it’s a -mess-.
It suggests that Narathzul simply -lied- to his followers and they spread those lies to fluff up his myth, but I call -bullshit- on that because the whole -point- of Narathzul being special because of his bloodline is dependent on how long he spent down there and didn’t age. I’ve heard it said it’s “not realistic”, but of course it’s not, it’s a thousand fucking years, it’s called -high fantasy-! It’s stupid, fun Tolkien bullshit! Narathzul could’ve put himself through centuries long naps for all we know, it just builds the willpower of the character that he endured for such an -impossible- span of time.
Not to mention, the source of the above material -is- the Holy Order, and Enderal spends a lot of its time heavily implying them fools be lying all the time to maintain their power structure, so why trust it as canon anymore than trusting Narathzul? It makes -sense- that an organization in service to the Lightborn would defame and discredit what happened, Narathzul was a rebel, of -course- you make him look as terrible as possible to maintain the status quo.
In the end, it’s whatever side of canon you subscribe to regarding how long Narathzul was imprisoned. Some prefer Enderal’s, others prefer Nehrim not getting shafted.
Personally, I’m of the mind it was 1,000 years. He survived because he’s half Lightborn, he’s theoretically immortal- and that’s not even bringing up the lineage of the Aeterna and how long they can potentially live WITHOUT special snowflake Lightborn power because of the -Seraphim- who live insanely long too (Hi, Arkt, he’s 8,000 at -least-, it’s terrifying) being the progenitors of Aeterna. Narathzul has multiple reasons why he can be as old as he is, and being inherently magic could help his survival in his confinement- not to mention he wasn’t -completely- alone between his jailer Arch-Seraph Arazdor, whoever was giving him provisions (books, chair, candles, etc), a Silver Plate to speak at whoever has the others, and however many people have attempted in the past to free him and not succeeded. ALL things that can be seen through environmental story telling. So when actually thought about, his confinement not driving him completely nuts (outside of just pure willpower) can be believed.
As a small side note, Barateon being 1,000 is a hard one to swing, but Merzul is also the same age and it could be argued they keep themselves a live by magic. If you look at Enderal’s take on the Lightborn, it’s doable.
Anyway, I hope that cleared something up! I know I always get long winded with these things. <:P
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How would you sort the cast from Miraculous Ladybug ?
(I was gonna hold off on posting this until I was absolutely certain about the sorting, because sorting this show is like pulling teeth. But then last night I had a dream about Lila trying to ruin Marinette’s birthday with the usual lesbian subtext you would expect from two girls who hate each other and when I woke I had this second ask in my inbox so I figure the universe is tryna tell me something)
This is a hard one. There are some things we have to consider with Miraculous Ladybug. (warning this gets long)
1. It’s inconsistent with its characters on a good day.
2. The creators are very much pushing an unhealthy-keep the peace and be nice to everyone including bullies and toxic people because they are people to-Badger primary narrative.
3. While it’s not unhealthy like the primary, the show also pushes a Badger secondary narrative. They like their Badger secondaries and what show wants to teach is that Pure Badgers are the best sorting possible.
So it becomes hard to see what is an actual character moment, and what’s the creators using a character as a mouthpiece. Marinette gets fucked over by this because the show deliberately has her do things wrong so they can enforce lessons. This is especially hard with Adrien because he is the show’s golden boy favorite which means he does everything right and almost always spouts out the lesson of the day. It’s safe to say that if Marinette and Adrien aren’t already Badgers they have badger primary models. Adrien because showrunners, Marinette because Adrien’s peddling it to her.
(I wanna make it very clear that I’m not insulting Badger primaries in this post, but unhealthy Badger primaries where bad people get away with bad things just because they are people)
So MARINETTE DUPAIN-CHENG/LADYBUG...I think she’s a burnt Bird. She can’t be naturally a Badger because she has to constantly be told by people to act like a Badger. Give Chloe a million chances even if she bullied you for years and is horrible to everyone around her and has no desire to change. Don’t expose Lila for being a liar who gives out false promises and also wants to destroy Ladybug and teams up with Hawkmoth.
It also explains her unhealthy Snake primary she has for Adrien. A lot of the time her motivation, her why, will be because Adrien! Why does she get Adrien to come with them on the trip to New York? Because if not he’ll be left alone with Lila and she’s jealous! And also I guess because Adrien should get to do fun things. Why did she choose Adrien to be Aspik? Because she’s in love with him and he’s perfect! But that’s not her, it doesn’t work for her. Part of that is the world telling her if she ever tries to pursue Adrien it’ll backfire in her face, but also it’s not natural for her. She fell for Adrien and because her primary is burnt she placed meaning in him, building a Snake primary for him-and then a drowned Badger primary model once he started lecturing her about it.
And yes I do think her Badger primary model is drowned. She gives her all to everything, and is always convinced that doing anything seemingly selfish is bad (which is weird because the narrative also has Alya constantly trying to convince her to be selfish and date Adrien). She won’t let herself confess to Adrien because that will literally lead to the end of the world. She also gives up trying to pursue Adrien because she wants him to be happy with Kagami. She gives up a job opportunity to help save Paris (which was the right choice but doesn’t disprove my point). She is told by Mme. Bustier that she has to be an example and that she has to stay calm and keep the peace and give everything for other people. She is slowly over the series starting to drown.
Now admittedly she could be a burnt Lion originally, we don’t ever see her before her burning. But, the reason why I say Bird is because she seems more eager for people to tell her what is right and what is wrong. What is true? Burnt Lions, I can say from experience, don’t like as much to be told what is right and wrong. They want to know of course, but there will be a part of them that is unhappy and when they are told by other people they’ll be more sad about it if it doesn’t gel with their gut. It’ll just be another reason why they’re wrong and they’ll stay burnt longer. On the other hand, Marinette is eager to be told what is true from people, she wants to know and when people tell her she takes it in and immediately follows it. I say she’s a burnt bird because she doesn’t trust herself to make the right decision unless it’s black and white, akuma v. hero. The snap judgements she makes are because she’s burnt and therefore she flounders when unable to ask what she should do and just does because if she thinks she’ll come to the wrong decision. So impulsive decision time. (Miraculous Ladybug is a really depressing show if you think of Marinette as a real person)
Or she’s a burnt Lion and I just went on a tangent for no reason.
Now you’d think think that sorting out her secondary would be easier, but NO. The only thing easy about her secondary is that she is definitely not a Lion secondary.
Now she definitely has a two models. One of her models is a Badger obviously. She takes on projects and works herself to death. She also takes on a caring role usually and works as a leader. She manages to charm people almost instantly and then she has them on her side for basically forever. I only say this is a model because her plans never really include other people or calling in favors.
But now I have to decided if she is a rapid fire Bird or a Snake originally and which one is her model. I wanna say that she’s a Snake originally. Her plans are usually incredibly under the fly. She’ll just look around the area, see what she has to work with, and then immediately have the plan. It’s not usually based off of prior knowledge (although that happens a fair amount to). She also does things like steal phones and bicycles a fair amount (classic Snake traits) and has on more than one occasion lied her way out of a situation.
Now her Bird model is not unimportant. I say she isn’t originally a bird because she never has a back up plan. Plan A fails and she has to freak out for a bit before she makes a new plan on the fly. Her bird model is something she used to play with before she became a hero I think. She gained many skills in the art world-especially fashion-, baking, gaming, etc. just for the fun of it. Then she became a hero and used that planning skill to good work. How do I defeat the akuma and convince Chat Noir that I’m not Marinette? Obviously I’ll shrink myself down into many versions of me wearing all the miraculouses so I can climb in the kwamis’ mouths, take Chat Noir’s ring from him, get sucked into the kwami pack so I can break it from the inside with the Cat miraculous, then I’ll make an illusion of me as Ladybug getting the akuma and me as Multimouse taking off my miraculous because I’m just such a goof and then when Chat leaves I’ll capture the real akuma and transform back.
Compare that to Chat’s plan of, say the school is a elementary school.
But honestly it could go either way.
Adrien is much easier to sort compared to Marinette’s spastic characterization.
ADRIEN AGRESTE/CHAT NOIR has a strong Badger primary model, which is hilarious because he sucks at it. The boy is actually a Snake primary just like his father (he ALSO has an unhealthy primary but we’ll get to that). Lila lying to his class-his community-and giving them empty promises? He doesn’t care, he wants to keep the peace! He’s gonna be nice to her and try to sway her the side of good from the sidelines-wait what’s this? Lila made his friend Kagami jealous which caused her to be akumatized and also tried to get Ladybug killed? What an outrage! He’s not gonna try to be friends with her anymore! Wait, Lila got Marinette expelled through bullshit?! How dare she! Now he’s going to force her to take it all back so Marinette can be happy!
He doesn’t get upset when his community is threatened, he only gets mad when his people are threatened. In Chat Blanc he is forced to choose between killing his father or killing Ladybug (who is his girlfriend because it’s another timeline), which is a classic Snake problem. Chat doesn’t think about how if he kills his father instead he’ll save all of Paris, he just can’t decide and ends up destroying the world with his indecision. “Our love [destroyed the world]” he says to Ladybug. That’s very Snake primary and seems to me like an unhealthy Snake primary. His dream is to move away to an island alone with Ladybug, which says something about the differences between them. Marinette’s dream is have a large family with Adrien.
His secondary is harder because I can’t tell if he has a Badger secondary or a Lion secondary. The thing is the way the shows treats the different identities is that Ladybug and Adrien are the masks for Marinette and Chat (I did not do this for Marinette though). That means that a more accurate reading for Adrien’s sorting should theoretically be looking at Chat. Chat definitely has a Lion secondary. His first instinct is always attack first attack attack attack. Most of the time the reason the battle drags on is because Chat is jumping in too soon. When he doesn’t jump in it’s because he’s pissed at Ladybug for rejecting him. Also, the one time we see him do a plan, the plan is dress up in a makeshift suit and attack the enemy.
But he definitely has a Badger secondary model. How will he make Lila stop antagonizing Marinette? He’ll act like he’s her friend and let her model with him. How does he try to impress his father, by taking a bunch of classes and modelling for him. It’s a model though, one I think he built after his mother “disappeared” to try and cheer up his father.
I know you probably wanted more so rapid fire:
ALYA CESAIRE is a Lion primary who makes impulsive decisions and only doesn’t when the plot needs her to. She’s got an immature Bird secondary as well, immature as in she gains a piece of information and her Lion primary then makes her go crazy over it.
CHLOE BOURGEOIS is snake primary who cares about herself and those closest to her until she doesn’t, and a Lion secondary who charges in because she’s stupid with a shitty Snake secondary model she adopted from her parents.
GABRIEL AGRESTE/HAWKMOTH is a Snake primary who cares only about his wife, sometimes Natalie, and sometimes Adrien. Also a Bird secondary who makes big elaborate plans that always fail.
NATALIE SANCOEUR/MAYURA is a Snake primary who does things for Adrien and Gabriel because she loves them, and another Bird secondary who has a very nice skillset and and helps Gabriel with his plans. She does also have a Badger secondary because she works very hard and uses herself as a weapon, but it’s not her go to.
(yes I know I didn’t sort Nino or Lila, but Nino is practically a non-character and Lila might have a Lion primary and I don’t wanna have to put much more thought into this post. Maybe later)
so...
Marinette Dupain-Cheng/Ladybug - Burnt Bird primary (maybe burnt Lion) with a drowned Badger model and an unhealthy Snake model for Adrien/Snake secondary with a Bird model (possibly switched) and a (possibly unhealthy) Badger model
Adrien Agreste/Chat Noir - Snake primary/Lion Secondary, double Badger model
Alya Cesaire - Lion primary/immature Bird secondary
Gabriel Agreste/Hawkmoth - Snake primary/Bird secondary
Natalie Sancoeur/Mayura - Snake primary/Bird secondary, Badger secondary model
Chloe Bourgeois - Snake primary/Lion secondary
#miraculous ladybug#ML#MLB#ml salt#because why not#adrien agreste#marinette dupain cheng#gabriel agreste#i went on a journey and a half with this post#marinette i adore you but god get yourself together#marinette is a really complex character and the show treats her like shit#burnt bird primary#bird primary#bird secondary model#bird secondary#badger primary model#badger secondary model#snake primary#snake primary model#snake secondary#lion secondary#primary has no more meaning to me#good god if anyone wants to weigh in feel free marinette's sorting is fucking me up#alya cesaire#chloe bourgeois#natalie sancoeur#long post#obscenely long#sortinghatchats#sorting hat chats
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The Mage only had one job
“None of it comes naturally to me. Words. Language. Speaking.
I don’t remember when I learned to talk, but I know they tried to send me to specialists. Apparently, that can happen to kids in care, or kids with parents who never talk to them—they just don’t learn how.
Excerpt From: Rainbow Rowell. “Carry On.”
I honestly do not understand The Mage here. Like, fucking WHY, when you spend so MUCH of your time, magic, when you were practically obsessed about creating the most powerful Mage AND you sacrificed (theoretically) love of your life or at least the only living ally - WHY would you just throw away the precious thing you finally got? Ok, let’s not talk about fatherly feelings (you obviously had none of it) but let’s thinking about Simon as your fighting asset - speaking - is the main and only one essential skill of any mage, and you just throwing it on random people’s (people with limited time and not exactly friendly or loving) shoulders, this crucial responsibility? Are you for real? You could have put him in rich posh fancy professional place, you could have hire dozen of language speakers to come from his childhood, you could have teach him magic books from childhood. Like Pitches did with their kids.
“He wants me to stand apart from everyone else. Separate training. Special lessons. I don’t think he’d even let me go to school at Watford if he weren’t the headmaster there—and if he didn’t think it was the safest place for me.
”Excerpt From: Rainbow Rowell. “Carry On.
I would look back at how he neglected Natasha’s books and say that he might be adept of SWORD power, like pure fighting with magic energy, no words whatsoever. BUT. He did use books A LOT when he was a student. And again, when he was a student, didn’t he complained how ISOLATED he felt because of elitism? How he had to get to everything himself with the stubbornness and will. And knowing that, WHY he made it difficult for Simon as well? I mean, again. NO FEELINGS, but he would be much more successful in creating and training the greatest mage IF HE WOULDN”T RUINED IT from the beginning.
AND I am sure the emotional intellect skills are taught and essential for mage as well (otherwise they would evaporate people every day, people are annoying). Skills, like, you know, - not going off - deal with frustrations and etc, even use your magic with wisdom. And he had none of that. As we can see, The Mage would withdraw and ALIENATE him again from usual lessons and activities. Where he can grow as a mage and learn. And.. Networking, what?
“Like in our sixth year, when he practically ignored me. Every time I tried to talk to him, he told me he was in the middle of something important.”
Excerpt From: Rainbow Rowell. “Carry On.” Apple Books.
Attention! It is one of years where Simon had to learn as quick as possible, he’s mature, he’s growing, the war is soon. And The Mage? Yeah, back to challenging his emotional health and restrict knowledge. Like he has something more important to do. Like Simon is NOT his BIGGEST hope to win. Mage, honestly, where you brain at?
Meanwhile Pitches:
“Of course, sir. Though I think you’ll find I’m still quite ahead of the class; my mother always insisted on summer work in Greek and Latin”
Excerpt From: Rainbow Rowell. “Carry On.”
And Simon?
“But then he decided I was better off spending part of every year with the Normals. To stay close to the language and to keep my wits about me: “Let hardship sharpen your blade, Simon.”
...
“I’m the blade. The Mage’s sword. And I’m not sure if these summers in children’s homes make me any sharper.…”
Excerpt From: Rainbow Rowell. “Carry On.”
Again - NO magic practice, NO learning, NO theory, NO speach practice, but plenty of stress and emotional wreckage and (Mage’s favourite, now I suspect) ISOLATION. Huh? I’m fucking starting to suspect that someone from opposite side possessed The Mage’s body to destroy his plan, cause, really - he can’t be THAT stupid.
Yeah. And after all this poor job of his, The Mage says:
“ But you’re not the Chosen One.
“You’re just a child,” he says, disappointed.”
Excerpt From: Rainbow Rowell. “Carry On.”
(Forgive my language, this scene makes my blood boil) Well, because you fucking sabotaged him from the beginning, you, incompetent fuck? You DIDN’T CHOOSE HIM. You didn’t raise him well. That, was your only job, and YOU fucking BOMBED it.
p.s. I hope Simon’s birthday (being on father’s day) reminded him what an arse of a father he was every year.
#the mage#simon snow#carry on#snowbaz#simon snow salisbury#carry on texts#carry on meta#the mage meta#simon snow meta
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Raising Werewolf Cubs Under His Bed
Posted on Archive of Our Own here.
Riddle laughed his high laugh again.
“It was my word against Hagrid’s, Harry. Well, you can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student… on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls… but I admit, even I was surprised how well the plan worked.”
Um… hey. Hey, Tom? Mr. Riddle? Dramatic ass “I am Lord Voldemort” person-sir? Do you mean human children???!!! Hey Joanne, do you mean human children cause werewolf cubs? Werewolf cubs have gotta be human children.
There are four explanations for this line that I can think of. One Doylist (explained out of text), three Watsonian (explained within canon).
The first explanation: JK Rowling did not come up with werewolf lore until after she had written the third book. That explains why she keeps writing about people being afraid of werewolves in the Forbidden Forest even when it wasn’t a full moon and shit like this. She just hadn’t come up with the facts yet.
This explanation, while probably correct, is boring as hell and we will be disregarding it.
Explanation number two barely warrants an entry. Riddle was trying to think of a magical creature and just said werewolves without considering what that would mean. This is somehow more boring than explanation one.
The third explanation is more fun. Wizards are, to put it kindly, mildly, and with some of the love in my heart, dumb as shit.
The Hogwarts education system is shaky at best. Thinking of how little math wizards know makes me want to cry. I would say something like “The class of History of Magic is so poorly taught that I doubt any of the students even know that ___” but like. The class of History of Magic is so poorly taught that I can’t come up with an obvious example of Wizarding history.
Due to the shaky Hogwarts education system, I can partially excuse Ron for being stupid in the area of “what are werewolves” when he talks about werewolves in the Forbidden Forest in book two, as of his two Defence teachers the more competent was Quirinus Quirrell.
(Lockhart’s teachings on lycanthropy involve him curing someone of it by sticking a wand down their throat and saying a spell, which… If it were that easy then Remus Lupin would have had a much better life. If he could fix his furry little problem by eating a wand, the man would have had unicorn hair and cypress soup every night for the rest of his life.)
(That being said, Ron should know more about werewolves. Molly or Arthur should have taught their kids things like that.)
Tom Riddle, in contrast to Ron, went to Hogwarts before the position was cursed. Given that he was the one who cursed it, this makes sense. Riddle had a stable education that, theoretically, involved a competent professor. He should know better.
But also, wizards are dumb as shit.
They seem to have no standardization to their education except for aiming for the OWLs and NEWTs. What educational standards has the Ministry released for teachers to follow? Probably none, that would be too competent. (Ignoring book five, ew.) Just because werewolves were covered in DADA during Harry’s time at Hogwarts doesn’t mean they were in Riddle’s. Maybe they were covered in Care of Magical Creatures, which Riddle would almost certainly not take. Or maybe they weren’t covered at all.
So maybe Tom Riddle hasn’t learned about werewolves in school. He knows about them when he’s older though, so what gives?
Here’s the thing. This Tom Riddle hasn’t had his dark magic field trip yet, the one he goes on after he graduates. What if he doesn’t know about werewolves, but he thinks he kinda gets the gist, and, being Voldemort, assumed he was correct.
Hagrid could have been raising puppies under his bed and Riddle could have been like. “Ah, yes. These are werewolf babies. I am correct on this and will not be corrected by anyone ever because I am the pinnacle of all things knowledge.”
Diary!Tom Riddle is #ForeverSixteen. He is a teenager who insists on being called “Flight of Death” (or, incidentally, Flight from Death, which, yeah). He wears eyeliner, he listens to fascist!MCR, he wants to commit genocide, you know, just regular teenage boy things. Yikes.
(Can you imagine 72-year-old Voldemort having to interact with his 16-year-old self? This insolent boy who doesn’t even know what werewolves are? Harry wouldn’t have had to destroy the Horcrux, Voldemort would do it himself to get the kid to stop talking.
Tom Riddle, age 16: “Lord Voldemort is my past, present, and future.”
Tom Riddle, age 70ish: “You’re about to be past due if you don’t shut up.”)
Anyway, that’s our third explanation. Tom Riddle is dumb as shit. This is backed up by the fact that 1) he is sixteen, 2) wizarding education is a hot garbage fire, 3) grown Voldemort is dumb as shit. He refuses to do research into things he thinks he understands in his seventies, why would he be any smarter at age sixteen?
This explanation is less boring. This is the one that I consider to be the closest to canon one. This makes sense, and it involves making fun of Voldemort’s dramatic bullshit and narcissism, which I approve of.
I like this explanation.
But explanation number three? It doesn’t hold a candle to explanation four.
See, here’s the thing. I believe that Voldemort is dumb as shit and that his education could have been pretty spotty.
But I also think that the boy that has rediscovered Horcruxes by doing too much research would not be completely ignorant of what werewolves are and how they work. They’re considered to be Dark Creatures™ so he would have come across them at some point when learning of the Dark™ Mysterious® Arts©.
So what if.
What if he wasn’t talking out of his ass?
What if Hagrid WAS raising werewolf cubs under his bed? Or, not cubs. Cubs implies non-people.
What if Hagrid was keeping werewolf children under his bed while he was attending Hogwarts?
Picture this: 11-year-old Rubeus Hagrid gets his letter for Hogwarts. He’s overjoyed. His father is a bit surprised that Hagrid, a half-giant, received his letter, but he is also overjoyed.
(The fact that Hagrid got into Hogwarts at all with wizarding prejudices as they are is honestly remarkable. We know that the Wizarding World is awful about treating those who aren’t pure-blooded wizards like people and Hagrid being a half-giant isn’t exactly subtle.)
So Hagrid goes to Hogwarts. He learns. He makes friends. He probably gets in quite a bit of trouble with teachers because he’s never been someone with a ton of common sense or tendency to follow rules. Being in trouble doesn’t bother him too much, he’s young and usually, he doesn’t think about consequences for his actions. Besides, often the reward is worth the risk.
So Hagrid finishes his first year having loved the experience. And he goes home for the summer.
Let’s say that Hagrid and his dad live on the outskirts of a relatively small Muggle town. They’re not quite in the wilderness, but they’re not quite in the town proper either.
A new family, the Canids, has moved next door since Hagrid has gone off to Hogwarts. They have two children roughly Hagrid’s age, a daughter named Freki, age 12, and a son named Geri, age 10. Given Hagrid’s friendly nature and the general boredom that comes with a long summer, the three of them quickly make friends and begin to spend quite a bit of time together.
(Forgive my mixing of Norse and Latin etymology here, I refuse to spend more than three minutes googling names that mean “wolf wolf” or “moon moon” that haven’t already been used in canon.)
Then, one day when they’re hanging out, something weird happens. What exactly it is, I’m not sure. Maybe a branch breaks while they are climbing a tree and no one gets hurt, despite how high up they are. Maybe Hagrid says something unthinkingly cruel on accident, and Geri’s feelings get hurt, and Hagrid’s hair gets turned pink. Maybe Freki finds a magical creature that Muggles aren’t supposed to be able to see. Maybe their father is off fighting in World War II (it is 1941, after all), and there is some unsetting news from the front, and one of the kids causes a sunny day to become a rainstorm.
However it happens, Hagrid figures out that he’s got two underage wizards on his hands. And he knows Freki (age 12) hasn’t received her Hogwarts letter.
Hagrid has never been one to keep his mouth shut. The man at the age of 62 let slip to a group of eleven-year-olds that 1) he had a three-headed dog, 2) the name of the dog was Fluffy, 3) Fluffy was guarding something that was owned or created by Nicholas Flamel, and 4) you can put Fluffy to sleep by playing any kind of music ever. He is not one for subtlety, or for secrets. Honestly, he might have told these kids about magic on accident even if they hadn’t shown signs of being wizards.
So he confronts the kids about the strange things that have been happening. Freki goes dead pale the second he opens his mouth. She begs him not to tell anyone in the village that there is something unnatural about them, Rubeus, please, you don’t know what people will do if they find out.
Hagrid’s confused. If they find out what exactly? Having magic is wonderful, you get to go to school and learn and make friends and discover all sorts of interesting facts and creatures and-
There are two ways this could go.
Either Freki and Geri don’t know about magic and they are delighted to hear about this wonderful place where they could be themselves, and also maybe they could get some help for this weird thing that has been happening to them since they were little kids and there was a wolf attack. Hagrid has to figure out very quickly how to deal with the fact that 1) he has to explain magic to his two friends, 2) his two friends are werewolves, 3) his two friends will not be accepted into wizard society, and 4) he also has to explain that.
Or Geri and Freki already know about magic. They didn’t know that Hagrid knew (they are in a Muggle town, after all), but they knew about magic. Maybe their mom was a witch and dad a Muggle. Maybe the other way around. Maybe both parents are wizards. Maybe they are the descendants of Squibs. Whatever their parental background, they have heard about Hogwarts. And they know the reason that neither of them had gotten Hogwarts letters, know the reason neither of them would ever get Hogwarts letters. And gently, sadly, they explain to Hagrid their situation.
And as Hagrid finds out that they’re werewolves and starts to process what that means for them and their future, Hagrid becomes indignant. And I mean Hermione-founding-misguided-but-well-meaning-organization-SPEW level indignant. I’m talking “thou shalt not insult Albus Dumbledore in front of me” level indignant. Indignant might not be the right word. He gets angry.
Remus Lupin will be the first werewolf to legally receive schooling at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But if Hagrid has something to say about it? Freki and Geri will beat the record illegally by about thirty years.
(This is a man who has been alienated his whole life for his half-giant status. He knows the feeling of being discriminated against for something he can’t change about himself.)
(This is also a man who tried to raise a dragon egg in a wooden cabin. He doesn’t necessarily think things through.)
And so begins Operation Get-My-Friends-A-Wizard-Education.
Phase One: Preliminary Education.
Hagrid spends the rest of the summer teaching these two kids everything that he can remember from his first year of school. He’s got a month. He’s got his books. He’s got enough determination to intimidate God. He’s only got the one wand, but he’ll make do.
And as late August comes? He thinks they’re ready as they’re gonna get.
Phase Two: Smuggling Time.
Now, Hagrid is an oversized lad. And one of the things that comes with being an oversized lad is oversized clothes. And one of the things that comes with oversized clothes is an oversized trunk.
Hagrid also has an undersized father with an oversized heart and an undersized sense of what is a normal and sane thing to do. (The man had sex with a giantess for Pete’s sake!)
With a little convincing, said undersized father could make said oversided trunk be even more oversized on the inside.
Geri and Freki? Welcome to the Hogwarts Express, viewed from the luxury seats of “Inside Hagrid’s Trunk.” No complimentary beverages, I’m afraid, and the view’s not great, but all the oversized clothes end up being quite comfortable cushions.
So Hagrid smuggles two kid werewolves into Hogwarts.
Phase Three: Ah, Shit, Didn’t Think This Through… Er… Live Under My Bed I’ll Bring You Homework
So they live under his bed while he teaches them everything that he is learning in all of his classes, sometimes in the dorm room when no one else is there, sometimes in the Forbidden Forest when they can sneak out, sometimes in empty rooms around the castle. They spend each full moon as deep into the forest as they can go, hoping against hope that they won’t hurt anyone and they will be safe.
(In this universe, the rumors of werewolves in the forest came from somewhere. The stories of glimpses of wolves through the trees during this time were passed down through the generations. “My aunt’s cousin’s friend’s dad saw a werewolf in the forest” may not be the most credible of sources, but in this case, it holds a grain of truth.)
They are careful, and, for a while, they don’t get caught.
How long are they at Hogwarts? I don’t know. A while, certainly. A month? A semester? A full year? Maybe they make it through to when the Chamber of Secrets was opened and everyone became more suspicious and more alert before they were found out.
Once they are caught, the Canid children are promptly sent home. After all, you can’t have monsters in a school like Hogwarts, and what are werewolves if not monsters.
The staff lets Hagrid off with a warning, thinking maybe this was a one-off occurrence of idiocy. But they do view Hagrid with more suspicion after that. After all, he brought monsters into the school. Who’s to say what he’ll let in next?
That being said, Tom Riddle’s probably just dumb as shit.
Posted on Archive of Our Own here.
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Were you a difficult student, Chancellor? I mean difficult as challenging, not as daft. Did you get into trouble often? Were you the sort that drove his mentors insane with your wit and attitude or were you a good, obedient little apprentice?
In my childhood I was mostly tutored at home along with my siblings which were close to my age. According to my tutors I was a diligent student when I focused on the matter at hand, but I would seek distractions if the topic bored me, and I was excellent at finding distractions. The teacher responsible for my education of languages said that no matter what, the amount of attention I paid was always wrong: Either too much - to such an extent that I wouldn’t budge from the topic of the class if I was interested in it for hours - or not at all. I assume that in the setting of a larger class this would be a great obstacle both for me, my classmates, and even my teachers, but as the case was, in the very small setting of our home where the tutors could pay individual attention to me and my two brothers it was lightly annoying on the worst of days.
All my formal education would be then put to halt when I joined the Imperial army, where I underwent the regular training and attended the good and tried learn-or-die alma mater of every soldier. In a way it has taught me far more than my tutors ever could. When my father came to the realization that he would not get rid of me this way, I was withdrawn from the army and swiftly forced to join the family’s inner semi-political machinations, which included getting married. I ensured that there was always something pressing occupying his attention and without his knowledge enrolled in the Battlespire.
Initially nobody there thought much of me: My knowledge of magic was far below their standards, as I was almost entirely self-trained in this regard, and I was older than the other trainees by a number of years. However, I was extremely eager to learn, and my mentors soon realized that I was not a lost case, I was only a late case. Once again you can apply what I said about my inability to focus in the correct amount, with the difference that this was something I actively wanted to do, and therefore I had convinced myself every bit of what I was being taught was interesting. I was extremely curious and more often than not I asked a lot of questions - eventually I would even seek lectures for advanced classes despite I being still a novice at the time, I would sit there and listen, occasionally engage in a “purely theoretical” conversation with the lecturer. It went slightly to the extremes when I befriended an attending Apostle in the same year as I was who introduced me to a drink called Seht’s blessing, which resulted in each of us attending half of the lectures in the Battlespare, and then exchanging the notes. By the end of our third year the Battlemage, head of the facility, had called for us and asked us with a very serious face which class did we we belong to, as our lecturers, teachers and mentors weren’t sure. When he provided him with the answer, he continued with the question if we were aware that at the end of the year we had accidentally partaken in the graduation exams. We were not aware of that. And before you asks: our results were nothing to brag about, but we would have passed.
I was not a bad student, but I highly advise against following in my exact footsteps. So to say there are easier ways to cross the desert than swimming.
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[ lean ]
i won’t die here. i won’t die here. i won’t die here. WHERE’S MY FUCKING WEAPON WHERE IS IT WHERE ———— his his hands are covered in mud / and blood / and he claws at the ground : seeking.
it was a miscalculation, theoretically. theoretically because he had succeeded in what he set out to do ( protect / protect / protect / protect / pro ——— )but fell short and there is pain radiating through his body threatening to go numb but for the way that his nerves scream and scream and SCREAM / and it hurts. of course it does, a blade sticking through your chest and exiting your back and breathing / hurts. living hurts. living has always hurt.
the sounds of battle quiet and it may be the perception thereof but it may yet be that dulling of all senses as he focuses primarily and heavily upon THE PAIN THAT RADIATES THROUGH HIM and he won’t die here. he won’t die here. he won’t die here but for the fact that he might and there is blood in his mouth / his own? likely not. blood in his mouth and mud in his hair and it’s : raining. of course it is.
there was a time in his childhood when it had snowed and snowed and snowed and / snowed and he, child of wintertide, had run out into it day after day after day, glorious and overjoyed and shrieking as he would run from his brother / and his father / and his mo —— mother. mother. mother. there was a day when he had stepped, energetic and unsuspecting, into a snowbank that had collapsed beneath him and he had been BURIED BENEATH IT, the cold embracing and the cold holding and the cold frigid ( the foretelling of his future / if he were partial to believing such things ) and seeping. seeping. seeping. until the hands that pulled him from his snowy grave ————
his hands. his hands. the hands which grasp him now and they aren’t so small nor gentle as they had been, then / but they’re his hands nonetheless : a fact that he knows without sight nor sense nor acknowledgement. the shape of his hands. the shape of him. the feel of him / something that he would know in death and life and at the ends of their world and all of the spaces in between : AN INTRINSIC KNOWING INNATE TO THEM. oh, how he used to run with him. never after him. with him and with him and wishing to be with him and do everything with him and time and the changing of identities cannot wear away the knowledge that he holds for this man / this beast.
❝ will you fight me? ❞ his voice, rough and low and entirely unlike the boy that he used to be / his hand on his shoulder / holding onto him so tightly. as if such a thing will anchor him to reality.
❝ you ask that of me now, boar? ❞ the impulse to be recalcitrant in the face of imminent doom is rather ridiculous / and he speaks into the earth and holds sodden grass in his hand and he won’t die here. he won’t. or he might. or he may, indeed.
death is no great journey / it is merely the end. is this his end?
to die in the service of a KING TO BE ON HIGH ———— oh, the end that his father wished for him, surely. the very same end that his dear brother had met. the very same end that his dear mother had met / and for all of his frustration and all of his rage and all of his BURNING ANGER WITH THIS MAN he has long since accepted that this devotion / is one that he’s chosen / and one that he follows, still. dimitri alexandre blaiddyd does not bring him to his knees nor pull on the nonexistent collar binding him so / he’s simply a man. a monster. the amorphous and unknowable and inconceivable shape of his love.
become strong ———— to protect those who matter. stupid. foolish. YET HE’S THE FOOL WHO DOES IT STILL / and perhaps he’s the greatest fool of all.
and those hands : pull him from the earth and in and in and in / settling felix upon his lap and ah. there’s the sky above : grey and pouring and / weeping, perhaps. but for that the world doesn’t FEEL nor WEEP and it hurts. it hurts. a breath hitches ( realization of the extent, perhaps ) / his own / or dimitri’s? and finally, finally, there is that face above him that he used to know so well / dusted in snow or bright in the sunlight or leaned over a book / different, now. older. marred. his face falls in a short curtain about him as he looks down and / that expression. terrible. horrible. wretched.
felix’s hands scrabble / instinctive / at the lance piercing him ; before dimitri takes his hands in one. squeezes them, tight.
❝ don’t look at me like that. with that pathetic expression, ❞ that he can summon irritation even HERE AND NOW is something that’s truly typical, isn’t it? dying and dying and dying as he is, bleeding and unable to breathe properly around his collapsed lung and he wonders of the cyclical nature of devotion. how foolish it was of his family, the whole of them, to devote their lives to this one man. yet he chose this. he knows that well / this deep set loyalty that he carries for him withstood the test of time and the turn of seasons and it’s infuriating, in some ways : to meet his end like this. yet, above all else, UNSURPRISING.
he knew. he’s always known. always.
❝ open your eyes, ❞ and there’s that monstrous severity, twisted as it is by something that felix has no desire to acknowledge or dissect beyond that it is pure unadulterated emotion ; something out of his nightmares. half of him is tempted to keep his eyes closed for the sake of difficulty if nothing else / but he opens them uncertain of when they had closed and there it is again : that vile expression on his face. ❝ you are not going to die here, felix ———— stay awake. ❞
❝ you’re a bigger fool than i thought, ❞ it hurts / it hurts / it hurts. is he speaking? the air is cold. dimitri’s chest is warm / and he leans his head against it / a weakness at last. ❝ if i become one of the graves you watch ———— ❞ if and if and if and. when.
have his words become jumbled? slurred?
is there shouting? screaming? from beyond?
it hurts less, now. with his eyes closed.
❝ felix, ❞ is that desperation in his voice? or a figment of a NIGHTMARE? ❝ fe——— ❞
dimitri’s arms are warm.
( he loved him. he loves him. he’s known that, all along. from when he had sworn his blade to him. from when he had feared him. to now. to now. to now. )
———————— it doesn’t hurt.
@hlycrwn // NONSEXUAL ACTS OF DOMINANCE.
#hlycrwn#❛ ┈ when will you stop waiting ( ... ) never / never / never ( ic )#❛ ┈ the disassociation of the self / the discovery of the self ( azure moon )#❛ ┈ stop haunting me ( ... ) stop dying in my arms so helplessly ( ... ) stop going where i can’t / fucking follow. ( hlycrwn )#[ uh.......... yep ]#death /
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