#“and YOU! pretending to be your brother for DECADES??? golden!!!”

[noodles-and-tea]

Very late to the party to say your Gravity Falls/Inside Job fanart is doing numbers in my brain but!! It is doing numbers in my brain!! Reagan interacting with the Pines family is just such a move I’m obsessed.

She has good taste

[morethanwonderful]

Thinking a lot about how, in a series filled with liars and deceivers, when it comes to keeping big secrets, Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang lie in the exact same way.

In terms of truly big secrets that they have to keep for a long time, Nie Huaisang has one and Wei Wuxian has two. Huaisang's is the collective secret of his grand plot to destroy Jin Guangyao and avenge his brother, and Wwx's are the loss of his golden core and his post-resurrection true identity. And how do both of them go about covering the parts of themselves that they most want to hide? They play up their own existing traits and lean as hard as they can into their more negative public perceptions.

When Wei Wuxian wants to hide the fact that he's lost his golden core, he does it by putting on a show of arrogance, and this can only work as long as it does because ego is already such a big part of his personality. Young Wwx was already known as a willful, trouble-making rule breaker, so nobody's going to question it when he starts showing up to events without his sword. They might ask "what the hell is that kid doing?" but they can always answer their own question with, "Well he's Wei Wuxian. He's always been a disrespectful and done as he pleased."

Wwx never pretends to be anyone or anything but himself in his first life, but he dials up certain facets of "himself" to make the public think what he wants them to. Pretending to be the person that the outside world expects him to be makes a very good disguise, because it's against others' nature to question it.

And we can argue about how effective it is, but Wei Wuxian tries to do a version of the exact same thing when he gets brought back as Mo Xuanyu. He hears that Mxy was gay and a "lunatic" and says "well if you want insane, then you'll get insane." He leans as hard as he can into that public expectation, because if Mo Xuanyu is behaving like exactly the annoying, openly queer freak that everyone expects him to be, no one's going to wonder who else he might be.

Meanwhile, Huaisang uses more or less the exact same defense mechanism when he starts racking up things to hide. Based on his repeating school as a teen and late formation of his golden core, he presumably has a reputation from a young age as not the sharpest tool in the shed. People know him as the Nie brother who cares little for cultivation and developed far too slow to make use of his saber. To be unkind about it, he's a useless little dandy unfit to ever inherit his clan.

So when Huaisang wants to be sure that no one will suspect he's making moves behind the scenes, he leans into that and leans into it hard. He makes everyone think they're right—he is an idiot unfit to run his clan. But nobody's going to look twice at a fool, and nobody will suspect subterfuge of the head shaker.

Once again, though, Huaisang's act only works because people expect him to turn into a leader like the head shaker. The same act wouldn't have worked so well for someone like Wei Wuxian, because even though they disliked him, people knew he was talented and dangerous. Only Nie Huaisang can get away with playing useless for a decade, because he's playing as hard as he can into the worst of his established public persona. Others mistaking him for a fool lets him trick them into thinking that he is one.

Nobody wants to question you when you're confirming their expectations, and Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang both know how to use that to their advantage. It's easy to keep a secret when your cover story is something the public is already primed to hear.

[mother-above]

The Golden Warrior | Chapter 11

Azriel x Reader

Summary: To you, love was a poison that slowly killed. It was something that could make the strongest of warriors and leaders weak and vulnerable. You had successfully evaded romance and relationships for a century until the day you realized it had been plaguing you from within.

Chapters: 11/?

Warnings: 18+, fluff, and suggestiveness

*masterlist*

That fluttering feeling in your stomach was unnerving. It happened whenever Azriel was near you. You’d managed to avoid actively garnering interest in anyone for decades, and you’d forgotten what it was like to feel butterflies in your stomach. After a couple of days of contemplation, you determined that whatever you felt for Azriel was better than having feelings for Tarquin. You rationalized that having feelings for Azriel wasn’t the end of the world, he was a good friend who was there when you needed him. You were sure anything you felt for Azriel would die off since you were friends, nothing more.

Confusing feelings aside, you were thankful for Azriel for never mentioning your conversation by the river. He saw what you felt was bothering you, so he shut his mouth and gave you some distance. While slightly upsetting, avoiding the topic was a gift, it gave you the chance to pretend you never admitted your fondness for the Illyrian.

At first, Azriel was nowhere to be found and then he was suddenly everywhere. It didn’t help that you were now hyper-aware of him whenever he was in the room. You would be on the training ring with Cassian and Nesta and all of a sudden, Azriel was there needing to speak with Cassian or doing some combat training. It took incredible willpower to ensure your eyes don't wander off to Azriel’s sweaty and muscular form. You’d walk into the kitchen looking for a snack and Azriel would already be there making something for himself. You’d sit with your coffee and try to lose yourself in a book, when you looked up, he was gone but a plate of what he made was placed near you. 

The two of you barely talked, the only words you spoke to each other were greetings and goodbyes but Azriel’s gaze was heavy. You felt this cool caress whenever he spotted you, this always threatened to make your cheeks turn red because you had no idea what Azriel was thinking.

On the other hand, Azriel oscillated from pure joy to deprecating anxiety multiple times a day. When you told him that you liked him, he almost shot up into the air in glee but then he remembered his sobering reality. You still didn’t want a mate and you looked like you were about to hurl after your admission. This was not what Azriel fantasized, he imagined the minute you realize your feelings for him, you would jump into his arms and he’d declare his feelings for you.

In the few weeks, you spent in the Night Court, you had regained your usual weight and your muscles were more toned instead of sinewy. That golden glow had yet to make an appearance but it was miles better from when you first arrived. 

He was giving you space but he couldn’t take it anymore, he wanted to talk to you and be near you. Nesta told him that you had asked Cassian to train together and Azriel burned in jealousy. There was no reason for him to feel like that but he hated the idea of another male coming into close contact with you, even if it was his mated brother. So every time you trained, Azriel was there too, keeping a close eye and making sure Cassian wasn’t pushing you too far.

You were fighting well for someone who was recently injured, Cassian was so impressed that he didn’t have to hold back. With Feyre and Nesta, he had to be mindful not to go too hard but with you, he was having fun and used you for a proper workout. The two of you were practicing hand-to-hand combat and you were destroying him, raining down punches and kicks in a flurry. Cassian gleamed with sweat and he could barely breathe but that didn’t stop the competitiveness, when you met his eye with a cocky smirk, Cassian launched an attack.  

At first, you were able to defend but Cassian was determined to beat you this time. He was throwing everything at you, and finally, with a disorienting punch, you were thrown off before a hard kick to your chest sent you flying. You land on your back with a thud and it takes a second for you to catch your breath. You see a grinning Cassian approaching you on your peripheral only to see Azriel’s towering form take over your vision. 

He kneels and gingerly helps you sit up. “Are you okay?”

Your head was swimming but you weren’t mad, instead you started laughing. It’s been a while since anyone has knocked you down while sparring. 

You stabilized yourself in his arms. “I’m fine! Cass and I just got away with the training.” Laughter halted when you saw Azriel’s grim face, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

He gave Cassian a withering glare and the usually tough General wished he could disappear into the shadows. 

“What the hel were you thinking, Cas?” said Azriel as he thoroughly looked you over. “From now on, I’ll spar with you.”

Your jaw went slack before gaining control of your body. “Oh– there’s no need. I’m fine with Cassian. He’s the general and I wouldn’t want to impose on your du-”

“It’s fine!” chirped Cassian. He should have expected Azriel to act like this if you ever got hurt. “He’s the spymaster, he’s sneaky and will teach more than I could at this point.”

You looked between Azriel and Cassian with a lifted brow. The General was biting the inside of his cheek hoping you would just say ‘yes’ so he could avoid Azriel’s deadly glare while the shadowsinger’s eyes were practically begging you.

“Okay,” you sorely got up from the floor. Shaking out your limbs, you got into a defensive stance. After eyeing Azriel’s glistening tan chest, you went for the attack.

***

Your first spar with Azriel broke the tension, and everything returned to normal. Neither of you mentioned what happened by the Sidra or the night he spent sleeping next to you and you wanted to keep it that way, it’d be easier to forget about your feelings if you ignored it. Your twisted logic surmised that exposure therapy was what you needed. The ultimate goal was to be around Azriel without feeling those butterflies in your stomach.

Since the two of you were finally interacting normally, the inner circle could breathe a sigh of relief no longer having to deal with a broody Golden Warrior and shadowsinger. Rhysand and the others knew something transpired between you but no one dared to ask what happened. Family dinners were much more pleasant whenever you joined in on the banter. 

Tonight’s dinner was full of complaints, Cassian had to deal with the war camps and he always had stories to tell at the end of the day. Rhysand and Feyre were frustrated with the task of finding Bryaxis, Rhysand, and Azriel’s contacts had no idea where he could be. Remembering your short conversation with the death god, Amren suggested that you could help find Bryaxis. Azriel bristled at the thought of you near the creature again, biting his tongue when you enthusiastically offered your help.

The next few days were relatively uneventful and you were thankful for it, since Amarantha’s wrath you haven’t been able to relax and do nothing. Back in Dawn Court, there was always something for you to do but here, you could breathe. You and those who lived in the House of Wind had adapted into a routine, you had melded seamlessly into their lives; it didn't feel like you’d only been there for a few weeks. 

Every night you ended up in the library with some sort of drink in your hand and a companion who you’d sit and read with until it was late and eyes were fluttering close. Sometimes Nesta, Elain, and Mor would join you but they always went to bed early, leaving you alone with Azriel. At first, you were afraid of spending more time alone with him but you thought of it as good practice to teach your body not to react when he was nearby. You had your designated spot on the loveseat while Azriel stretched out on the couch across from you. The House was rowdy during the day so it was nice to spend time with your friend. Half of the time spent in the library was the two of you having a quiet conversation and the other was spent absorbed in the books.

Nesta had lent you a stack of romance books from her collection, and you were flying through them. You might not want to be in love yourself but you liked reading about fictional people falling in love and having tender and fiery moments. The book in your hands had you slyly looking behind to make sure no one could see the pages. The love interest had wings similar to the Illyrians whose wings were extremely sensitive when touched. Your gaze flickered to the male in front of you, your eyes looking directly at the membranous leather illuminated by the fireplace. Clearing your throat, you flipped a page and tried hard to focus on the story. It was going well until the character's blonde hair began to morph into inky black hair with similar features to Azriel. 

You bit your lip trying hard to think of someone else, but the image had already been branded into your imagination, even thinking about Tarquin didn’t help. The scenario in the novel was getting steamy, you imagined it would be hard to do but it was so outlandish that heat flashed through you at the thought.

No amount of magic was fast enough to cover the scent of your arousal. You looked at Azriel hoping he hadn’t noticed but it was too late. He was already smirking.

“What are you reading?” said Azriel, his voice low. “It must be fascinating.”

You sat there stunned, you’d never heard his voice that deep, and you’d never heard him purr.

It took everything in you not to stutter. “None of your business, shadowsinger.”

His demeanor had changed, his hazel eyes darkened and his jaw clenched as if he was restraining himself. You looked at him curiously and then it hit you, his musky scent of cedar and night. Attempts of deep breaths to collect your thoughts were a bad idea because now you were hypnotized, the musk and woodsy smell of you and Azriel intertwining together. 

“It’s one hundred percent my business if I’m going to sit here for the next hour with you sitting there blushing and smelling like that.“

You rolled your eyes. “Fine.”

Azriel’s smirk stayed as he sat up and fully faced you eager to hear what you had to say.

“The love interest in the book has wings and he and the main character are attempting to have sex in mid-air. It’s so ridiculous they ended up crashing into a mountain, I'm just glad they did it in an unpopulated area. The only logistical way of that successfully happening is if both people had wings and even then, I’d imagine it would be difficult to do…” 

You cursed yourself as intrusive thoughts of you and Azriel in that compromising position filled your head. You stomped it down and saw an amused smile on his lips, it was as if he knew what you were thinking. 

Azriel clicked his tongue and his eyes bore into yours. “That does sound rather arduous and inconvenient. Couldn’t they wait?”

“I guess not, desire is desire.”

He shook his head, “That wouldn’t do it for me. I’d need a hard surface to lay my lover down.”

The Shadowsinger held his breath, he couldn’t believe he said that but he couldn’t help it.

“Agreed, it’s hard to have some control when you’re up in the air.”

Azriel leaned forward, and he found himself actively holding himself back from reaching for you. Your scent of rich lilacs and morning dew made him feel intoxicated. “What do you know about control?”

Instinct moving you closer, you met his gaze with the same intensity, feeling his cool gaze trace your lips and cheekbones. Gods, you wanted to reach over and take him on that chair. The thought of you straddling and having Azriel beneath you made your breath hitch.

“I know enough that I like control and to be controlled,” you said softly.

You swear a rumble was heard from Azriel’s chest. He wished he could cross over and kiss you but he knew you wouldn’t appreciate that.

“How peculiar, I like control too… although I don’t know how to feel about being controlled.”

No longer thinking straight, you grinned wickedly at the handsome man before you. “You should try it sometime, it may be euphoric for you, something you may end up liking.”

The two of you sat in silence, gears turning in your head while you fought internal battles. The air inside the library was thick, hot, and reeking of you and Azriel. Combined with your magic, it was making it hard to breathe. Azriel refused to touch you first, he could smell that you wanted him but you had to be fully onboard, and he knew you weren’t there yet. 

While Azriel restrained himself, you were screaming at yourself for wanting this. You could scent that he wanted you too but you couldn’t make him a fling, he already meant too much.

You broke eye contact first, your arms feeling like lead as you reached for the stupid romance book. The faerie on the cover had feathered wings, their familiarity jolting and reminding you of the unusable ones glamoured on your back. Azriel was still looking at you with blown eyes, the hazel barely peeking through. He could not believe the two of you had admitted those things to each other.

You bit your lip as you slowly gathered your belongings scattered around the library, an air of embarrassment hanging in the air. This interaction was going to put a rift between the two of you and you wanted to avoid that, things were finally feeling normal. 

Without thinking, you turned to him once again. “Azriel,” you said, breaking the silence. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

He blinked, your clear voice pulling him from the heated trance. “I have some tasks to do for Rhys but I’m free in the morning.”

“At sunrise, I’ll meet you on the balcony. You’re going to help me fly.”

Surprise flickered in his features but a genuine smile made its way to his face. “Whatever you wish, little dove”

***

You woke up just before the sun rose, slipping into leggings, a backless long-sleeve, and a jacket. You trudged over to the kitchen where Azriel was waiting for you with a light breakfast. The anxiety of flying had quelled any awkwardness about last night's conversation with Azriel, you were radiating with nervous energy and he noticed. In an attempt to distract you, he told you that he had learned how to fly past the appropriate age, his days in the cellar had stunted his growth in many ways. Talk of his past fully woke you up, heart-wrenching at the thought of little Azriel being deprived of a childhood.

You clung onto his neck, his warmth easing your worries as he flew directly to a discreet spot. He told you this was also where he gave Feyre flying lessons. When he placed you on the ground, you realized that your friends hadn’t seen the horrible scars on your back. 

“Azriel… you haven’t seen my back or wings yet… the skin looks bad and the left wing healed a little strangely.”

He smiles softly, “Look at who you’re talking to, dove. Your scars will never scare me.”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you took off your jacket and slowly turned. It’s only been a few months so the scar was still red and angry. Azriel stepped closer and couldn’t help the gasp that escaped.

“It looks that bad, huh? 

Azriel immediately shook his head. “No. It just makes me think of all you’ve had to endure.” Without thinking, his scarred fingers traced the jagged lines, his warm hands leaving goosebumps on your skin. “Dove, you’re stronger than you think. Let me see your wings.”

He stepped back and then you unglamoured them, hissing at the weight and strain of your wings.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

Azriel tells you to flex them out and bring them in, let the wings get used to moving again. While doing your exercise, Azriel saw what you meant by your left wing looking a little different, some feathers growing crooked but it was barely noticeable. Your white and gold feathers were still as beautiful as ever.

You were struggling since your back hadn’t moved specific muscles in months. Once Azriel was satisfied with your warm up he told you to practice lifting off the ground without any aid from jumping or using your legs. You strained but managed to rise a foot off the ground, gaining confidence, you kept trying and lifted off 5 feet in the air. 

Azriel thinks you need a big push so he brings you to a large landing 10 feet in the air. Never in your life did you think you’d be scared of heights but there you were trembling at the 10-foot drop, the spymaster looking small from your vantage point.

“Lift off and then slowly fly down to the ground. You can do it!”

You looked at him warily. “What if I fall?”

“Then I’ll catch you.”

The way he said it made you gasp, it was earnest and you wholeheartedly believed him. Four simple words but in that moment, you knew you could trust him with your life.

Emptying your mind, you lifted off and shakily made your way down to Azriel with the grace of a five-year-old Peregryn child. Azriel let out a cheer the moment your feet touched the ground, his excitement making you smile. 

“Do you think you can do that someplace higher?” he said pointing to a larger cliff nearby. 

Fueled with how well you’ve been doing, you agreed. In no time, you were up top and Azriel was waiting in the bottom. Taking a deep breath, you lifted off and tried hard to fly gracefully. Your wings were flapping hard and about halfway down, a muscle contracted, and nerve pain shot out from your back. You let out a yelp and then began falling, Azriel was quick enough to catch you before swerving into a tree.

He carefully placed you on the ground and your hand immediately went up and glowed, trying to detect what had happened. When you couldn’t find anything wrong other than temporary muscle spasms, you ground your teeth together. Frustration coursed through your body making you burst into tears.

Azriel’s eyes grew wide, he was never good with crying females and now he had no idea what to do with his bawling mate.

“Are you okay?” he asked shakily.

You raised your hands to gesture to yourself and the world. “No, I’m not okay! I’m a fucking failure and everything is going wrong!”

Your outburst took Azriel aback. “What do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t be here. I’m the High Lord’s godsdamned second, I should be in Dawn taking care of my court but I’ve made so many mistakes my cousin had to send me here to sort myself out. On top of that, I’m a Peregryn who can’t freaking fly because of some stupid mental block. How pathetic can I get?” 

The tears don’t stop coming and you cover your face, mortified that Azriel was seeing you cry like this. Weeks of built-up frustration had finally found its release, you sobbed until your breaths stuttered.

Azriel couldn’t stand hearing you talk so negatively about yourself. He watched you crumpled on the ground and his heart clenched at the sight. “No...” he whispered as he lowered himself to your level. He took your hand and gently pulled you to sit up. Azriel slung an arm to support your sore back while one hand stroked your cheek. “You are anything but pathetic. You were doing so well and I pushed you too hard today, we shouldn’t have done that last drop. I’m so sorry, dove.”

“Don’t be sorry, Az,” you blubbered out. “I checked and nothing’s wrong with me. I’m sore but it was all in my head.”

You leaned against his warm chest as the words sank in. Azriel’s large hands rubbed small circles on your back, his touch soothing you into a calm state, your breathing slowly matching his. Cool wisps stroked your feathered wings and your lip twitched, Azriel remembered that Peregryns loved getting their wings stroked.

“This mental block…” you began, “I’m scared of losing my wings. Aside from my sword, my wings are all I have left of my father. It’s so stupid but I hid my wings for fear of losing them. I feel foolish because my Peregryn soldiers aren’t part Fae like me. Like you, they can’t retract their wings and here I am complaining about feeling vulnerable.” 

Azriel continued to smooth your skin, his touch leaving tingles. His brow was furrowed, hazel eyes looking at you with so much intensity you couldn’t understand it.

“You must think I’m pathetic.”

He vehemently shook his head. 

“No,” his hand traced the scar on your cheek. “You’ve lost so much and all you do is give. No one blames you for acting like this. Let’s end today’s session and pick it up when I come back from my mission. I told you I'd help you fly again and I would never break a promise.”

You merely nodded and let Azriel hold you close as he flew to the House of Wind. He landed gently on the balcony and to your surprise, you see the inner circle eating their breakfast. You bristled at first, wondering if you should glamour your wings but Azriel’s little smile and comforting hand on the small of your back stopped you. You nodded towards your friends and made your way to a chair. The inner circle did their best not to gape at the sight of your wings or the partially hidden scar on your back. They notice your red blotchy eyes but no one says anything when they see Azriel discreetly shake his head, asking his family not to bring it up right now.

You remain quiet during breakfast, your mood slowly improves with every joke amongst your friends. Once the meal was over, Cassian had managed to successfully rope you into the ridiculous banter, your eyes shining with tears of laughter. 

Nesta was brave enough to bring up your wings, she called them lovely and you drew them out a bit to show more feathers. Cassian who was finally able to freely look at your wings burst out with words that sent everyone into screaming laughter.

“So, whose wingspan is bigger?”

The group had decided the age-old question was finally going to be answered. Amren cackled with glee when the House provided a tape measure on the table. Mor squeals in excitement and one by one, she carefully measured every winged fae’s wingspan. From smallest to largest, it went from Feyre, Rhysand, Cassian, you and then Azriel. Upon hearing the results, Azriel’s eyes snapped to his brothers and then to you with a wicked grin. You rolled your eyes because the Peregryn’s must have the same thought about wing size and male bodily appendages.

The lord of bloodshed growled in dissatisfaction, insisting that everyone gets measured again. His pout grew when he realized that Azriel did have a bigger wingspan than him. Cassian was never going to hear the end of it.

He looked over to your white and gold feathers and his frown deepened. “If the Golden Warrior was a male, that’d mean her manhood would be more grand than mine.”

This sent everyone into hysterics, Rhysand was howling in laughter as Feyre clutched your arm, making you double over. Azriel was shaking his head but even he couldn’t help reacting to Cassian’s comment. 

As the merriment died down, Rhys and Azriel looked at their watches, their faces growing serious at the thought of the Shadowsinger’s mission ahead. Azriel disappears into the shadows only to emerge a minute later dressed in full Illyrian leathers, his chest, and legs strapped with weapons. 

Waving you over to the balcony, Azriel towered over you, the playfulness from earlier was long gone. Something in your heart twists and you suddenly feel nervous for Azriel.

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t tell you that…but Rhsyand will fill you in later.”

You peered inside to look for the High Lord only to find everyone had left, leaving you and Azriel alone. 

Eyeing the glinting hilt of Truthteller, you lift a brow at him. “Will you be okay? You’re armed to the teeth… are you going to need back-up?”

His heart leaps at the thought of you worrying about him. “I’m just being cautious, it’s a quick reconnaissance trip. I’ll see you by lunch tomorrow.”

Your mouth twists, something didn't feel right even though there was no reason to feel like that. Azriel was more than capable of a reconnaissance mission so you smiled up at him and wished him luck. Feeling bold, Azriel grasped your hand and gave it a little squeeze before swiftly turning around and taking off from the balcony.

Your fingers tingled and warmth seeped onto your face as you watched his figure grow smaller against the cool blue sky. It was odd but you found yourself looking forward to seeing Azriel safe and sound back at the house. You startle when your thoughts about Azriel are interrupted by an obsidian claw knocking on your mental shield. Leaving a crack open, you let Rhysand’s voice fill your mind.

“Meet me in my office… Thesan and I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

a/n: I am so so sorry for the long wait. life has been crazy and I hope you're all doing well. thank you for reading xoxo

taglist: @inloveallthetime , @phoenix666stuff, @books-and-lit, @fightmedraco, @annamariereads16, @gorlillaglue25

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Sticking Point 3

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: Work is starting to get pretty busy again.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You are left undisturbed for near a day after the news arrives. You should be grateful for the reprieve but you cannot find respite among your unease. 

Edith is gone, your world is splintered, yet this marriage must proceed. Not for your own sake, but for your family's. You expect your father wouldn't be content to have you return to his household. The only benefit to your sister's tragedy is that he was able to rid himself of you.

Doreen informs you that you are to ready for another lunch. You choose a gown of faded peach and a bonnet with a narrow rim and white ribbon. She helps you dress before leaving to look in on your mother.

You look in the mirror and wonder if maybe you were prettier your voice wouldn't matter so much. You pin the brooch with the blue bird just below your neckline. You pretend Edith is there with you, talking you through this. I believe in you, sissy, remember when you stole my cap back from that angry hog?

You wait to be called. You hate to presume or wait around where others might be disturbed by your presence. It isn't Doreen who comes but another servant, a broad steely-haired woman. She bids you out and you follow meekly, gaze straying to the golden frames and painted canvas.

The meal is hosted in the dining hall. A long ebony table with matching chairs. Each seat is upholstered with emerald velvet and capped with curlicued posts. You are shown to yours by Parson to the one reserved for you. 

Your mother sits with her tears hidden behind her fan, not so much as looking in your direction. Doreen stands at her shoulder and offers a handkerchief. You can only hear the reprimand she would issue should you be blubbering so.

You rise as the duke enters, but not alone. Your mother leans heavily on the way, gathering herself with several flaps of her fan. She snaps it shut and tucks it away as she raises her chin, shooing away Doreen.

“Lady Thea,” Laufeyson begins before addressing you, “my parents, the Grand Duke Odin and the Grand Duchess, Frigga.”

He steps aside as an older couple stand regally in the archway. The man is burly but stout, with dark grey hair streaked with white. His jaw is set squarely and there is a familiar blue tint to his eyes. The woman is tall and blond and fair, her figure untouched by her age and her hair so golden that the grey strands only seem to make her shine.

You recognise them. The portraits in the main hall. Even with some decades since the artist’s work, they are beyond compare to their pigmented likenesses. They are as elegant and resplendent as their son. It sinks a rotten pit in your chest. Perhaps, they might not want you either.

“We’re acquainted, Thea and I,” Frigga declares, “I believe your father might recall her.”

“Yes, Lady Thea,” he bows, “I know your husband better, I’m afraid.”

The duke has a pinched look to his lip as he listens with his chin high. He moves stiffly, gesturing to the table, “mm, yes, let us be seated–”

“Loki,” Frigga says as she slowly wades forward, her skirts rippling like water, “what about your brother? He received an invitation, didn’t he?”

“Mother, certainly he did, but he is ever… unpredictable,” Loki offers. It is jarring to think of him as anything but the duke. To think he is anything but the master of Jade Park.

“Lady Jane is with child,” Frigga counters, “it might take them some time.”

“Lady Frigga, Lord Odin,” your mother begins, “I cannot remark upon your son’s hospitality enough. He’s been a wonderful host, especially…” she pauses and turns her head, touching her cheek with a gloved hand.

“Oh, we were distraught to hear of Lady Edith. Such a tragedy. So young and beautiful.”

You stare at the wall. You try not to think of the statement laced between her words. You are young too but not so beautiful.

“And your younger daughter is endearing, that is a rather charming brooch,” she turns her green irises on you.

“Thank you, Lady Fwigga,” you hold your head high as you cling to a thread of dignity.

Her cheeks bulb and there is a slight tremor in her chin before she can answer, “oh, that is a peculiar accent, dear.”

You don’t know if you should thank her. You can’t tell if she holds any derision but you’d prefer she not mention it. It’s obvious, it needn’t be emphasized.

Your eyes skitter over to Odin who watches you with quiet consideration. He does not hold the same disapproval as your father but you can’t read much in his face.

“She is all I have left,” your mother bemoans, “two daughters. That’s all I got. How I wanted to give my husband his heir but… it was not to be and now…”

“Oh, Thea,” Frigga drawls, “if you are to fraught to remain–”

“No, no,” your mother expands her fan and pushes air into her face, dabbing her tears with her knuckle, “no, I’m so happy for our families to come together.”

“As are we. It is only sensible–”

She is interrupted by some furor at the other end of the house. A smile curls her lips as a booming voice fills the corridor like thunder. As your eyes drift towards the doorway, they meet Loki’s. He looks at you with a furrow between his brows before he shifts his gaze towards the clamour.

The men rise first. You get to your feet as Parson rushes in to announce the new arrival. As he introduces Lord Thor and Lady Jane, he is almost breathless. The couple appears behind him, the towering duke clapping the groom’s shoulder so he staggers. The duchess gives a pretty smile to the grand duchess as her hand rests on her rounding stomach.

“Oh, Jane,” Frigga sweeps across the chamber to embrace her daughter-in-law without pretense, “you are immaculate,” she pulls back and cradles her cheeks, “you look well.”

“Do I? I’ve been struck sick for days.”

“But it shall pass,” Frigga avows and beckons the duchess with her to the table, “Lady Jane, my first son’s wife.”

You bow your head and your mother does the same, taking the lead as you remain silent, “Lady Jane, a delight to… meet you. Oh, my apologies,” your mother fans herself more rapidly, “your eyes, they have the same shape as my dear Edith’s.”

“Edith?” Jane utters and looks at Frigga. The grand duchess leans over to whisper gently. “Oh, my condolences, Lady Thea, oh and such timing as this?” She turns to you, “a betrothal is supposed to be a joyous affair, I cannot bear to think how you are doing.”

You don’t know what to say, as often you find yourself lacking. Your lips tremble but you do your best to keep your composure.

“I will miss my sista vewy much,” you try to speak slow and clear, but it just sounds clumsy, “I didn’t know…” you see the flicker in her eyes, the dimple in her cheek, the judgment casting a shadow over her, “I didn’t know you and yaw husband would attend.”

Jane’s lips part and her brows rise as she looks at her mother-in-law. Frigga tries not to acknowledge the almost taunting expression. You can’t. You feel it throttling you. Just be quiet.

“How fetching,” Thor intones, surprising you as he comes to stand behind his mother and wife, chewing a biscuit he snatched from the tray.

“Fetching?” Jane scoffs.

“The way she speaks, yes? I think it is… interesting.”

“That hardly matters,” Frigga insists, “it is what one says, not how they say it.”

You clamp your lips together. You want to crumple to the floor and sob. You don’t want to be stood here like some jester to entertain these people. You want to go home and see your sister’s casket. You want to be near her, even if she’s not really there.

Again, you find Loki’s distasteful glare. His throat bobs and his lips thin even further.

“Yes, yes, let us sit and eat. My staff has worked the morning to prepare us a fine lunch,” he chides, “I’d hate to see it wasted.”

🔹

You stare at your untouched plate of cold meats and cheese. You’re not very hungry. Perhaps it is grief, or more likely it is shame. You want to shrink down to a morsel of dust and disappear.

There is an odd sort of skill acquired by those who are quiet. Observation. The ability to see so much, to take in every gesture, every twitch, every look with meaning. And you do not miss those errant gazes in your direction. Some with anticipation, others with dread, each waiting for you to say another twisted syllable.

Your mother fills the silence you refuse to break. She regales the table with the story of how she met your father on the promenade, how he trod on her skirts, and she hit him with her reticule. A tale you’ve heard anon.

She hiccups suddenly and cups her hand over her mouth. You turn to look at her as her wrinkles deepen and her gulps become sobs. She shakes her hand and waves her other. Doreen appears at her shoulder.

“My lady,” the servant says.

“Oh, Lady Thea,” Frigga dismisses the maid with a subtle flick of her fingers, “let us get you some air. It is such a lovely day, and I believe we do have some matters to attend to.” She helps your mother to her feet, hanging on to her elbow, “Lord Odin, you will accompany, in case she faints.”

Odin grunts. He hasn’t said much of anything. He seems more enamoured of this plate. As he stands, he stuffs a roll of sliced ham into his mouth. Chairs scrape as you stand to see them off. Doreen follows the older trio through the archway as they set off.

You resume your seat and watch the tablecloth. Your mother was of little assistance while present but without her, you are defenseless. Loki sips from his tea as Jane spears a slice of pear with her fork and Thor cracks a hard-boiled egg in his hand.

“So, I’ve not seen you before. You haven’t debuted?” Jane asks.

Your eyes flit up to hers. You almost don’t believe she’s talking to her. You’d been praying they’d forget you were there.

“My sista was ill and she is older so I was waiting until she went fast.”

“Fast? Went fast?” Jane repeats as she pretends to think, “went fast where?”

Loki sighs and sets his cup on the saucer with a harsh clink, “first. She meant first.”

“Oh, my, apologies, I’m afraid I have a bit of trouble understanding you. I don’t think I’ve heard any sort of affectation,” he smiles falls to something more sinister, “it is rather… garish.”

“Jane,” Thor says through a mouthful of egg, stopping himself to swallow, “she speaks clearly enough.”

“I’ve heard of physicians who can tend to that. They can teach you how to pronounce your words properly. Through repetition.” She enunciates each word, making sure to move her lips deliberately.

You fight a grimace. You swallow and look at your plate. It isn't the first time someone's made those comments, she will doubtful be the last. Just like those boys who used to call you 'widiculous' or 'wavishing'.

“Please, this doesn’t need to be a whole point of conversation,” Loki reproaches.

“I am only offering advice.”

“You are the one who spoke to her. None of us wanted to hear her.”

“Loki,” Thor says appalled, “she is to be your wife.”

“I was supposed to marry her sister. The normal one. The dead one.”

You flinch and let your shoulders slump. You bring your hands up and cover the brooch on your dress, as if holding Edith tight. Your lip pokes out as you fight a tide of grief that threatens to erupt.

“Aw, look, she is going to cry,” Jane taunts.

“Jane,” Thor’s voice hardens, “no more.”

Jane snaps her lips shut and rolls her beautiful hazel eyes. She pops the slice of sugared pear into her mouth behind her cruel smirk. Loki sneers at his fork as he twirls it in his hand. Thor gives you a glum look but it lands like a slap. He cannot relate to you, he can only pity you, and that is worse than contempt.

“If you are cuwious, Lady Jane, I have been to many physicians. They cannot help me,” you shrug, “just like they could not help my sista.”

Thor clucks and lets out a breath through his nostrils. Jane doesn’t falter, smiling as she chews, and Loki pushes himself to his feet. His chair threatens to topple as he swivels on his heel.

“I would see to our parents, make certain they are well and that this… contract is still in effect,” he takes rigid steps along the table, “I should hate to squander any more time in uncertainty.”

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

i need some nice angst-fluff (?) rn.

how would the skellies reason to an s/o whose generally scared of a lot of touching or romantic gestures because of past sexual truama, but instead of living in fear all their life, they're slowly trying to become more and more comfortable with skellyfriend.

Undertale Sans - He respects that. He would never push you though, he's not even a big fan of physical touch in the first place. He can see you're making huge efforts, but he doesn't want you to do it for his sake. He's fine with no touching just as well.

Undertale Papyrus - It's hard to hold back for him when you're showing him a bit of affection, but he's happy it's getting better and better. He's cheering for you, and can be a little pushy, but he's happy you're trying to get over your past traumas.

Underswap Sans - He lets you move at your rhythm. It's ok if it takes time, he's happy already with the small progress you're making. He doesn't want you to feel like you have to touch him to make him happy though. He chose you for who you are.

Underswap Papyrus - He's almost crying every time you're touching him, really. He can see how hard it is for you, and he won't stop congratulating you for every little progress you make. He's glad you're coming around.

Underfell Sans - It gives him some courage to do the same. He's not very comfortable with these things either, so you're both learning. It's slow, but he likes it this way.

Underfell Papyrus - His eyes turn googly every time you're touching him lol. He tries to hide it, but really, he can't. You can't stay serious more than ten seconds when he's looking at you like that honestly. He can't help it. He's so shocked he's losing it.

Horrortale Sans - Oh well, his reaction is the same as you just looking his way: he starts to purr like a tractor, happy to have attention. Oak is really not difficult. He's just happy you're coming more and more to him.

Horrortale Papyrus - Willow is still a bit shy with physical touch so it's for sure gets him every time, transforming him into a blushing mess as he realizes you're only doing that because you trust him a lot. He's a bit overwhelmed right now and he might cry, not gonna lie.

Swapfell Sans - It helps you find out Nox can turn golden retriever like when you're petting him, literally leaning onto your lap for more. None of you are used to being touched, but someone definitely likes that a lot. You have a new superpower between your hands it seems.

Swapfell Papyrus - He draws crosses where you touched him to make memories together. It's weird, but it's kinda working. Except after some time, Nox begs you to convince his brother to take a bath because it's not possible anymore, he stinks bad. Rus refuses, pretending he's just jealous.

Fellswap Gold Sans - Urgh, he guesses he can make an effort and comes to you as well. Wine doesn't like physical touch as well, and he's a lot more demonstrative in his disgust, growling and stiffing. He tries to follow your example, but, uh... Yeah, there is still work to do lol. You're not going to have a hug before a decade or so xD

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - He's dying for more physical touch and he's literally vibrating every time you're touching him. He's probably not the best match for you though as Coffee is very needy and struggles to respect boundaries. He would definitely be too much to handle in that case.

[shinysoroka]

My personal headcanon is that Heimdall and Thor used to hang out a lot as kids. It would have been the Warriors Four, had Heimdall not been selected to become the Guardian of the Bifrost and whisked away for grueling, secretive training. Since being selected is one of the highest honors that could be bestowed upon an Asgardian, it is not something you can say no to. Especially as a young child. Especially when your parents are so SO PROUD and especially not when having a Guardian in their family makes them more special than the other nobles.

The not so great part is that being a Guardian separates Heimdall from Asgardian society in general. People either treat him like an authority or like he is a divine being, like he has some secret, holy knowledge beyond their understanding. They are not entirely wrong but it still makes Heimdall feel like there is a permanent wall between him and the people he grew up with side by side, who once called him friend and brother on equal terms. And it's not like he can commiserate with other Guardians. There's only one of him.

Thor still hangs out with him though. Ever after he returns after disappearing for years as part of the secret training. The golden eyes, the new swanky armor, the fact that they haven't talked for over a decade doesn't phase him. He simply picks up where they left off. Maybe that's just the kind of person Thor is. Or maybe it's because he's Crown Prince by now and there is also a permanent wall between him and the rest of Asgard, no matter how hard he tries to pretend otherwise. In that way, they are very much kindred spirits.

Anyway, that's my explanation for why Thor can share Heimdall's sight. Yes, the secret talents of the Bifrost Guardians must be closely guarded, lest they fall into the wrong hands. But Heimdall has always regarded those rules as highly flexible. What other Guardian is going to call him out anyway? There's only one of him.

[separatist-apologist]

You Painted Me Golden

Did you know that while your mate was warming Amarantha’s bed, most of our people were locked beneath that mountain?

Did you know that while he had his head between her legs, most of us were fighting to keep our families from becoming the nightly entertainment?

SUMMARY: Eris Vanserra never wanted a mate, never wanted a wife. When a chance meeting in Day Court alters the course of his life, Eris will be forced to acknowledge both. But a new threat is looming, and an old foe has come back to Prythian.

And it will take more than luck for Eris Vanserra to keep himself and his family safe when he's dragged beneath the sacred mountain

Read More: AO3

Chapter 6

Thank you @wilde-knight for tracking this relic down for me!

Eris had begun to have nightmares. Not the usual Autumn nightmares that plagued him, but ones that spoke to shifting fears. Of things he could not afford to lose, lest he lose himself. Dreams of Arina’s blonde hair stained red, her eyes vacant as she stared sightless. Eris would wake coated in sweat, twisting just to ensure she was still okay. Still breathing. 

He knew he woke her, too. Sometimes she’d reach out a hand, pretending she was merely searching for him in her sleep. Other times she’d turn entirely, eyes blinking in the dark, and ask if he was alright. Eris would lie—oh, how often he lied to her—and insist she go back to sleep. He couldn’t tell her the truth, that it was Beron killing her and Eris forced to watch. Forced to choose. 

Between her and the throne of his home. He lay awake at night chewing on the inevitability of it all. One day, Beron would have to die. His brothers were surely plotting just as he was. He’d have to choose between Arina and his crown. Beron knew what motivated Eris, what kept him complicit and quiet and if Eris was ever caught making a move, it would be Arina who paid for it. 

For now, though, Eris could have her. And for now, Eris reveled in it. Delighted in her presence, in the way he’d catch her looking at him not with hatred or open, unguarded loathing but delight. Wonder. She was softening and so was he. Eris knew it was dangerous to care for her the way he did and she was the only thing that really belonged to him.

When the time came, he’d send her back to Day or he’d send her to the continent where he knew she was safe. He’d tell everyone she hated him—and maybe she would by then. As long as she was alive and not a tool to keep him forever trapped beneath Beron’s thumb, that was enough. 

She was the only thing keeping him from breaking beneath the mountain. Five years had passed in miserable, unmuted drudgery and nothing had happened. 

“Update?” Amarantha barked, pulling Eris from his musings. Arina remained on his lap, one arm slung over his shoulder. Rhysand strode forward, paler than Eris last remembered, but still as vicious as ever. Eris thought he would have dashed himself against the rocks rather than suffer half a decade as Amarantha’s favored pet. 

Let's get this over so I can get my cock wet, he thought with irritation. 

“There is nothing to report. Another Calanmai come and gone with no hint of human, female or otherwise.” Perched on her throne in a sheer, blood red dress, Armantha sighed. She crossed her leg, nearly showing the whole room her miserable cunt and though it might get them both killed, Arina had to turn her head to smother her giggling.

Absurd creature, his wife. 

“He bores me. What is he doing, then?”

“Brooding, my lady,” Rhysand said with obvious amusement. “Pondering five decades of misery before he finally joins us for a little fun.”

“How dull,” she pouted, scanning the room for a bit of amusement. But Eris knew she’d burned through them all in the early years and now they were merely fixtures for her ego. This was not how she wanted to spend her time, the equally famed and feared Hybernian general. Eris wished she’d just get to the point of their little experiment.

Bring in Hybern, enslave them all or get out. 

She waved a hand and the music began, freeing them from a night of torment. Arina twisted in his lap again, looking for his brothers. They had a long standing card game going, trading coins they routinely lost and regained on an endless loop. No one was bored of it, though—least of all, Eris. 

He pressed an absent kiss to her soft cheek. “Behave,” he warned her, setting her to her feet so he could stand. 

“Will I see you this evening, my lord?” she teased, as if there had ever been a moment when Eris hadn’t joined her in bed. Sleeping beside her was the only true peace Eris had.

“If you’re lucky,” he replied, smothering the urge to smile at the twinkle in those sage colored eyes. 

Arina melted away, leaving Eris to try and figure out what, exactly, was going on between Summer and Day. Something was happening—you had to be willfully blind and stupid not to notice. Glancing toward his father, who dipped his head only once in acknowledgement, Eris made his way toward the only person in Summer he knew well—princess Cressida.

“Busy?” he asked, sidling up beside her. 

“For you? Always,” she replied dryly, not bothering to look at him at all. That was fine—Eris hadn’t expected a warm, delighted welcome. He probably would have said the same to her if she’d tried to interfere in Autumn’s business.

“Aren’t you bored?”

Cressida turned to look at him, blue eyes sharp as ever. Tossing a loc of white hair over her shoulder, she asked, “Are you? Wasn’t your mate just giggling in your lap?”

“Who said anything about fucking?” Eris retorted, annoyed that everyone wanted to throw Arina right back in his face. It had been five godsdamned years. Surely his fidelity was proven? 

“I can’t imagine what else you’d want from me,” Cressida intoned. Eris saw the tightness around her eyes, smelled the salt of her agitation. Pretty little liar, he wanted to say. It didn’t matter, though, given the High Lord of Summer was coming from wherever he’d been hiding, and the High Lord of Day wasn’t in his chair.

Conspirators. Fucking morons if they were caught, but if they succeeded…

Eris rose from his chair with an exhale of air. 

“Even you need friends down here,” he told her, leaning close so only she could hear him speak. “You know how dangerous it can be.”

Cressida looked up at him, lip curling with dislike, but she didn’t say a word. If she was smart, she’d understand his warning. If he noticed, it wasn’t long before Rhysand did, too. They needed to be smarter—far more careful, and do their plotting outside of the mountain when they were given their weekly reprieves.

Eris made his way back to the corner Autumn occupied. Arina played cards with his brothers, save for Tanwen who was wooing a Dawn courtier with gusto. Beron watched his wife spend their money with a sharp eye, stepping away when Eris approached.

“Well?”

“Just as you thought,” he replied, swiping Arina’s goblet of wine from her hands to obscure his mouth. “They keep leaving at the same time.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No,” Eris admitted, frustrated he’d gotten nowhere with Cressida.

“Send your wife,” his father ordered, his words ringing with finality. “Have her talk to Helion.”

“And then what?” Eris asked, desperate to keep Arina far from this plot. If Amrantha got a whiff of it, she’d kill them all indiscriminately.

“And then we bide our time,” Beron said shrewdly. “We take no sides, we do nothing at all.”

Eris understood what his father meant, They’d side with whoever would come out victorious, which meant waiting and watching and very carefully plotting a multitude of courses. Eris knew if Beron thought they could take Amarantha with might alone, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

But he’d seen what her armies had done when they’d swept into Prythian five years earlier. And none of them had their magic to aid them. She pulled the strings of the High Lords and could kill them all, leaving their territories in the hands of the lesser Fae.

Eris nodded, wine sliding down his throat just as bitterly as the realization that once again, Arina was a pawn in his fathers games. She was expendable—she’d go talk to Helion, and if someone saw her, no one that Beron cared to lose died.

“Is everything alright?” Arina asked, pulling Eris from his thoughts. She’d twisted in her chair, hand outstretched for the wine he’d taken. Beron melted away, looking for his own wife without a care or concern. Eris beckoned for her to stand, delighting in that wicked smile on her beautiful face.

“Not anymore,” he lied. Arina would do what he asked because she was lovely and brave—and if she learned of whatever plot was brewing between the other courts, she’d wanted to get involved. Eris needed to figure it out without putting her in the middle of it.

Pulling her into his lap while his brothers rolled their eyes, Eris found his mother watching. Beron would slaughter him. No. This time, Arina needed to remain ignorant in order to protect her, and it needed to be his mother who risked something. Maybe it was Eris’s bitterness talking, but the scars on Arina’s back were a reminder that Amera Vanserra owed Eris’s mate. She’d taken that beating, had told all of Autumn Court that she’d slept with Helion when she hadn’t. 

Even if they all knew, Arina had still done it. 

Eris waited that night, tucking Arina into bed while resisting the urge to bury his cock in her body. He’d never get out of bed if he did—and he was waiting on his traitorous mother. She’d begun sneaking out of bed two years before, tiptoeing back to Helion for her little stolen moments. That Beron hadn’t caught her was a miracle and proof of how deep delusions could run. 

Eris heard her door open and slipped out of bed with more than a few regrets given how Arina whined in her sleep. Face hidden by those golden waves, Eris was tempted to brush them from her cheek.

He’d be back soon, and he’d wake her. That promise to himself was enough to send Eris out into the darkness, slipping down the smooth halls he knew like the scars etched against his skin. He caught his mother before she ever left, fingers wrapping around her thin wrist.

“Eris!” she exclaimed, the scent of her fear filling the air. Why did she risk it, knowing how mercurial her husband was? Eris couldn’t fathom it. 

“You’re going to see Helion.” It wasn’t a question, though he couldn’t keep the condemnation from his voice.

She didn’t respond, forcing him to plow ahead. “Father thinks Summer and Day are plotting something.”

“Eris—”

“If you don’t find out what they’re up to, he’ll send Arina. And she’s…” Fuck, he hated how desperate he sounded. How he had to plead with his mother to do this for him. Eris, who was practically drowning in his pride, forced himself to add, “Please.”

“I will tell you,” she said after a moment of heartbreaking hesitation, “if you swear to help Lucien however you can the next time he might need it.”

“Done,” Eris agreed, grateful it wasn’t a magical bargain. Her help always came on the back of wanting to protect Lucien. Eris swallowed the bitterness he felt about it because at least Arina didn’t need to be involved. This would stay strictly between the Vanserra’s. 

His mother sighed and then slipped out of his grasp, headed for Helion. Eris watched her go, hating how much he loved her. His mother likely loved him too, he reflected as he made his way back to his shared bedroom. She just didn’t know how to show it well. Didn’t know how to make him feel it the way she did for Lucien. Sometimes he thought there was an assumption that Eris could take care of himself and needed less from her.

But as he curled up next to Arina, foregoing his promise to fuck her in favor of tucking her into his chest, Eris though that wasn’t true. He needed just as much. 

Sometimes he thought he needed more.

ARINA: 

Eris was on edge again. It was their last day beneath the mountain before they could leave for Autumn and usually Eris all but bursting with excitement. Today, though, Eris was brooding, legs stretched in front of him, head propped against his fist. Arina sat at his feet like she so often did when she wanted Amarantha to ignore her entirely, one hand wrapped around Eris’s shin. If she made herself look like a pet, made it seem as though Eris was already humiliating her, there was no fun for the Lady of the Mountain to do the same. 

Indeed, she didn’t look at either of them as she tormented some Day courtiers, a wicked smile curved over her terribly plain face. It gave time for Arina to contemplate what secrets Eris wasn’t sharing this time.

In the course of five years, she’d become rather accustomed to Eris and the strange contradictions that existed just beneath his skin. His cruelty wasn’t entirely imagined—he could be quite awful to people around him, kicking them while they were down, scheming behind their back, and standing with a grin on his beautiful face while the High Lord punished them mercilessly.

And at the same time, Eris was fiercely protective of the people close to him. His brothers, his mother—her. Eris would go to war for any of them, would suspend the few morals he did hold dear if it meant keeping his family safe. And sometimes, when they were alone, Arina thought she loved him. 

Was certain she must. 

And then he’d retreat back into himself, putting up wall after wall for her to try and get through until she grew frustrated and wished she’d never met him at all. Eris made it so difficult to want him and she suspected he did it on purpose. No one could hurt him if they didn’t know him—if he kept them all at arms length.

Today, though, Arina was grappling with a new, more terrible thought. Eris had been creeping out of bed most nights. Sometimes he was only gone a few minutes but others he was gone for hours. His return often sent him straight to the bathing chamber where he’d aggressively wash himself.

Coupled with the fact that they weren’t having sex the way they used to, and Arina was starting to think Eris was having an affair. And she’d decided if he was, she was going to make his life hell until she could leave him. After all the fuss he’d made about being together, about getting married, the idea that in just five short years he was already bored enraged her.

Even his miserable, stupid father managed to remain faithful and Beron had no morals at all. What was so wrong with her that he needed to take his pleasure elsewhere? 

Testing her hypothesis, Arina slid her fingers higher and higher up his leg, making her way toward the cock she liked so much.

Eris caught her wrist in unforgiving fingers, no bothering to look at her at all. His eyes were focused on Summer Court—on princess Cressida. 

Arina wrenched from his grip, irritated that Eris couldn’t be bothered to even pretend. If he was having an affair, did that mean she was allowed, too? Somehow, Arina very much doubted Eris would be fine with her picking out another lover.

The realization was made all the worse by her own private admission that she didn’t want another lover. She only wanted her mate, her husband. Gods, but Arina felt so pathetic then, sitting at his feet like a good little pet.

She rose abruptly, unable to stand another second beside him. Eris finally turned to look at her, amber eyes flooded with curiosity. He didn’t have to talk to her? Fine. She turned her back to him, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she marched off. He didn’t chase after her and when she looked back, Eris was lost in his own thoughts again just as she left him.

Arina might have screamed in frustration if she hadn’t been so afraid of Amarantha. She was going to bed, was done with this hateful night. She’d wake in the morning for Autumn where it was easier to ignore and avoid Eris. She could leave, could probably convince one of his brothers to take her to the sea if she made up some lie about not feeling well.

She could— “Helion?”

It was strange to see him, leaned casually against a wall, draped in the Day Court white. He seemed sadder—older, colder. So unlike the male she’d once been friends with. She knew he was waiting for her given the way those gold eyes fell on her. 

“You look sad,” he said, the question beneath obvious to them both. Arina chose to ignore it, unwilling to admit Eris Vanserra had the power to break her heart.

“Tired,” she replied, stepping as close as she dared. She wasn’t going to be beaten on Helion’s account. 

“You’re still welcome back, you know,” he said as she made her way past him. “I would still…I would still honor the agreement between us.”

A bitter laugh escaped her. “Wow. What choices. A loveless marriage in Autumn or a loveless marriage in Day.”

“Arina—”

“Good night, Helion,” she called over her shoulder, walking away before anyone could overhear. Helion called her name again and Arina ignored it, anger bubbling inside her chest until it was practically a raging inferno. There was no release for it, not here. Arina made her way back to the room she shared with Eris, pacing and stamping her feet and when that didn’t help, throwing the blankets furiously from the bed.

In the end, she went to the bath. Soaked in the hottest water she could stand until her brown skin was red from heat, Arina managed to calm herself. Wrapped in a bathrobe, hair dripping over the silk, she expected to return to an empty bedroom.

Eris was there, sprawled on the wrecked bed. Utterly naked, his cock fully erect. He had to be insane if he thought she was going to crawl into his lap tonight. Arina paused, drinking him in. Eris looked exhausted, the hollows beneath his eyes smudged purple. His already fair skin was practically sallow making the dusting of freckles over his nose stark. Even the way he’d spread himself out spoke of someone who needed unbroken sleep.

Maybe he should end his affair. 

“Yes?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Come here,” he murmured, beckoning her with two fingers. “Let me kiss you.”

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. 

“Touch yourself, Eris,” she replied, letting her eyes slide down his form with open appreciation. That wasn’t fake, though it did fill her with anxiety. She was so stupid and she knew it—wanting him when he was out cavorting with only the cauldron knew who.

His eyes gleamed. Unaware she meant to bring him to completion without ever touching him, Arina toyed with the ties of her robe while Eris ran a large, broad hand down his toned stomach and chest.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice dark and husky with desire.

No. I want you to tell me you love me—that you’re not fucking someone else.  “Yes.”

Eris wrapped his fingers around his thick, large cock and gave himself a slow, soft tug. He still thought this was a warm up until she cracked. Arina remained where she was, standing just outside the bathing chamber with her dripping hair and her aching heart. 

“Again,” she whispered. Eris’s gaze sharpened, as if he knew what game she was playing. 

“Do you want to watch me come?”

“Yes,” she replied. That was safe—he couldn’t hurt her when she stood across the room, when it was only him made vulnerable. He didn’t understand the why, and Arina forced herself not to think about him wanting to please her. 

Eris slid his thumb over the head of his cock, slicking it through the bead of moisture already gathering along the slit. “It’s been too long between us,” he groaned, eyes half lidded. “I miss your taste.”

Do you prefer it over your mistress? “Tell me more,” she said, tugging at the ties of her robe. Eris watched, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Eris began stroking himself in earnest, his free hand running over his parted thighs to chase whatever pleasure had begun to pool in his body. Watching him was like watching an out of control wild fire. He was going to ignite, was going to take them both with him. 

He’d consume her. Maybe he already had. 

Eris arched his back. “You never touch me anymore.”

Because you’re fucking someone else.  “That’s not true,” she said. Arina had her hands on him every single night, even if they were only sleeping. She’d been touching him in the throne room a few hours earlier. He’d been the one to pull away her hands. He was the one sneaking out at night. 

“I wanted to pull my cock out in that throne room,” he panted, arching his hips again. He was so pathetically close if the tightness of his balls were any indication. Eris continued to stroke, pulling the soft, sensitive skin of his shaft under those callused fingers. Arina wanted him so badly her legs shook from the effort it took to remain still. “I wanted to see you choke on it until your makeup was running down your face.”

Fuck him, she wanted that too— “Why didn’t you?”

Eris groaned. “Too many eyes. Don’t want that filthy fucking court to know how lovely you are.”

Her heart clenched. “Come for me, Eris.”

“I want you to touch me,” he half pleaded. “Arina, come touch me.”

She didn’t budge long enough that Eris’s hand slowed, eyes opening wider. Jaw set, Eris dropped his cock entirely despite how it twitched in protest. “You’re angry with me.”

It wasn’t a question, and still she responded. “Should I be?”

Eris slid his hands behind his head, sighing softly. “Probably. But tell me, wife. What have I done that’s displeased you?”

“You know what you’ve done,” she hissed, retying her robe angrily. “Don’t play stupid Eris. It’s beneath you.”

He took another loud breath. “I don’t know—”

“Where do you go every night?” Arina demanded, holding his gaze. “Who are you visiting?”

He became so still, his cock flagging beneath her hateful stare. 

“Arina,” he whispered but she didn’t want to hear it. Striding for the wardrobe, Arina flung on a nightdress without daring to look at him. She thought he was still on the bed, watching her with wary, guilty eyes.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, standing just behind her. Eris slid an arm around her middle and Arina had to bite back the urge to hit him. She couldn’t do that, even in her anger. Too many people vented their rage on him that way. 

Arina would use her words.

“Somewhere else. To someone else—” she began to add, wanting to hurt him as badly as he’d hurt her. Eris reached for her throat, pinning her back to his chest.

“Tell me who,” he whispered dangerously, teeth grazing her neck. “So I might rip out their heart.”

“It’s okay for you but not for me—”

“I’m not fucking anyone. Not even you,” he added bitterly, his hold on her body tightening. “I am doing something else—something that has nothing to do with my cock.”

“Tell me, then,” she replied, pulling herself out of his grip. Looking up at her mate, Arina all but pleaded with him. “Tell me where you’re going.”

A sliver of anguish betrayed him, vanishing so quickly she might have imagined it. Eris became stone. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” he snapped, running both hands through his hair. “Because I need you to be safe—”

“I’m not fragile!”

“Of course you are!” he all but roared, striding toward her to grip the tops of her arms. “You are so absurdly fragile it makes me sick every time I think about it! Anyone who wants to get back at me only needs to harm you.”

“And who wants to hurt you, Eris?” she demanded, breathing so hard she felt like she wasn’t breathing at all. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“No.”

“Eris–”

“NO!” he shouted, half shoving her in his desperation to put space between them. “Ask anything else of me, but do not ask me that.”

Arina’s mind was a blur, trying to make sense of the fear coming off him, of his larger than life response. Eris, who was so typically unaffected, so cool even under pressure. 

“What are you planning?” she whispered, dread sluicing from her bones. “Eris–”

“Nothing,” he said, running a hand down his face. “I am planning nothing.”

Careful words from a careful male. He wasn’t planning anything, but someone else was. His father, perhaps, or someone else he’d allied himself with and Eris was….Eris was helping with whatever it was. 

“You’re going to get yourself killed, aren’t you?” she asked, cold horror washing over her. “And you don’t want me to be implicated. Is that it, then? You have a death wish?”

Eris set his jaw while Arina fought the urge to scream at him for being so stupid. So reckless. 

“Eris—”

“Don’t,” he warned, holding a finger up between them. “Do not, Arina.”

“Eris,” she tried again, daring a step toward him. Eris only shook his head, reaching for his shirt laying neatly against the back of a chair.

“You thought I was fucking another female,” he hissed, realization dawning over him. He’d been so busy trying to convince her not to be angry with him that it hadn’t occurred to him the full scope of Arina’s suspicions. “You—”

He swallowed hard, shrugging into his shirt, and then his pants.

“Where are you going?” she asked helplessly. Eris only shook his head. 

“Out.”

“Eris!” she yelled, but he strode from the room, boots in hand, and slammed the door loudly behind him. 

It was tempting to try and run after him, to force this confrontation. But Arina was exhausted suddenly. Too confused to make sense of his own angry reaction. Eris had never told her he had any deep feelings beyond the bond—and only expressed his want with his hands. If he wanted to be angry, well.

Maybe he ought to learn how to use his words.

ERIS:

Eris slept like shit that last night Under the Mountain. In his mind, Eris replayed the last several weeks, trying to figure out why Arina would ever think he’d sleep with another female. Why didn't she realize how he felt—didn’t she know? 

Eris remained in the lounge until his mother returned, flushed and bright eyed. Simmering in his resentment, Eris asked, “Well?”

“There is little Helion knows. Murmurings of a rebellion that would take years to achieve,” she whispered, adjusting the laces on her dress. “They meet above ground.”

“Morons,” he whispered, more to himself than his mother. “When Amarantha learns— and she will— I hope you’re prepared to do your mourning in secret.”

His mothers eyes flashed. “You can be cruel, Eris.”

He rose to his feet. “So can you.”

With nowhere but his bedroom left to go, Eris returned to find his wife curled up in bed, knees tucked beneath her chin. She smelled of salt and with a pang of regret, he realized she must have cried herself to sleep. 

Rubbing his eyes, Eris picked up the blanket pooling on the floor and draped it over her. Arina’s skin was warm, her hair tangled from the bath she’d taken just before their fight broke out. As he undressed, Eris wondered if maybe he was just a terrible partner. Arina didn’t know how he felt because he couldn’t get the words out from behind his teeth.

Couldn’t risk saying them and watching her blink up at him, pity flooding her gaze. 

Don’t you know what this is, he imagined her saying? I would leave you if I could. 

Eris pulled her against him, pleased when she rolled over in her sleep to nuzzle her face against his neck.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered into her sweet smelling hair. Arina said nothing but after a moment her breathing evened out. If she hated him for the secrets he kept, Eris thought he could live with that. Even if it hurt, at least she’d be safe. If Helion was implicated, so would everyone around him. Rhysand would be called in to read minds, to force the truth from them all.

Arina could know nothing.

Even if she hated him for it and he was certain she would. His wife, his mother—all the females in his life were so hell bent on protecting Helion of all people. Helion who continued to put them in danger, who didn’t care if they died, if Eris had to watch his mother and wife subjected to his fathers cruelty.

Morning came too soon. Eris was pulled from his nightmares but soft fingers touching his jaw. “You’re back,” Arina whispered. Without opening his eyes, Eris turned to his side, gathering her in his arms. 

“Lets go to the sea for a few days,” he whispered. “Just us.”

“And do what?”

Eris peeked open one eye. “I think you know exactly what.”

“We can’t run from our problems, Eris,” she said, unaware of just how appealing her mouth was.

“Of course we can,” he retorted with a long-suffering sigh. “All we have is running away from our problems.”

“We could face them head on?” she suggested. Eris laughed, stretching himself until he felt his spine crack. 

“Let’s prioritize avoidance for now, Arina. There is too much happening and I…” I am in love with you.

The realization slammed into his chest like a force of nature. Of course he did—rationally, Eris must have known years ago, but he’d never truly thought about it. Never really considered why he did so much to try and keep her safe, to keep her happy. 

He couldn’t tell her. Eris wouldn’t risk her rejection. Not until he knew for certain she returned his affection, at any rate. And judging by the guarded expression on her face, Arina was not in love with him. Eris swallowed that knowledge, thinking that she could be if he tried a little harder. 

He knew how to court a female, had been trained by both his parents to be a gentleman. “Let me do something nice for my wife,” he finally said, cupping her face. “Let me make my poor behavior up to you.”

“I want you to tell me the truth, Eris,” she whispered, rubbing her nose against his own. “I want to be your equal.”

“You are—”

“I’m not. I’ll never be for as long as you’re keeping secrets even to protect me,” she whispered, as if someone might overheard them. “Who protects you, Eris?”

He felt defensive, stiffening at the implication he even needed to be protected. From her set jaw and the blazing look on her face, he knew what she wanted him to say, though. “Can’t you trust me, just this once?” he asked her desperately. 

“If you want to go to the sea, you have to promise you’ll tell me what’s happening. Otherwise just take me to the Forest House.”

Take her to the Forest House where she’d spend their time above ground avoiding him until the inroads he’d made over the years eroded into nothing. Until his own father had a better relationship with his wife than Eris did. 

“Fine,” he said, though Eris would give her nothing but the very basics. “But I want you to swear to me that we’re both walking out of this mountain alive.”

“Of course—”

“So there will be no heroics, Arina,” he hissed, holding her face too roughly in his hands. “No self-sacrifices. We will continue to remain neutral. Swear it.”

He could bind her by magic. Eris knew she felt it hanging between them, waiting for her agreement. Arina brought her mouth to his. “I swear, Eris.”

She’d kill him when she learned who was on the line. It didn’t matter—Eris had her agreement, and for the rest of the morning he was impossibly smug about it.

“Arina and I are going to the sea,” he informed his parents the moment Arina dropped her bag at his feet.

Beron Vanserra narrowed brown eyes. “For how long?”

“Three days,” Eris replied, certain that was the absolute longest his father would tolerate his absence. “I’ll check in on the neighboring cities and villages while I’m there.”

That appeased Beron enough to nod, sparing the High Lord the trouble of trying to round up stragglers himself. Of course, Eris had no intention of doing any of those things. He wasn’t going to help Amarantha enslave his people. If they’d managed to avoid her patrols, Eris didn’t see how that was his problem.

They stepped out of the tunnel into the fresh air of the middle and without another word, Eris grabbed Arina’s wrist and winnowed them away. What had once been so easy was laborious now, exhausting him when his boots slammed to the sandy, spiky ground of the sprawling, wooden estate. 

“Fuck,” he panted, shaking out tingling hands. “Fuck that stupid cunt.”

Arina nodded, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind pointed ears. “Tell me, Eris.”

And so he did. Walking her through the empty halls that smelled of cedar and salt, Eris told her the basics of his fathers suspicions and what he knew. He didn’t tell her how he knew it, nor did he admit that most nights he stayed up to ensure his mother returned safely before his father discovered her missing. Arina was smart. He could see her piecing things together.

“Eris, if the courts are working together to fight Amarantha, we should—”

“Do nothing,” he interrupted, unbuttoning his jacket in the room they’d share for the next few days. “Because they’re going to lose.”

“Not if we all stood up to her—”

“Especially then,” Eris hissed as he kicked off his boots. She controls the magic of seven High Lords, she has most of our soldiers trapped in cages under that cursed mountain. The only people who can fight are courtiers—warrior trained, to be sure, but Hybern’s legions will wipe them out.”

“So then, what? We just…do nothing?”

“We hope Tamlin figures out how to beat her,” Eris said with a heavy sigh. “And bide our time, pretending we enjoy her reign, this new normal. We remain careful.”

“What if they can win?” Arina asked, biting her bottom lip. Eris sighed.

“They can’t. Not two of them, and not even three assuming Winter is stupid enough to join them. Dawn won’t and Night certainly won’t. Spring can’t, and Beron will risk nothing until he’s certain he can win. It’s delusion to think two, maybe three courts can take on the might of Amarantha.”

Arina bit her bottom lip. “It feels like cowardice to just…do nothing.”

“It’s self-preservation. Don’t fight something you can’t win. She has a weakness and it’s Tamlin. Eventually there will be an obvious way to exploit her through him and when we learn, we’ll take it. Carefully.”

“Promise?”

Eris made his way toward her, wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. “I hate this just as much as you do. I swear I’ll take the first opening I can…so long as it doesn’t risk you.”

“Careful, Eris,” she said, rising to her feet. Eris drank her in, dressed in warm marigold. He needed her in nothing at all. “I’ll start to think you care.”

He grinned wolfishly. “I owe you for last night.”

“Oh?”

“Come get in the bath with me,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Let me touch you.”

“Single minded,” she chided, though Arina still let him undo the laces of her gown. Eris took his time, indulging in the softness of her skin and the sight of her body revealed to him inch by glorious inch. He’d never be tired of the sight of her, would always be excited at the thought of having her.

After all, mates were rare, and belonged to those deserving. In his life, Eris had never expected to find his, and never imagined he even had one. And yet here she was, blinking big, green eyes up at him with open admiration and trust.

Eris was absurdly hard by the time he got her into the large, open bathing chamber, with its glass wall overlooking the moody, cold sea below. Arina was delighted by it all the same, ignoring him just long enough to step into the jetted water or realize what he was doing, how he was positioning her. 

Not until was behind her, erection squashed against her spine. Eris hooked his ankles around her legs to spread her out, pushing them both forward until one of those bubbly gets was right against her cunt.

Arina gasped, wigging in an attempt to remove herself from the pressure, but Eris held firm.

“I said I owe you,” he reminded her, mouth against the nape of her neck. 

“Eris—”

“You’ll come,” he interrupted, hands groping her breasts beneath the bubbles. “I want to watch.”

“You didn’t come last night,” she breathed, resting her head against his shoulder. 

“I’m sure you’ll make it up to me,” Eris replied, thinking of Arina’s soapy, wet body beneath his own. Water pooled around her as she sank to her knees, sucking his cock into her warm, willing mouth. 

Arina was clever, or at least smarter than him. Reaching behind her, her fingers curled around his cock. She gave him a firm tug, causing Eris to jerk upward. He was keyed up from the night before when he’d stupidly thought she was going to straddle his lap and ride him into oblivion. 

She could stroke him into it, too, he decided. In fact, Eris quite liked what was happening. Arina spread her legs wider, held open by his own. Breasts heaving as the water continued to pound unrelenting against her cunt. 

“Are you going to come for me?” he rasped, nipping her earlobe softly. “I want to hear you scream.”

“How long are you going to keep me here?” she panted, nails grazing the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock. 

“Until you beg me to fuck your pretty mouth.”

“You’ll be waiting forever,” she gasped, chest flushed from the heat of the water and the release he knew must be barreling toward her. Eris bucked into her hand, tempted to take himself into his own again, if only to force her to focus on coming. He couldn’t stop himself, addicted to the sight of her, to the feel of her skin against his own. And Eris was greedy more than anything else. If he came, too, they’d be wholly even.

And he’d last longer the second time he fucked her. He could spend hours edging them both, drawing out their pleasure until she did beg. Eris so loved when she did. 

Panting, unable to stop the soft whine that escaped him or his bucking hips, Eris could feel release gathering along his spine. He needed to come, and her hand was perfect. Squeezed tight, using the water to heighten the orgasm racing for him. She squirmed, the swell of her ass teasing his balls until Eris couldn’t take it anymore.

He bit her shoulder to keep from crying out, plucking at her nipples until Arina bowed upward, writhing desperately to escape the onslaught of the water.

Despite his own throbbing cock, still spurting an impossible amount of fluid, Eris pushed her back down. 

“I’m not done,” he growled. 

“Fuck me—Eris,” she pleaded, her voice rising in pitch. She was going to come again and oh, he couldn’t look away. “Eris please, Eris—”

The sound of her pleasure echoed off the glass, echoing down the emptied halls. Only then did Eris unhook his legs and free her, and only long enough to set her on the edge of the sink. He wasn’t going to make it to the bed—he wanted to feel the aftershocks on his cock, wanted to bring her right back up without any reprieve.

“What happened to my mouth?” she panted, his tricky female.

“It can wait,” he groaned, sliding his wet cock into her tight cunt. “Gods, Arina…”

The sound of their slick flesh joining and pulling apart was the most obscene thing Eris could remember hearing. He needed her just like this, needed to keep her with him somehow. And beyond that, Eris needed her to love him with the same desperation that he loved her. He wanted to hear her say it and didn’t know how to tell her first.

Digging her nails into his shoulders, Arina pressed her forehead against his own. “No more lies,” she panted, holding him close. “No more secrets.”

Maybe that was the start, then. “Nothing between us,” he agreed with a shuddering groan. “Nothing but this.”

And Eris swore, as they came again, that it wasn’t just nothing looking back at him. When Arina’s eyes opened, arms twined around his neck so he could drag her to the bed, that it was the same thing glowing in his chest reflected in that mossy green gaze.

It was love.

[offsidekineticist]

This one is unusually short, but it feels the right length.

CW: estrangement, ableism, chronic pain, lack of access to medication, very negative self-talk.

Without Results

Qweck has always reminded you of your brother. Her eyes–those bright, golden eyes–were so much like your brother's eyes. Her intensity could easily match your brother's at his most obsessed. Neither were the type to stand aside if there was something out in the world that needed fixing. Qweck was barely 13 when you were struck by the sobering realization that she would leave Brastlewark just as your brother did. At first you were so afraid you would lose her the same way you lost him, lashing out in pain when she left you forever, so you resolved that this time would be different. You had decades to come to terms with her place being beyond Brastlewark, to teach her that her path was hers to tread, and you would love her wherever it led her. And it worked–when she left, you accompanied Qweck to Ostenso, supported her as she petitioned to be accepted into the monastery, and then, when she was accepted, you said your goodbyes and returned home. She didn't write as often as you'd hoped, but you understood: she had her own life now, and you were relieved–and proud–to realize you didn't resent her for it as you had resented your brother. Qweck had left, but she wasn't lost. She still visited you. Still wrote to you. Still loved you.

And now you've gone and fucked it up.

“Pathetic. No self control, no discipline.”

He is not like he was when he left Brastlewark. Like you, he has lost much of the expressiveness of your youth, and what was once a frenetic energy demanding expression through fidgeting and pacing now appears as a coiled spring, carefully controlled but ready to explode at a moment's notice. But his voice is the same. His cadence is the same.

“I'm sorry,” you choke out, and it’s such a pathetic fraction of what you should tell him after what you said all those years ago, but it’s all you can manage when just the sight of him makes your hands hurt and your heart pound and your ears ring.

Your brother sneers at you. “‘Sorry’ means nothing without results. You’ve already proven you can’t change. You just hid behind the bleaching and pretended you had.”

He’s right. He knows he’s right, and so do you. It’s why you never bothered apologizing for your outbursts–how can you say you’re sorry for something you know you won’t stop doing? But you can’t accept that. You’re too broken to accept that, so you feel the rage rise up in you and take control and–

“And you hid behind your armor and your ‘duty’ and just abandoned your people to build a world where we can’t live!” you hiss through grit teeth. “When exactly did you decide you hated yourself so much that anyone like you didn’t deserve to live?”

But your brother is not who he was when he left Brastlewark. Your words don’t pierce him as they did then. He doesn’t fear your disapproval anymore. He doesn’t love you anymore.

“We both know,” he says, rolling his eyes, “that you are wildly extrapolating from your scant knowledge of Axis to justify why my leaving upset you. Why don’t you tell the truth for once, Theoven? Admit what it is that really frightens you?”

A coldness grips your heart, but still you barrel forward, hearing yourself repeat your worst mistakes. “Nothing frightens me anymore! I am a bleachling–the worst thing I could imagine has happened to me, and I’m still here. What do you think you could possibly do to me that would be worse?!”

“‘The worst thing you could imagine?’ Really?” He arches a brow sardonically. “The bleaching was never your worst fear. Your worst fear is one you have, by some miracle, avoided all these years: chasing away everyone who might have been willing to tolerate you. But even miracles must end. You’ve lost Brastlewark, and now you’ve lost Cleric Varnaj in the same way you lost me. How long until you’ve chased the halfling away, I wonder?”

You would clench your fists if they weren’t splinted. “Shut up,” you growl.

“You act like he’s beneath you,” your brother continues. “The fact that he hasn’t left you for that alone is a miracle. Given your reaction to his declaration of love, he likely holds even less affection for you than I do. Most likely he is held here by some guilt over his lies, or some obligation to care for you when you have nobody else. But how long do you think he will last now that he has to tolerate you alone?”

“I said shut up!”

“He’s going to realize soon that he can do better for himself. That he doesn’t have to stay and be treated this way. And when that happens, he will leave. You will be all alone, helpless, worthless, useless. Do you know what I think of that, Theoven?” A shark-like grin spreads across your brother’s face. “I think you’ll deserve it.”

The rage is too much. You need to get it out, but your body isn’t strong enough–it never was before the bleaching, either. That doesn’t mean you won’t try. You spring forward from your bed, reaching for your brother's neck to grab and squeeze until that disgusting smile slips from his face and he realizes what a mistake he’s made becoming your enemy.

You are awake. Arms are wrapped around you as you squirm, what was intended to be a howl of rage instead only a whisper.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok! You’re ok, Thay. You’re ok. It’s just me.”

“Regill?” you whisper.

“It’s me, Thay. It's Gilly.” You relax. Another nightmare, that’s all. You should have realized–words always became too heavy to speak when you saw him in Rivad, of course it was only a nightmare. You’ve already begun to forget what it was about, beyond the fact that your brother was there. You’re safe. Gilly is here, so you’re safe.

Gilly holds your head to his chest, one hand carding through your hair with the other on your shoulder, holding you close. “You’re alright. You’re alright,” he whispers softly, over and over, and you melt into his arms. You’re safe. Gilly is here, so you’re safe.

And then you remember why that should make you feel bad.

During the time apart, you had hoped that in time your feelings would fade. You don’t know if it’s because of everything that’s happened or if you are just innately weak, but you’re even more attached now than you were before. Even beyond the fact that he dresses you and feeds you and assists you in everything including basic bodily functions, you can barely bring yourself to sleep without him. When he goes out to buy food or takes a job, you spend the whole time on the edge of panic, curled up in a fetal position on the bed, wondering if he will come back. So far he always has.

You can’t be like this. You need to be stronger. Someday–someday soon–it’s going to be time for him to ‘pay rent,’ and he will damn another innocent to hell. You refuse to be party to that. You need to be strong enough to tell him no. You need to be strong enough to do the right thing. You need to be strong enough to send him away.

There’s a sudden, painful spasm in your right hand. It’s so intense, even compared to the usual ache, that you can’t help the half strangled moan that comes out of your mouth.

Giliys freezes. “Hands?” he asks. You nod into his chest.

“Hurts,” you whimper, disgusted with your weakness. “Medicine.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry, Thay. I can’t give you more.” You growl at that–actually growl, like an animal. You know why he says this–you don’t have access to medicinal flayleaf, so he’s dosing out an illegal recreational drug for you as a substitute. If the dosage ever goes too high, the drug will start working as intended and cause hallucinations. And given what you tend to see when you hallucinate, it’s probably better to endure the pain. But your hands don’t understand that, and neither does whatever takes over when you get like this.

“Then what use are you?” you watch yourself snap. Giliys starts carding his hand through your hair again, but you’re not having it. You push him away and settle on your side with your back to him, wincing at another throb of pain from your hands.

You hear a quiet sigh. “I’m sorry,” Giliys repeats quietly, almost defeatedly.

“‘Sorry’ means nothing without results,” you say, a faint sense of deja vu washing over you. “Now shut up and let me sleep.” There’s a long pause.

“Okay,” Giliys finally says. “Sleep well, Thay.”

You take a deep breath before closing your eyes. You will sleep through this pain. You will sleep through this anger. You will sleep without his comfort. You will learn to live like this. You will learn to live without him. You have to, or you’ll die.

[nahoyasboyfriend]

Not an ask, just a Jamie imagine for you.

Year 1992. James was aware that it was the end of the golden era for serial killers; very few true sickos left on this Earth to do his bidding. His darling wife's favourite era was the 70s, and so was his - the most depraved men could enact their violent fantasies on unsuspecting victims, and he could consult them on their insanity. If he deemed them worthy, they'd become part of his soirée on Devil's Night, but not all were invited. Somehow, he knew most of America's more prolific killers, as the energy of Cortez seemed to lure them in. But he only invited his friends, his comrades, his brothers in sin.

In 1992, he was sure he was the last of his kind, the last true serial killer left. And he kept searching for new victims. Over the years, he had them less and less frequently. Thrice a week or more when he was alive, about weekly in the 40s and 50s, two a month the next decade, moving to about 5 a year in the 90s. Entertaining people were hard to come by, and his old methods couldn't satisfy his hunger anymore. He was tired of unsuspecting prey; he needed the chase, the game, the hunt to last longer.

He planned this quite meticulously, and his plan was to come to fruition when you walked into the hotel, announcing to the receptionist thst you'll be staying here for two weeks, all alone. Oh, your boyfriend? He left you a few months ago, leaving you depressed, desperate and with quite low self esteem. A perfect target. After a few days at the hotel, you knew something was... off. The bartender was mysterious and gave you hints about the paranormal activity here. You've always believed in spirits, but surely they couldn't ever harm anyone? They were just that, spirits.

After about three days, you started getting scared for real - nightmares, creepy sounds, blood stains that appear and disappear. You were also quite lonely, arriving to the hotel because of a friend's recommendation, yet you had no one to talk to in all of LA. All the spooking was, of course, orchestrated by James. He wanted you vulnerable and delicate for him.

He started talking to you a week after you moved in to your room. A charming, albeit eccentric gentleman he was. Never making advances towards you and always knowing what to talk about. He seemed well-read and intelligent, but also unsettling somehow, fake, as if all his emotions were play pretend. But you, lonely and abandoned, felt attracted to him. So for the next week, you two met up regularly at the hotel bar. He even led you to your room once, and didn't try to invite himself in. Never even suggested sex. You started to wish that he did... he was incredibly attractive and sweet, after all. You were sad when your stay was up, you wanted to stay here longer with the man. So, he paid for your extended stay - just another week. You were too enamored to doubt him, as you two were practically dating already. He introduced himself as James March, told you he was an architect, specializing in the art deco design style. That explained his outdated attire, right? He was amazing at shushing your concerns about him. His cold hands? Oh, low iron levels, my dear, such a nuissance. The lack of knowledge on modern culture and television? Ah, he is just more of a book person, coming from a traditional, intelligent family. He was clearly well off, too. Perfect man.

After the additional week was up, you gave him your phone number and promised to call frequently, maybe meet up. He asked you for one last drink. You agreed, despite how strangely excited he was. Shouldn't he be sad you were leaving?...

"Darling, you have forgotten your suitcase... yes you have, see? Oh, it appears that the drinks proved too strong for you. Yes, I will help you to your room, sweetheart."

You had no idea the drink was spiked. You also had no idea when he led you to room 78 instead of yours, too hazy from whatever drug he dosed you with. When you woke up, you were tied. Your hands above your head, and you stood on a stool. If he removed that stool, you'd be hanging by your hands. The sudden disturbance would cause your shoulders to dislocate and cause unbearable pain... wait, why were you thinking about that? Shouldn't you be getting away?

You looked around, and there he was, sitting on a chaise-lounge and smoking a pipe. He was smiling. You panicked, but stayed silent, waiting for an explanation.

"You've come to your senses, dearest, how wonderful." He pulled a knife out of his cane and you almost stumbled off the stool, "You are in for an amazing night... maybe another day, too. I have been aching for something... different, you see."

He stood up and approached you, blowing the aromatic smoke in your face, making you frown and tremble. Your James did this?... your charming, sweet, one-of-a-kind James Patrick March? Why?...

He smiled. Oh, your panic. So sweet. Oh, he would savor this expression of yours, your delicious fear. You had no idea who he was, had you? He gripped your waist, making you flinch, yet the familiarity of his touch made you feel safe as well as aroused. It was strange.

"You will suffer quite a bit, as my delicate dessert, but I want you to know, you are my most special and cherished prey. It will be an honour having you in my hotel for all of eternity, by my side.", he stated with that charming smile of his.

After that, he began.

-love, Nika

Sorry if it's messy! I wrote it in like 30mins, and on my phone and barely edited😭 I'll write you a part 2 if ur interested <3 bcs I'm always eager to talk about him. Feel free to publish this ask or keep it, whatever u prefer.

[simcardiac-arrested]

Rikki cutscene?

phhhhhh my godd covering my mouth and giggling and kicking my legs and rolling around in bed and. rikki . she is everything to me. she’s like if a girl was sooo fail and had everything wrong ever. imagine masking your entire life and pretending that everything is okay. pretending you enjoy the golden child #lifestyle and that you’re actually really respectful and polite and considerate. But actually u are so full of anger. so full of rage and violence. but it’s ok really <3 you’ve been suppressing your emotions for decades and shelving away every problem ever but it’s fineeeeeee believe me it’s fine. it’s all good. yiu’re not even mad. it’s not avoidant and conflict averse behavior it’s just literally fine. also it’s less hassle if there’s no problems and everything’s gucci and no one’s mad (you are mad though. but like dont worry about it). it’s much less hassle to pretend like nothing has ever bothered you at all and to just nod along. you just don’t want trouble. you don’t want to get into trouble. you’re not honest, you might even push someone else under the bus if it helps you stay afloat. you’re only caring and considerate when it benefits you, you don’t actually know any of these people, you don’t actually respect any of them. it’s just easier to pretend like you do. and all you ever wanted was an escape, and you got it, and was it worth it? of course it was, you were doing the right thing, you were following your dreams and saving both him and you. he just didn’t understand—he’s your little brother, of course he didn’t understand. he never even cared, did he? or, wait, you shouldnt badmouth the dead—except of course he’s not dead, everything is fine, he’s just been missing for what, 7 years? but it’s fine. if you acknowledge something bad might have happened to him all those two decades of repressed feelings might just drown you for good. he’s fine. and then it turns out he really is fine. he’s just alive, and—oh. he hates you. he thinks you didn’t care. he thinks you abandoned him (he thinks you hated him). but what else were you supposed to do? you were just trying to save you both, to do the right thing. you wanted a better life. it’s not your fault that you lied, you were just trying to avoid pointless conflict—it’s less hassle that way. but of course he still got mad, because he’s him, and he only ever thinks about himself. and now he thinks you didn’t care. ridiculous. maybe he didn’t care when he tried to talk you out of following your dreams. maybe he didn’t care when he didn’t even leave a note, any sort of explanation. maybe he didn’t care when he said you didn’t care! because that’s so stupid, of course you cared, all you ever cared about was him. see, you did the right thing. you simply knew better. he doesn’t understand. nobody does (nobody ever understood how hard it’s been being the perfect one). but it’s okay. everything’s fine. you guys aren’t even fighting. you’re not even mad! everything’s good. it’s all okay. sure, your brother takes any chance he gets to antagonize you and act like the only victim on planet earth, but really, it’s all good. because you’re so polite. and you’re so respectful, and so considerate, so calm, so rational, so obedient, so perfect. nothing could ever get under your skin (except everything). nothing could ever make you mad (except everyone). and surely nothing could ever make you blow up, make the dam inside you finally burst, make all your anger and grief and every bad emotion under the sun known.

(…except him.)

[mental-mario]

Sibling Rivalry, Favoritism, and Multiplayer

Hey all, it's been an upsetting week for me, not gonna lie. I'm gonna skip the spiel and just get into it, so I'll just say that if you can relate then please Like and Follow and be sure to tip your struggling blogger. Also I'm lonely and need friends, so send me a request on Switch and message me on here as well! My mental issues make it difficult for me to sustain friendships, but I'd love a pen pal or 10k of them!

I'll be opening up more about things as I get more comfortable with this whole self-awareness and vulnerability thing, so subscribe and bear with me, but let's just say for now as a quick background that my mother is a narcissist, my dad is the flying monkey, my brother is the golden boy, and he married a conniving narcissist as well, so as to continue the cycle of abuse to his two kids. I am the damaged scapegoat who is trying to navigate away to healthier dynamics for my spouse and kids. I'm currently no-contact with my brother and his family as well as my mother and any relatives whatsoever. I do meet up with my dad occasionally for pancakes, but it is very much about sticking heads in the sand and pretending like we aren't estranged. I was no-contact with him as well until my wife informed him I was in the psych ward a couple months ago. I'm willing to answer questions as we go...

Anyway, he recently sent me $500 since I finally got up the nerve to put my pride and ego aside and outright ask him for help; something that has been instilled as a big source of shame for me to ever do because my mom especially would verbally berate me about how incompetent I am and how I would die alone and unwanted. Anyways, I digress, you may be asking what I would have to complain about? While I am thankful for any help I can get, let's just say $500 is chump change when it comes to my parents. They have money that I have been long since cut off from but that my brother and his family still very much access unabashedly, at the age of 32. I am 38. Also important to note is that he works a lucrative career where he has been able to make similar or better money as me over the past decade. The difference has been that my wife and I have been smart and careful with our money, while they have spent it recklessly. I always tend to leave out background details inadvertently, so I'm trying to recall as much as I can so as to not sound like unjustified soured grapes.

After years of no contact, our wives started communicating again, and it eventually got to where they decided to move to the south where we had relocated, originally in order to get away from them all. I wasn't thrilled about this, but I didn't want to deny my wife a chance at a friendship. My brother was reluctant to move here too, for reasons that I will get into someday as I work up the nerve to do so. My mom said I should take that said reason to the grave, but I'm not going to do that. They lived in an apartment for 6 months while making excellent money, by most people's standards, but they then exited out of the lease and moved into my parents' house, yet again, rent free, until they could buy a house of their own (or at least, that was how it was phrased to me when I decided to go nc with my parents yet again, due to the emotional pain of yet again seeing him and his family completely chosen over me and mine). They had to get out of their lease because they are assholes and got a bit too brazen with their neighbors. Despite being brazen in the past with neighbors who produced guns in their faces, they still find it rather funny to try and cave their downstairs neighbor's ceiling in by purposely jumping around as hard as they could out of spite. So long story short, another awful neighbor who couldn't take a joke decided to make them feel less than safe for their choices.

With the money and assets they have, there should've been no reason why they couldn't just pivot into another short term lease or something, but my parents ate up the chance to get into that abusive dynamic yet again, telling themselves that they couldn't let their son and his family go homeless (I can't say that without laughing because that is hardly the only other choice in this scenario). Regardless, we have come back into this situation because my parents decided to move those who we are once again no longer in contact with into their own house, essentially choosing a side once again. Of course, the explanation evolved from this being a temporary thing to suddenly they can't afford a down payment on anything because they don't have any money saved, meaning they would be living with them indefinitely. My only satisfaction in this was knowing that my mom's vicious lap dog, who she refuses to rehome because she spent $6k from a breeder, would be biting the shit out of all of them. Despite the dog being a barrier to letting my kids stay over my parents or anything of the sort, you can at least cordon a dog off for someone to visit. Sadly, they refuse to kennel my brother's wife.

Anyways, my spouse has some acquaintances in the real estate industry, since we have bought and sold a number of homes over the years. She got a message from one of them, asking her if she was aware how terribly entitled and obnoxious her in-laws are. Despite having to search numerous banks for a loan due to their awful credit rating, they still have the nerve to act like they are rich and powerful somehow. They were apparently searching originally for a house priced in the $300's but could not get a mortgage unless my parents cosigned and put up their retirement assets as collateral. They refused that, but they did cosign a mortgage for $200k. This after having always told me about how they would never cosign a loan for anyone ever. So basically, my parents bought my fully grown ass brother and his family a house, because when push comes to shove they will definitely stop paying the mortgage payment and could care less if they force my parents into doing so. Of course, I am sitting on this knowledge since before I was gifted $500 by my parents, and my parents won't ever tell me they did this. To answer your question, if you are asking it, I do intend to call my dad out on this, and it may be the last time I ever speak to him, depending on how that conversation goes.

My parents for the longest time would act like they did so evenly for both their kids and their grandkids, but I've called them out on that enough over the years so that they don't even make that claim anymore. From money to time spent to emotional support (if you can call it that), his family got 99.9%, and I'm an ingrate to complain about not getting my 0.1%. To clarify, I could care less except for the impact it all has had on my kids, but I do acknowledge that it's a blessing in disguise that my kids are growing up without that toxic influence so prevalent in their lives. Just makes me sad because if they would cosign a $200k mortgage for me like that, I'd be set for life, but bro's family gets rewarded for their recklessness while mine gets punished for trying to do things "the right way."

I want to shift gears now before I become too bitter, but I will just ask you to comment or message me, do you have experience with being the black sheep? If so, how's it going? Conversely, do you have experience being the golden child and self-aware of it? How has that been like for you??

To channel my inner Cranky Kong: kids these days experience multiplayer gaming far different than we did as young bloods. In my day *groans as he shifts in his recliner* multiplayer meant your friend or sibling played a single player game while you waited and rooted for them to screw up so you could have your turn to play! SMB3 made some progress in this by establishing a cooperative level progression, despite continuing the alternating turns system of play, but it was still waiting impatiently for your turn to play. Other games that did have simultaneous co-op could be frustrating if you had a younger sibling who couldn't hold up to your skill level. Nowadays, you got co-op where players don't get in each other's way, and you even got games that are accessible for players who can't coordinate keeping the acceleration button held down in Mario Kart. I may sound like I'm complaining, but I assure you this is quite the opposite. I might have had better interpersonal relationships growing up if it was more about this level of inclusive play and bonding rather than the confusing cooperative yet competitive setup that led to a rather passive aggressive style of friendships and relationships that I experienced.

A quick update before I wrap this up: I will be going away for a couple of weeks without access to internet, so know that I am okay during this time and will post more when I get back. I would like to ask, has anyone reading this ever called the suicide hotline, and what was that experience like for you? I have not yet called, but I do have them in my contacts (it's 988 in the US for anyone who doesn't know).

The holiday season is filled with controlling propaganda for family, friends, and other such obligations disguised as tradition, so if you are like me and can't conform to society's expectations, just know you aren't alone and that this is a safe spot to share and discuss. You don't have to feel shame and guilt for putting your own health and quality of life first. Trauma sucks, but we all have it. Understand that your own personal experience is valid and that you aren't lesser than anyone else. I hope you are able to find peace and comfort this season in your spirituality because that's far stronger than worrying about the company you keep, possessions you have, or living a lifestyle by others' standards. What's the point in living that way if it just adds to your stress? Family sucks, and that is why I have opted out. If you are considering doing the same but haven't yet, I hope you survive this year. If you are considering breaking free, I'm happy to lend a friendly ear and chat!

[thephantomcasebook]

https://www.tumblr.com/thephantomcasebook/751087061978775552/about-hotd-my-expectations-were-low-but-they

This is a bad take.

Olivia Cooke's personal headcanon for Alicent, as told to the writer Sara Hess (https://variety.com/2022/tv/news/house-of-the-dragon-female-gaze-sex-scenes-queer-rhaenyra-1235462483/), was that, "they (Rhaenyra and Alicent) at some point kissed or made out or had some kind of physical interaction that Alicent’s mother found out about and forbade. And that was [her] head story, ‘Oh, I can’t do that. That’s not right.'"

Also, it is poor taste to misgender Emma and disregard their journey they have publicly spoken out about. The Pink News (https://www.thepinknews.com/2023/01/11/emma-darcy-non-binary-golden-globes/) reported how they struggled with presenting as female for success, but they chose to publicly state they are non-binary because: "In terms of queerness, the only good reason for being out as a non-binary person, publicly and professionally, is that I hope it will let younger people who may feel similar know that there is room in this industry for them."

Please don't add to the bigotry of this fandom.

Alright ...

1.) That's creepy as fuck that Olivia Cooke was thinking about Tween Girls making out and touching each other. That's also fucking stupid, completely off character, and she, frankly, needs to get her whole ass head examined.

I won't get into more specifics, because, I've already done a deep dive of how weird and creepy that head canon is on this blog and on other sites when it came out. And if I was the writer, I'd say ... "No ... what? NO! What are we evening talking about right now? And don't say shit like that in public! The fuck is wrong with you?!"

2.) I'm not playing these fucking games.

A.) I'm not giving any respect or care to an ideology that was founded on the abuse and torture of children by some psychopathic French doctor that resulted in a young boy killing himself after years of being forced to have sexual relations with his twin brother.

(Yes, weirdo, gender ideology is based off the work of an evil doctor mutilating, torturing, and sexually abusing, young twin boys in his clinic and home in mid-1950's Paris.)

B.) Don't fucking insult my intelligence. You mean to tell me that an actress, all the way in her 30's, with a long time boyfriend, who spent an unsuccessful decade in the London entertainment industry, who couldn't hack it, suddenly used a pet corporate sponsored fad to try and get her foot in the door? You mean to tell me that weird and fucked up actors and actresses would game the system and prey on the "Current Thing" to get noticed and casted? I'm shocked, I say! Shocked!

Do me a favor, weirdo. While you pretend to be a good person with your bullshit Jerk Off crystal ideology, why don't you get the fuck off my land!

[curiosity-killed]

a familiar season

Word count: 2604

Content warnings: none!

Rajiat is an old woman when the imperator princep walks into her garden. Perhaps not in age—her own parents still live and would laugh themselves off their seats at her making such a claim—but somewhere in her wandering soul is a seed that has grown heavier, more compacted, than it ever was when she was young. She has lived through five rulers in Arradine, three kings in Soldato, her own son’s marriage, and more seasons of drought and rain than she can begin to tally. When Uther first suggested they step down to allow Rassler and Malia to take up their crowns, she had scoffed, but she has grown fond of the time permitted to her now to linger, indulge, rest.

The imperator shows far less ease with the idea. In the midst of a garden lush with late spring blossoms and designed to encourage meandering and relaxation, he stands stiffly and frowns faintly at the stone molding high above the plants. She lifts her brow, a little arch, at his choice of view. She invested far too many hours in designing this garden for it to be overlooked in favor of old stone.

Still, she supposes she ought to offer some leniency. It has been less than a year since he returned from the dead, and to her eyes, he left a part of himself there. More than—his right arm is crowned with a golden band but it does not hide the way he carries it a little away from his body and with more stiffness than his sword arm. His hair is tucked neatly in a high knot, but she has never seen either him or his mamán willingly forego the long tail that shows off the length of their hair.

Clearing her throat delicately, she pretends not to notice how he jumps and twists toward her with his hand tightening around his sword. Perhaps, she thinks as she gives him a polite smile and nod, he is also looking for rest in his own way.

Recognition eases the wariness from his expression and shifts his hand a hair further from his sword, and he gives her a shallow, respectful bow.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” he says, “I did not mean to intrude on your peace.”

“Please, Your Eminence,” she says lightly, “the gardens were meant to be enjoyed by friends.”

He hesitates, thumb rubbing against the pommel of his sword in a manner so clearly thoughtless she nearly rolls her eyes. Trust Aeridians to make a gesture of threat into a self-soothing practice.

Straightening a little on her bench, she fixes him with what Uther fondly refers to as her imperial expression. It has, over the decades, served effectively against both rogue dignitaries and her own husband and son.

“Would you truly dare to claim that the brother of my son is no friend?” she inquires.

At that, guilt steals into his expression and he releases the saber to come perch on the very edge of the bench with a respectful distance between them. As soon as he’s seated, some of the strain in his shoulders gives way, and he stretches his leg out away from the bench. Ah, she thinks, tucking away that morsel.

He steals a funny look at her sideways, as if trying to guess where she came to that conclusion. She almost laughs: she was the one who first suspected his paternity, long before Uther accepted the concept.

“You must know I would never desire nor cause harm to befall Rassler,” he says. “On my honor.”

He says it so solemnly, with such worried conviction, that she almost feels bad. Instinct nearly has her reaching out to pat his leg reassuringly, but then, he is a grown man now and he is not her son.

“I would never scorn the solemn honor of an Aeridian, much less the imperator princep,” she says instead with a small smile, a hint of teasing in her tone, “but I confess, I have not feared that for many years.”

It’s funny to see him here, sitting under the dogwood arbor. He cuts so close to his mamán, with his sharp edges and weight perched as if ready to fly off at any moment—and yet, Aliras would have scoffed away this whole conversation, dashed it with biting remarks that never quite landed when she was flustered, and never even accepted the invitation to sit. Even looking closely, Rajiat can hardly see Uther in the young man’s face, either; his quiet attentiveness is simply something his own.

“I had your mamán’s word before you were old enough to toddle,” she explains, and then adds, wry, “and you are a hardly a stranger to my family. I have been privy to your growing up, you know.”

He concedes that with a small smile, ducking his head. His expression turns a little thoughtful, skepticism encroaching in the faint furrow of his brow and tilt of his head. Amused, she cocks her own head.

“Do you disbelieve me?” she asks. “Your mamán was a friend of a sort, after all.”

The wry look he shoots her suggests he’s heard a different version of that story. In truth, it’s been long enough since she was in Ancelm that she can’t guess what they say of her. She hopes they don’t think her some miserable old shrew who stole Uther away from their beloved empress—or, worse, some tragic maiden who was betrayed and trapped into a loveless marriage. These last thirty years have been an adventure, to be sure, but she has never had cause to doubt Uther’s love nor to feel terribly betrayed. After all, she was the one who gave him permission to continue his affair with Alir even before they were wed.

“It only seems imprudent to make a vow based on someone you do not yet know,” Callebero explains.

She hums faintly at that, tilting her head in consideration before giving him a wry half-smile.

“I confess, ‘prudent’ isn’t the word most often associated with your mamán,” she replies.

A smile quirks his lips briefly, and he tilts his head back as if to better enjoy the sunlight dappling them through the leaves. At least he’s not still looking at the stone, she decides.

“Anyway,” she remarks, following his gaze up toward the clouds drifting here and there across the azure sere of the sky, “I hold some faith in the knowledge that, should a dispute between Rassler and Malia ever grow too severe, they would be forced to compromise by virtue of neither wanting to give you up.”

At that, he snorts and shakes his head. A fuller smile appears, eyes narrowing in humor.

“I confess, I can think of few partners less likely to come to such a conflict,” he replies, slanting an amused look her way.

“Even you and your knight?” Rajiat asks.

In past years, when she was a queen speaking to foreign dignitaries, she would not speak with such casual ease. Even when she had spoken with him in the past, she had not been so nonchalant. Still, she is old to him, at least, and there was truth in what she’d said about his growing up. As much as she had been staunch in her stance that she and Uther would never raise nor tend to any children Aliras left behind, she feels some care toward Callebero. He had been a sweet child and then a solemn and grim young man, and though she bears no guilt for his growing up, she hopes for gladder futures.

His answer is slower in coming this time. He eyes her steadily, as if gauging her interest in such matters—whether she asks as a courtier prying for information, she imagines, or just a nosey old mother.

“Perhaps,” he says finally. “Though we have had less time to be as sure of ourselves as Malia and Rassler.”

As carefully as the answer is given, it’s more revealing than what she might have expected. She rewards the honesty with a gentle smile and then gives in to her earlier impulse to reach out and pat his hand lightly.

“I imagine you’ll get there soon enough,” she says. “In truth, I think most of a long relationship is simply learning to endure things together rather than apart—even if, sometimes, you are enduring each other. That, and savoring the joy together.”

She nods slightly, looking out over the garden in the palace Uther gave her. When she was very young, she had thought marriage all a matter of strategy—learning how to milk the most from one’s spouse in order to elevate their own status. Perhaps if Uther had been less agreeable and less easily loved, she might still feel the same way. As it is, though, she can’t help looking on her youthful scheming with a fair dose of amusement and pity. How wise she’d thought herself; how little she’d truly known.

Callebero looks at her a long moment, expression gentle. She can’t quite parse its exact sentiment; even with years of knowing his mamán and more yet of seeing him grow from afar, this quiet consideration is foreign to her.

“Your Majesties’ long partnership must attest to your wisdom in these matters,” he says, and she laughs.

“Such delicacy of language bodes well for yours,” she returns, and his polite expression cracks slightly with rue.

He looks much younger when he smiles, she decides, though the scars cut into his cheek age him more than she remembers. He had grown out of his baby face far sooner than Rassler, who even now still retains a certain roundness about his cheeks, but the tattoos on his chin that mark him an adult in Arradine’s customs had seemed absurd for years before this. They no longer do: somehow in the last year, he has grown into them and the new ones crowning his forehead.

“It is good to see you again,” she says, a little impulsive. “It grieved both our hearts when you were missing.”

She doesn’t say when he was dead, because she may have been the queen of Soldato for longer than she was a princess of Hiam, but she still carries some superstitions. Still—he had been dead for those months. She had held tightly to Uther’s hand and watched as her own son wept. Some part of her had surged with the desire to speak with Aliras, to demand if she had delivered this child into the world knowing at his birth how his life would end.

When they were young, back when Aliras thought her some kind of rival, Rajiat had looked upon the other woman with a mixture of pity and disdain. How limited her view had seemed, how quick her jealousy and capricious her affections. When she first heard Aliras had had a child, she had thought it little more than a callous and petty act: her favorite lover had taken a wife and so, of course, the imperator princep would claim an heir. Her opinion had softened some in catching glimpses of how Aliras doted on Callebero as a child, and it had calcified when she heard that Aliras had named her child her successor years before he was old enough to be considered of age in any kingdom on the continent.

She’s not sure, now, what she would say to Aliras if the woman stood alive before her once more. She has faith she’d come up with something in the moment, though.

Now, Aliras’ son looks at her with a faint wrinkle to his brow, as if confused by her admission.

“I am sorry to have troubled you,” he says and sounds painfully, idiotically sincere.

The urge to roll her eyes or demand if he has anything other than swords rattling around in his skull is briefly powerful, but Rajiat hasn’t made it through this many decades of political manuevering to be done in by a comparative child.

“It is in our nature to be worried by harm done to one we care for,” she replies mildly. “As I am certain it is in your nature to seek to protect those you care for.” To her surprise, Callebero winces slightly and squints up at the sky just-so.

“I confess, I have not often been skilled in that regard,” he admits.

Startled, Rajiat narrowly avoids laughing aloud at his grudging tone. He has changed, she realizes, more than the physical. She had never been close to him before, but to speak so frankly and to offer his own flaws with little prompting is a far cry from the guarded young man she had known before. Smiling a little, she leans back and considers him with faint amusement.

“Well,” she says after a moment, “they do say a good map can save a caravan years of woe.”

Glancing sidelong at her, Callebero arches an eyebrow wryly.

“And if they start drawing said map while already lost in the desert?” he rejoins.

Snorting despite herself, Rajiat offers him a small shrug.

“At least the stars are clear in the desert,” she replies, “and far better signposts than one’s instincts alone, most often.”

At last, he laughs. It’s barely more than a breath of air, but he ducks his head and a smile curves the corners of his cheeks. It is, as in many of her political endeavors, a small but worthy triumph. Straightening, he affords her the full weight of his attention, softened but not lessened by the warmth that creases the skin by his eyes and quirks the edges of his lips.

“Thank you for your company and wisdom this afternoon, Your Majesty,” he says, and though the formal diction has returned, there’s a lightness there that was smothered when she first saw him standing lost in the garden. “I did not anticipate such lessons when I found myself here.”

Waving off the thanks, she smiles faintly at the lilies she had insisted be planted directly in front of the bower. Their tall stalks sway with heavy burgundy blooms, waxy petals as long as her palm gleaming faintly in the sun.

“I am sure you know we old folks enjoy the opportunity to impart our wisdoms upon the youth,” she jokes, “great or small as they may seem.”

His smile deepens briefly, and he seems about to speak when he lifts his head, turning toward some motion in his periphery. He straightens almost immediately, his courtly posture brightening into clear eagerness. Leaning forward to follow his gaze, Rajiat hides a smile: an Aeridian commander stands in almost the exact same spot in which she first saw Callebero. His eyes, however, are fixed on the young man beside her.

“Oh, go on,” she says, leaning back on one hand while waving Callebero off with the other. “You two have waited long enough already.”

He flusters, ducking his head in embarrassment, but he doesn’t argue against her dismissal before rising. With a polite dip of his head, he turns and cuts across the garden to where his knight waits with love clear in his eyes and hand already reaching out for Callebero. Huffing a laugh, Rajiat turns her gaze away as they reach each other.

The dogwood ruffles in frothy rills around her, and she closes her eyes to breathe in the spring budding all around her. Uther will find her soon, seeking her out with the eager stride that’s carried him through all their decades of acquaintance and then love. She is content to wait, bounded by the gardens all rushing into bloom.

[belle--ofthebrawl]

Behold My Interests That I consider Foundational To Me (under the cut. Too much yapping).

Thank you for the tag Miasma! Tagging @coffeeghoulie @mac-and-thefox and @stuffikindalike and @ghnosis well as YOU reading this if you really want to do it but can't wait for a tag. This is it. This is your tag.

Death Note - Creative enjoyer. I had so many friends on Quizilla before it went down. I was also constantly cosplaying L since the baggy shirt and jeans made it easier to deal with everything going on with my body at that point in time. Matt too, my poor idiot. But now his death makes me laugh. "You won't shoot" (proceeds to die of hundred bullet wounds) I wanted to fuck mello and also be him but I was too Catholic to understand or even have the language for these feelings at that point in my life. (Death note yaoi did in fact significantly change my way of thinking.)

Xxxholic/Reservoir Tsubasa: Passive enjoyer. Loved yuuko.

Majin Tantei Nougami Neuro and Soul Eater (they aren't related): passive but really wanted Neuro's hair/Soul Eater's outfit. Mom said no and also what do you mean it's a demon detective and also what are you doing when I'm not looking and also I am installing a block on the computer. (Opening songs still slap a decade and a half or so later)

Cirque du Freak: passive enjoyer. We don't!! Talk!! About!! The Movie!! I loved Cirque du Freak. It destroyed me and ground the pieces to ash. You should also read cirque du Freak.

Fire Emblem Sacred Stones: creative enjoyer. I wish my mom hadn't tossed my tote bag of notebooks filled with godawful fics about this game. I was so obsessed with it. 

Golden Sun/GS: The lost Age: creative enjoyer. See above note concerning tote bag.  There's so much I could say about these two games. I still have my old GBA color...I really want to play them again. Collect all the djinn. Make Felix and Piers swap stat boosting rings and pretend they're married. The story telling might not be the greatest but goddamn it Weyard was and still remains the home of my heart. monsters and weird Alchemy nonsense no withstanding. There's a third game but I'm not interested in it. I sunk so many hours into TLA...navigating those damn whirlpools...

Final Fantasy 15: Passive Enjoyer. Prompto was My Boy. but since my copy is loooong lost my interest died down. Still have my favorite fics bookmarked though. Should give them a re read.

Homestuck: creative? I think? I had so many Aspect tshirts...a friend made us matching Dreamer jammies. There's more I could say but honestly it highly involves my personal life that I've put behind me. I'm just glad I have the good memories still. (I was NOT involved in any of the horror stories that gave the fandom a bad name. Need to say that, for my own peace of mind.)

Skyrim- creative enjoyer. I have been writing fic about this game since it came out twelve years ago but it's all in my head. I only just started putting it to paper with my dozenth reiteration of my beloved DB. My brother and I really bonded over this game too, and when he decided he was "too old" for videogames, I took the character he made for our universe and I kept the story going. A very exhausted single father has one child that will save the world and another who is convinced it's all a dream and isn't real so why bother at all?  By extension, this includes other games in the elder scrolls universe but since I insist on having physical media, they aren't as readily accessible. Soon, though...soon. (stares at Morrowind with obvious and barely concealed lust)

TMNT- Passive enjoyer.  I watched the old 80's cartoon a lot whenever we visited my grandma and the first and second live action movies with the puppets were pretty much on repeat at home. The third one does not exist :). I do want to get started on the comics but I don't know if I can emotionally handle The Last Ronin. I really enjoyed ROTTMNT. Didn't get a chance to see Mutant Mayhem in theater. I enjoyed the Bay movies for what they were: explosions and easy laughs and also my childhood crush on Megan Fox.

Transformers: Passive enjoyer. I read all of MTMTE/LL a few years back. Didn't like how it ended. We deserved better than that. See above IRT live action movies and again, Megan Fox. 

Bioshock: Passive Enjoyer. I still get a weird feeling in my chest when I think about the good ending with the Little Sisters where you adopt them as your daughters instead of using them for your own purpose.

Dune: Passive Enjoyer. Help. Why does Duncan Idaho keep coming back. 

Kushiel's Dart: Passive Enjoyer. Phedre's books are phenomenal. Not interested in the other series. Would like to get her Marque as a tattoo somewhere.

Discworld: Passive Enjoyer but in the most passionate passive way ever. I am collecting all of the books. I have a yearly re read of Night Watch (may 25th) and Hogfather (December 24th/25). This portrayal of Death made me less afraid of dying and also less suicidal. "Lord, what can the harvest hope for if not the care of the Reaper Man?" can make me tear up if it catches me in the right mood. I want a tattoo of the  Guarding Dark. I base my Cirrus off of Adora Belle Dearheart (kind of). If I go into the ways Pratchett (GNU) and Gaiman have changed/saved my life we will be here forever. Look up a reading guide and decide which Discworld series you might be interested in starting with. I recommend Death and Witches first, google will tell you which books are in those series. The City Watch is good too. Don't start with Rincewind unless you want to start with Rincewind. It has a lot of Early Installment Weirdness. Lots of one off books too in case you don't want to start a series: The Truth, Monstrous Regiment and Small Gods are highly recommended. 

Ghost: idk, I just started listening to them but I think they might be really big you guys. You should check them out.

𝕱𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖆𝖌 𝖌𝖆𝖒𝖊 ✨

I saw this little fandom game thingie on another site and I really liked it, so I decided to bring it over here to tumblr while my apple pen charges. I’m also going to change up the rules. I’m going to list the fandoms I’ve been in, and classify them by:

Passive enjoyer = simply enjoyed it and the fan content made for it OR Creative enjoyer = actively made art, fanfic, cosplay, etc etc etc.

I’m going to tag people here but no pressure if you don’t want to do it! @miasmaghoul @lonelymentality @copiasjuicebox @iamthecomet @thediktatortot Also if you see it and want to do it, feel free.

Game under the cut since mine will be long<3

Harry Potter - creative enjoyer - My very first. This shit was a family affair in my house. I went to watch parties, themed parties. I cosplayed shittily, wrote shitty fanfic, and my walls were plastered floor to ceiling in teen magazine posters. Went to the Exhibition. Every second movie would come out in July so I would pretend it was like a birthday gift to me.

Twilight - creative enjoyer - Jfc. Don’t get me started. I still have my Edward action figure whose now missing both hands. Used to write self insert fanfic on quizzilla.com. RIP you beast of a website

The Walking Dead - passive enjoyer - This was also a family affair. Every sunday we would all gather round our shitty TV for the newest episode. I was more of a liveblogger than anything else. My dad has a bit to this day that ‘Hershel isn’t dead. He’ll be back.’ Yeah, sure dad.

Legend of Zelda - creative enjoyer - For most of my childhood I was passive, only really doodling Twilight Princess stuff sometimes. Then BOTW came out and it all changed.

Lord of the Rings - passive enjoyer - I look at Legolas and Aragorn. That’s enough for me. I don’t need creative works because I just need to look at them.

Marvel (Spider-man and Loki mostly) - creative enjoyer - I’ve been drawing these guys since birth, for better or for worse. MCU can suck my nuts but so can Loki franchise /sex DC (Batman) - creative enjoyer - Batman the Animated series did something bad to me. Now I draw Joker sometimes. Watch out, stay safe out there

Sherlock and Doctor Who - passive enjoyer - I’m putting these two together since I never really made fan art or anything, but I did attend watch parties for both on several occasions.

Supernatural - creative enjoyer - Sighs. Sighs even harder. Somewhere out there, deep in the depths of fanfic.net there’s miles of really really really bad fanfic. Somewhere…. Final Fantasy VII - creative enjoyer - Sighs far more dreamily. My favvvvv my ultimate fav. Sephiroth is my fictional other and LOMF. Many, many arts of him throughout every sketchbook I own. Also some fanfics IIRC.

TF2 - creative enjoyer - I used to draw Medic and Pyro kissing<3

Homestuck - creative enjoyer - War flashbacks. Not only was I a semi-well known fanartist, I was also a semi-well known cosplayer in my city. I was a ‘friendleader’ in my cities Homestuck fangroup and attended events, dances, etc etc etc. I was on a cosplay gif blog here on Tumblr. I ran the second most popular groupchat on MSPARP.com before it was MXRP.com. I had beef with mods. Most of my relationships at that time were forged in the fires of LOHAC. I still see my art of Dave in MCR black parade uniform around sometimes. Dramatical Murder - creative enjoyer - To no ones surprise. Yeah. I like the yaoi dissociation game. Dream Daddy - creative enjoyer - SHOUTOUT DREAM DADDY!!!!!!!!!!!!! Evil priest Joseph lovers rise UP. Didn’t do much, but there’s some art floating around out there.

Voltron: LD - passive enjoyer - Thank GOD I never made anything for this. However, I was active in the kin community so thats a huge L. I also ate uppppp stuff about it and sheith still fucks.

Overwatch - creative enjoyer - Sometimes you’re a Genji main and the world is so so hard for you. That’s how I used to live my life, then I got better.

Final Fantasy XV - creative enjoyer - Second LOMF. My old art blog is stocked full of chocobro content, mostly fanart of the boys and meme redraws. Also used to cosplay Noctis CONSTANTLY! Here’s an old tiktok

The Band Ghost and Sleep Token - creative enjoyer - (((((((: Hi guys

[daresplaining]

Foggy: "You know, don't you? It's why you came." Butch: "I do. That's not Matt Murdock in that casket...it's Mike. His brother. My best friend." Foggy: "I'm...well, #@$%. I'm sorry. Matt told me you and Mike were childhood friends." Butch: "None of this is right. Mike deserves a funeral. Not this sham. People mourning his do-gooder brother who never had a moment for him. Tell me, Nelson...Mike was pretending to be Matt as a favor. 'Cause the Golden Boy was in rehab out of town. So why isn't he here now? And why can't my men find him? This whole thing stinks. I'll keep this quiet, 'cause if Matt Murdock set Mike up, I'm going to find him...and what my father did to Mike is going to look like a scraped knee compared to what I'm going to do to him." Devil’s Reign: Omega, “Fall and Rise” by Chip Zdarsky, Rafael de LaTorre, Federico Blee, and Clayton Cowles

Butch, like almost everyone and everything associated with Mike in this run so far, has suffered from a shortage of narrative attention and development, so I wasn't hugely compelled by him as a character before...but man, this scene made me love him. As with Matt, we have had to wait for Mike to die to get a full sense of how the people around him feel about him-- and the answer is that apparently, both Matt and Butch are willing to kill for him. It's heartwarming!

But speaking of Matt...

Matthew Michael "When-In-Doubt-Fake-Your-Death" Murdock has a long, infamous history of pulling this type of stunt. In fact, his very first faked death was that of his dear made-up twin brother, back in Daredevil volume 1 #41. Over the decades, this has become a reliable last-ditch solution/escape hatch for Matt when he is backed into a corner or feels unable to cope with whatever giant mess is currently being made of his life. However, this newest variation on the theme is the most ghoulish yet. Using his murdered twin's corpse as a body-double and co-opting Mike's funeral as his own is crossing some disturbing new lines for Matt, and this issue is equipped with characters who are willing to point that out.

Matt: "Matt Murdock is dead. It's better this way. For what we have to do." Luke: "And what exactly is that? Your brother is dead, man. It isn't fair to his friends to not get the chance to mourn him." Matt: "My brother...didn't have friends. He had people he owed money to. I'll mourn him. I'll avenge him one day, even. But for now, we're...Elektra and I..." Elektra: "We're going to destroy the Hand." Devil’s Reign: Omega, “Fall and Rise” by Chip Zdarsky, Rafael de LaTorre, Federico Blee, and Clayton Cowles

Hey, check this out! Obviously, the circumstances are different, but I wouldn't be me if I wasn't pointing out Mike Murdock Saga parallels:

Foggy: "Matt! He was your own brother! He died defending us! Have you nothing to say? Can't you even put down that blasted braille law book for a minute?" Matt: "Sorry, Foggy! It's too late for tears...and we still have work to do!" Karen: "Matt, I never thought you could be...so cold-blooded!" Matt (thinking): "If they ever suspected that they're mourning for someone who never even existed--!" Daredevil vol. 1 #42 by Stan Lee, Gene Colan, Dan Adkins, and Sam Rosen

This man has always been fundamentally incapable of even pretending to care about Mike, and I think that's beautiful.

Of course, in this new reality in which Mike did exist, Matt's cold indifference would be infuriating and, frankly, horrifying...had the previous issue not revolved around him going ballistic with grief over losing his brother. With that vital context, it is clear that we can't take Matt's comments in this issue at face value, and that he is most likely deflecting in the above scene. Even the other dialogue in this issue itself demonstrates that he isn't being honest ("Matt told me [Butch] and Mike were childhood friends"; owing money aside, Matt knows that his brother did have at least one friend). While it is not necessary for writers to spell everything out when it comes to character motivations, I do appreciate the effort that was taken in this issue, given the lack of prior development of Matt and Mike's relationship, to clarify what is going on with Matt here.

Luke: "...We're just worried. You lost your brother. Escaping into 'Daredevil' isn't the way to deal with that." Matt: "I...I know you're just looking out for me, Luke. I appreciate it. But you have to believe me-- after prison, after Fisk...my mind feels clearer than it has in a long time. I have a way forward, to help the most people, and--"

Historically, Matt has exhibited two major reactions to tremendous pain, loss, and hardship: stubborn, impulsive, single-minded action, and extreme avoidance. We saw the former in Devil's Reign #6 when he tried to murder the Kingpin. Now we are seeing the latter: "I'm completely fine, don't worry about me. Also, I'm leaving. Bye." Back when Matt was in prison, earlier in the run, Elektra offered him the chance to go punch ninjas a very long way away from New York, and he rejected it. But now, suddenly, he loves that idea! It's important, it's necessary-- for the safety of the world, of course-- for him to run off right now and fling himself into a dangerous, all-consuming battle with the Hand. And he will deal with the Mike stuff-- "mourn him. Avenge him one day, even"-- later.

In other words, it seems as though Matt is shoving his emotions way down and using Daredevil for one of that identity's most important purposes: escapism. This is him buying a one-way train ticket north in Nocenti's run, hopping on a bus to New Mexico after "Shadowland". Matt has just lost one of the few family members he had left, a family member who essentially died in his stead, with whom he-- as Butch mentions, and as I've bemoaned in the past-- never actually took the time to reconcile, and he is running away from having to cope with that. And it is very single-minded escapism, not fully taking into account the people around him, which is typical Matt behavior in these kinds of situations. Foggy, Elektra, Luke, Danny, and others know what's really going on, but notably, Kirsten does not. In a classic Matt Murdock move, he has decided he would rather let her think he is dead than tell her the truth about his being Daredevil and her memories having been altered...which is another emotional minefield that he is avoiding by leaving town.

The new #1 comes out in July, kicking off this creative team's second volume (Daredevil volume 7) and sending Matt and Elektra off to their confrontation with the Hand. It will be interesting to see how (or if) the effects of grief impact this new story arc-- not just for Matt, but also for Butch, Kirsten, and maybe even Foggy, who was the reason Mike was pretending to be Matt in the first place. One key way this could possibly carry over is if Matt toys with the idea of using Hand/Chaste techniques to bring Mike back to life...unaware that Kirsten may have already beaten him to it...

[deldeldel90]

Platonic Yanderes Pastel Family

It was Jamie who found you first, and his eyes immediately latched onto you as if were a siren, and he, an unfortunate shipman.

In the beginning, it was small things. He introduced himself as the prince, but told you not to call him that, and then he gave you a few golden coins.

You were grateful, thanking him as he took his chance to give you a big hug. You protested a little, before melting into it.

He told his sisters about you; about how small and adorable you were, how he thought you must be poor because you're always alone, how unsafe you are by yourself. Of course, they'd never seen their brother like this, and they were curious.

Jamie begged you to come with him, and when you did, you were met with a nice picnic with homemade goods.

You were not startled by Gwen's appearance, as you gushed about how amazing the food was.

Maria instantly gained a liking towards you, thinking you to be such a cute child (even if you weren't exactly one), and Lorena finds you endearing and fun.

Gwen was just as obsessed with you as Jamie is, she thinks you're as sweet as honey, and tells you so.

You feel awkward with all this sudden attention on you by the princesses and prince.

After seeing strange people begin to follow you around, you start to ignore the siblings - or rather, Jamie because the sisters aren't allowed outside.

Jamie, after two month of knowing you, hunts you down and asks if you'd come with him back to the castle with him. You feel uneasy, and say no.

He's confused on why you wouldn't come. You wouldn't have to work another day, and all you'd have to do is just lay down and be happy.

Jamie pretends like its fine, and your life is mostly normal, except he keeps on getting far too close to your bag, but that doesn't matter, does it? It's not like he'd ever hurt you.

Sooner or later, you are taken into custody by the royal guards, being framed for stealing a prized necklace that was in the Pastel family for decades.

The first thing you see in your cell is Jamie standing over you, he gives you a choice: stay in prison, or be good and go back to where you belong.

You choose prison, which isn't that bad, as Gwen gives you freshly baked pies, and Maria sings you to sleep, along with Lorena giving you books.

Jamie gets tired with you staying on the cold, stone floors, so he sends in a helper to he and his sister's plan.

He tortures you, leaves you so broken that it was hard to even open your eyes with remembering what happened, which is exactly what Jamie wanted.

You agree to go back, tears streaming down your face, stumbling into the big, stunning bedroom - a light, pastel yellow.

"You're our missing piece," Maria tells you reassuringly, "you'll always be loved here."

In their minds, you're a helpless orphan. In yours, you know you had parents. You know you had a life before them, but you need to play their game if you'll ever escape.

You're spoiled everyday of your life. You wear the softest silk, own the most beautiful gems, and eat a variety of well-crafted food each day. You never got to experience this life back when you were a commoner.

Not to mention, everyday, you're reminded of how loved and special and wonderful you are.

Your parents were always busy, so you never got this attention before. You always have a friend with you.

You're just using them, you tell yourself, they kidnapped you. They framed you. They hurt you beyond repair.

Jamie nearly cries when you call him your brother.

It's addicting, the feeling of being cared for, the feeling of having the world at your command. You can't help but like it, and your fragile mind breaks even further.

You cuddle yourself in bed, your new cat - Jamie got you after you mentioned you liked the animal - sleeping beside you, and you hear Lorena call you excitingly, "hey, get up, sleepyhead! Daddy's home!"

Finally, after four months, King Jack is home, and he, too, finds you charming, and allows his children to continue keeping you at the castle ... or 'home' now, you suppose.