#ALL THE OTHER THREAD TITLES HAVE SHADOW IN THEM

[ms-snape]

Can we do something platonic? Reader is a wallflower, basically almost all the time is in the sidelines and no one notices her, she’s accepted she’s not that bright or that pretty but snape notices she’s actually good at potions and in his own way tries to encourage her potential 

Title: Noticed

Warning: Plaronic relationships, a bit of angst, insecurity

Words Count: 2900+

Masterlist

---

Y/n had grown used to the way people never truly saw her. It was like living in a haze, watching life happen around her but never being a part of it. Day after day, she sat quietly in the back of classrooms, observing the way others interacted, laughing, whispering, and forming connections she knew she’d never be part of. No one looked twice at Y/n—not even once most of the time.

She wasn’t like the other girls at Hogwarts. She wasn’t pretty, or at least not in the way that people admired. Her hair didn’t catch the sunlight like golden threads, her eyes weren’t the kind that sparkled when she laughed (if she ever did), and her smile didn’t light up the room. In fact, she rarely smiled anymore. There wasn’t much to smile about.

Her grades were fine—never the top of the class, but she managed to stay afloat, drifting somewhere in the middle where she neither failed nor excelled. The professors didn’t call on her often, perhaps forgetting she was even there. It was fine. Y/n had learned to accept her place on the sidelines.

There was a dull, heavy ache that lived deep inside her, a quiet sadness that made her feel small and invisible, even in her own skin. She had stopped trying to stand out. What was the point? She wasn’t clever like Hermione Granger, who everyone admired for her intellect. She wasn’t as daring as the Gryffindors, or as cunning as the Slytherins. She wasn’t even as quirky as Luna Lovegood, who, though often teased, was at least memorable. Y/n was just… there.

She spent most of her time in the library, hidden behind towering shelves of dusty books. She could go entire days without speaking more than a few words. It was easier that way—easier to blend into the shadows, where no one could see how much it hurt to be invisible.

And then there was Potions class.

Y/n wasn’t sure what it was about Potions, but the quiet, methodical nature of the subject suited her. She liked the precision, the way each ingredient had its place and purpose. It was one of the few things she felt competent at, though she would never say she excelled. She followed the instructions, brewed her potions, and handed them in without a fuss. Professor Snape never paid much attention to her, which, in her mind, was a good thing. He was intimidating, with his sharp gaze and cutting words, and she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his infamous temper.

But then one day, something changed.

It was a particularly dreary Wednesday afternoon, the dungeon classroom colder than usual. Y/n had taken her usual seat at the back, her cauldron bubbling quietly in front of her. Today, they were brewing a particularly tricky potion, and though she had followed the instructions carefully, something wasn’t right. The mixture in her cauldron was a shade too dark, and the scent was off, a sharp tang that shouldn’t have been there.

She frowned, stirring the potion with a sense of growing frustration. It was always like this—she always got close, but never quite right. The other students seemed to manage just fine, their potions shimmering the exact color described in the textbook. But hers… hers was always almost right, always just a bit off. Just like her.

“Miss Y/l/n.”

The sound of her name startled her, the wooden spoon clattering against the side of her cauldron as she looked up. Professor Snape was standing beside her, his dark eyes fixed on her potion with an expression that could have been disgust or disappointment—she wasn’t sure.

“Are you incapable of following simple instructions?” he asked, his voice low and cold, the words like a blade sliding between her ribs.

Y/n felt her face flush with embarrassment, her throat tightening as she stared down at her hands. “I—I thought I was,” she mumbled, hating the way her voice wavered. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she braced herself for a scathing remark. But instead, he waved his wand, and the potion stilled. “The essence of wormwood was added too early,” he said, his tone brisk but not as harsh as she’d expected. “And you’ve allowed the fire to burn too hot.”

Y/n nodded mutely, feeling a fresh wave of disappointment wash over her. Of course, she’d messed it up. She always did.

Snape glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Try again,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “And pay attention to the process, not just the result.”

She blinked, looking up at him in surprise. He didn’t walk away. Instead, he stood there, waiting, as if he actually expected her to succeed. It was strange—no one had ever given her a second chance before. No one ever waited for her.

With trembling hands, Y/n began again, carefully adding each ingredient as Snape watched. She adjusted the flame, measuring the powdered asphodel with a precision that bordered on obsessive. This time, she didn’t rush, didn’t try to simply get through the motions. She focused on each step, feeling the rhythm of the potion as it began to brew properly, the color shifting to the soft, translucent silver it was meant to be.

For the first time, she felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time—pride. Small, tentative, but real. She glanced at Snape, half-expecting him to criticize her again, but instead, he gave a curt nod.

“Better,” he said, his voice cool but not unkind. “You have the capability. You simply lack the confidence.”

Y/n blinked in surprise. “Confidence?” she echoed, disbelief creeping into her voice.

Snape raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. “You doubt yourself at every turn, Miss Y/l/n. That is why you fail.”

His words stung, but not in the way she had expected. It wasn’t the sharp, cutting sting of insult, but the uncomfortable prickle of truth. She did doubt herself. Constantly. Every time she brewed a potion, every time she sat in class, every time she walked through the halls of Hogwarts, she felt like she wasn’t enough. Like she was nothing.

“But I—” She paused, unsure how to explain the weight she carried. “I’m just… not like the others.”

Snape’s expression didn’t soften, but there was something different in his eyes now, something that almost resembled understanding. “The world does not require you to be like everyone else,” he said. “It requires you to be competent. And you are, if only you would believe it.”

Y/n swallowed hard, her throat tight. She didn’t know how to believe in herself. She had spent so long fading into the background, so long being unseen, that she didn’t know how to be anything else.

Snape must have sensed her hesitation because his tone shifted slightly, becoming less cold. “You are not as invisible as you believe, Miss Y/l/n. Some of us see more than we let on.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure she had heard him right. Not as invisible? It was impossible. How could someone like him—someone so brilliant and intimidating—even notice someone like her?

But there was no hint of sarcasm or cruelty in his voice. He wasn’t mocking her. He wasn’t trying to tear her down. He was simply stating a fact.

For the first time in a long time, Y/n felt a flicker of warmth spread through her chest. It wasn’t enough to chase away the darkness that lingered in her heart, but it was something. It was a start.

Over the next few weeks, Y/n found herself paying more attention in Potions. She stayed behind after class sometimes, quietly cleaning her station while Snape graded papers or arranged ingredients for the next lesson. He never said much, but every now and then, he would glance her way and offer a terse comment, correcting her technique or advising her on how to improve.

It was strange, this new dynamic between them. Snape wasn’t exactly kind, but he wasn’t cruel either. He didn’t treat her like she was worthless, like she was just another faceless student. He noticed her. He saw her. And that alone was enough to keep her coming back, to keep her trying.

One afternoon, as she lingered in the dungeon long after the other students had left, Snape spoke again.

“You’ve improved,” he remarked, not looking up from the parchment he was grading.

Y/n, who had been tidying up her cauldron, froze. “I have?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do not sound so surprised, Miss Y/l/n. You are capable, as I’ve said before.”

She hesitated, her heart beating a little faster. “Why do you… care?”

It was a bold question, one she immediately regretted asking. But Snape didn’t seem offended. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, regarding her with those dark, penetrating eyes.

“I care,” he said slowly, “because I have no interest in seeing wasted potential.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and meaningful. Y/n swallowed, nodding slightly as she absorbed what he had said. For the first time in her life, someone had seen something in her. Something more than mediocrity.

As she left the dungeon that day, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. The shadows that had once consumed her felt a little less suffocating. She wasn’t there yet—wasn’t whole, wasn’t healed—but maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so invisible after all.

---

Y/n’s days continued in much the same way after that, but something had shifted. She still sat in the back of her classes, still kept her head down in the halls, and still spent hours in the library with her nose buried in books. But there was a new sense of awareness that came with it all—a realization that, perhaps, she wasn’t as invisible as she had always believed.

In Potions class, that subtle connection with Snape continued. He never praised her directly, never showered her with compliments or made grand gestures of approval. But there were small moments—glances exchanged over bubbling cauldrons, a word of advice spoken in his curt, indifferent manner—that told her she was being watched, acknowledged, and, in his own way, encouraged.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. Enough to make her feel like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as insignificant as she had always thought.

It was a rainy afternoon when everything came crashing down.

Y/n had been keeping her head above water for weeks now, but the constant weight of her isolation, the crushing sense of being unwanted and unnoticed, never fully went away. The little spark of hope that Snape had ignited in her didn’t banish the sadness that clung to her like a second skin. It didn’t erase the countless nights spent lying awake, wondering what was wrong with her, or the gnawing feeling in her chest that whispered she wasn’t enough.

That day, it all became too much.

The lesson had been going well—she had even managed to brew her potion correctly on the first try—but a small mishap had occurred near the end. Another student had bumped into her table, causing her cauldron to tip slightly, spilling part of her completed potion onto the floor. It was an accident, but it felt like an omen. One small mistake, one tiny moment of chaos, and everything fell apart.

“Careless,” Snape had muttered under his breath as he passed her table, not bothering to stop and inspect the damage. The word was a knife to her chest, sharper than it should have been. He hadn’t even looked at her.

Careless. It echoed in her mind long after class had ended, long after she had cleaned up the mess and left the dungeon. That one word, spoken so casually, was enough to undo the fragile sense of self-worth she had been building.

By the time she reached the solitude of the empty corridor, the tears were already falling. She hadn’t cried in weeks, not since she had first felt that spark of hope, but now it was back—the overwhelming sadness, the feeling of being so small, so insignificant, it felt like she was fading away entirely.

Y/n slipped into an abandoned classroom, the door creaking shut behind her as she sank to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. The tears came harder now, spilling down her cheeks in quiet, desperate sobs. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t keep pretending that things were getting better, that she wasn’t still drowning in her own loneliness. What was the point? No one cared. No one even noticed.

She had no idea how long she sat there, her face buried in her arms, letting the tears come in waves. It wasn’t until she heard the door creak open again that she realized she wasn’t alone anymore.

“Miss Y/l/n.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest, and she quickly wiped her eyes, scrambling to stand up. She recognized the voice immediately, that low, authoritative tone she had come to know so well. Snape.

She turned to face him, her breath catching in her throat as she saw him standing in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowed in his usual expression of mild disapproval. He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at her, his gaze sharp and piercing as though he could see right through her.

“I— I’m sorry,” Y/n stammered, her voice thick with the remnants of tears. “I didn’t mean to— I was just—”

Snape raised a hand, cutting her off. “There is no need to explain yourself,” he said, his tone devoid of any softness. “I am not here to reprimand you.”

She blinked, confusion washing over her. “Then… why are you here?”

For a moment, Snape said nothing, his eyes flickering with something she couldn’t quite read. Finally, he stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. His presence filled the small space, and Y/n felt her heart race in her chest. He wasn’t angry, but there was something heavy about the way he looked at her, something that made her feel vulnerable and exposed.

“I noticed you left in a rather… distressed state,” he said slowly, his voice careful. “And I find myself compelled to ask if you are… well.”

It was such a strange question, coming from him. Snape, who was always so cold, so distant, was standing in front of her, asking if she was well. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

Y/n shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I highly doubt that.”

The bluntness of his words caught her off guard, and she felt a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. She tried to hold them back, tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it was no use. The dam broke, and the tears came again, harder this time.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I just… I can’t…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. The weight of it all—the loneliness, the self-doubt, the crushing feeling of being unwanted—it was too much. She didn’t know how to explain it, didn’t know how to put into words the way it felt to live in her own skin.

For a long moment, Snape said nothing. Then, to her utter shock, he stepped closer, his voice low and steady.

“Miss Y/l/n,” he said quietly, “you are not as invisible as you believe.”

Y/n’s breath hitched in her throat, and she looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “I feel like I am,” she whispered. “I feel like no one sees me.”

Snape’s expression softened, just the tiniest fraction. “That is where you are mistaken.”

He didn’t elaborate, didn’t offer her any grand reassurances or platitudes. But there was something in his voice, something in the way he looked at her, that made her believe him. Even just for a moment, she believed him.

Y/n wiped her eyes again, sniffling as she tried to regain some semblance of composure. “I don’t know how to… not feel like this,” she admitted, her voice small.

Snape watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice softer than she had ever heard it.

“It is not about being noticed by others,” he said quietly. “It is about recognizing your own worth. You are capable, Miss Y/l/n. Far more capable than you give yourself credit for. And it is time you begin to see that.”

The words struck her like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the fog that had clouded her mind for so long. It wasn’t a grand declaration, wasn’t a promise that everything would be okay. But it was something—a lifeline, a thread of hope in the darkness.

Y/n nodded slowly, her heart still heavy but just a little lighter than before. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Snape gave her a curt nod, turning toward the door. But before he left, he glanced back at her, his dark eyes holding hers for just a moment longer.

“Do not give up on yourself,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

And then he was gone, leaving her alone in the quiet room. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/n didn’t feel completely alone.

Because maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as invisible as she had always thought.

[tzuberry]

zerobaseone maknae line as tropes / cliches ૮ • ﻌ - ა

pairing shen quanrui (ricky), kim gyuvin, park gunwook, han yujin + gn reader⠀⠀⠀details fluff, slight angst in ricky’s and gunwook’s, bulletpoint and written

cw getting stood up, mention of lipstick use in ricky’s ⠀⠀⠀wc 738 696 604 802 respectively (2840 in total)⠀⠀⠀reading time 11 min

note title kinda misleading TBH... havent written on tumblr in a while, so this is a new account and my first post! im hoping this doesnt flop :( i loved writing this so much, so if it flops i might just repost it ... idk.. likes and reblogs are appreciated !!! (only if u want to ofc 🤞🏻)

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ricky 리키

blind date... but you got stood up, and ricky is your best friend

it’s not that you really wanted to go on a date, it’s that your friend assured you this was the perfect guy for you

and your friend swore, cross their heart, that you would not regret letting them set you up

but now you’re sitting at a table alone, with pitiful looks being thrown your way by the restaurant staff and the other groups of people around you and it’s clear to you; you do regret it, and this is the last time you’ll let anyone other than yourself handle your love life

after compulsorily buying a meal for yourself so as to not leave the place empty handed, you slowly chew on your food, wondering where it went wrong

did he see a picture of you and decided that was it? did he hear a story about you that was just unflattering? what was it about you that made them turn around and away from the restaurant—away from you?

in the midst of all this, your phone emits a ding! sound. you’re not doing anything important, so you see it fit to check the notification

ricky 😡🐱: how’s your date going?

terribly. but that’s a little embarrassing to admit, especially to ricky...

yn: good! i’ll text you later

you lay your phone down on the table and pick up your utensils once again to finish your meal, but a shadow casting over your plate interrupts you

“why are you alone, then?”

When you follow the voice (and the shadow), Ricky is standing next to your table, his phone in hand with the screen open on your text thread. He turns it off with a swift click of the power button, and he takes the space on the other side of the table where your date should have been.

You don’t know how to respond. You’re embarrassed; a second ago, you were alone at a restaurant filled with people, and now, your best friend has caught you lying to him about being at said restaurant alone.

“What happened?” Ricky asks as his arm makes its way across the table to your glass of water. He lifts it to his lips, taking a sip and placing it back down. He looks genuinely concerned, maybe even a little pissed, but all you can focus on is how your lipstick stain is on the rim of the cup, and how he drank from that same spot.

You shake your head. “I, um,” you pause, pursing your lips and trying to find a good enough (fake) reason. “Nothing. I didn’t like him, and he said he had other plans, so I just let him go.”

Ricky furrows his eyebrows at that. It’s a very visible sign of incredulity; he doesn’t believe your lie. Nevertheless, he simply shrugs it off. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Thanks, I guess,” you reply, still dealing with the aftereffects of being stood up. You poke your fork at the food before you; a lost appetite and an expensive meal don’t mix well.

Ricky leans forward, letting his forearms rest on the surface of the table. He’s looking at you so seriously, analyzing your every move. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, attempting to come off as teasing, but he only waves you off. “I just want to look at you.”

You feel yourself practically melt under his gaze, but you ignore it. This is Ricky, your best friend... nothing more. Right. This is Ricky—you should tell him the truth about why you’re alone.

“He didn’t come,” you admit. “I wasn’t super excited about this date, but I thought– I thought I would at least go on a date. This is... nothing. I was here by myself before you got here.”

There’s a pained glint in his eyes. Is he feeling sorry for you? Maybe you do deserve all the pity you’ve gotten today. He gulps, keeping eye contact with you while biting on a small portion of his bottom lip.

After a while, he sighs. “Come on.”

Ricky begins to stand up, stuffing his phone into his pocket before you hold him back by the wrist. “What?” you question.

“We’ll go do something else,” he says with a bob of his head. Your grasp on his wrist somehow turns into your hands being interlocked. “Let me take you on a date. I’ve always wanted to, and I promise I won’t screw it up.”

gyuvin 규빈

boy next door who you’ve always had feelings for, you just never thought of him liking you back

you’ve always liked kim gyuvin

from the moment his family moved in next to your house, with his bedroom parallel to yours

you could see everything through his window; who he was, what his hobbies were, what he admired, and how he acted with his friends

this all made him seem... unattainable. you felt like you were the audience for a show, and gyuvin was the actor

it didn’t help that you went to the same school, and to further that, he was immensely popular

it was obvious. how could you expect that someone like him wouldn’t be? he’s tall, cute, extroverted, funny and kind—the entire package, if you would say so yourself

you weren’t totally unpopular. you had your fair share of friends, a few social circles that you hung out with. but gyuvin seemed too out of reach for you, even if he was your neighbor

the singular interaction you’ve had was when he came over to ask for sugar. it went like this: “hi!” “hi?” “i was baking, and i kind of ran out of brown sugar. do you maybe... uh...” “oh, sugar? wait, i think i do, hold on.”

it was that awkward. so when your mother told you she became new friends with gyuvin’s mom and wanted to have dinner at their house as a family, you freaked

but it’s not like you can say no, so you found yourself at the kims’ door a few days later

“Hi! You must be [Name]. I’ve seen you around, and I’ve heard about you from Gyuvin, but you’re much prettier up close! I know who you get your looks from,” Mrs Kim says, winking at your mother.

“You’re too kind, your son is very polite, and...”

You tune their conversation out—did she say she’s heard about you from Gyuvin? Why would he be talking about you?

Your mom finishes it (whatever she was talking about) off with, “They’d be perfect together, don’t you think?” Mrs Kim nods vigorously, then pats you twice on the shoulder. “[Name], maybe you would want to go spend some time with Gyuvin first? I’m afraid dinner isn’t ready, there’s still a long way... I’ll call you both down when it is. He’s up in his room.”

You bow, excusing yourself and obligingly treading up the stairs. This is the second time you’re about to interact with him—you better not mess up.

On the final step of the staircase, you start to hear talking from one of the bedrooms. From where you stand, it’s not clear where its origin is, and so you try to listen for the voice. It leads you to a slightly open door, and holy shit—this is Gyuvin’s door.

“They’re coming over today, and, ugh, I don’t know,” he rants. Is that about you? It has to be. Who else is coming over? You move closer to the door frame, nearly peeking your head in. “I just– I don’t know how to talk to them! Last time, I went over to ask if they wanted to hang out and...” he trails off, the regret evident in his tone. “I asked for sugar. To bake.” Oh my god. This is about you.

You take another step, risking the possibility of the door creaking. “I don’t even bake! I came home with sugar and my mom asked why and I just said I found some on the street.” He sighs, exasperated. You inch even closer, toying with the chances of him catching you eavesdropping, when... creak. At the same time, Gyuvin’s rant is cut short. “Gunwook, you have to help me, I can’t be an idiot in front of them–”

His head snaps towards the door, where you are, standing and staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. He quickly hangs up, bidding Gunwook a hushed goodbye through the microphone. “How much of that did you hear?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, flattered and shy at the same time. “I think... all of it.”

Gyuvin’s hand raises to cup his nape, and he gives you the most endearing yet bashful smile. “Would you, maybe, um, wanna hang out sometime? With me, of course...”

gunwook 건욱

friends to lovers, and everyone is sure you both like each other but all you do is deny it

you know gunwook like the back of your hand

although you met a little over a year ago, he quickly became a constant in your life, especially because you saw him everyday at school

he would wait outside your class, eat lunch with you, walk you home (and sometimes to school in the mornings), help you with homework even though he’s always busy with all the extracurriculars he participates in, and additionally schedules weekly study sessions together

this led countless people to think you were dating, even though you’re really not

you deny it, making a gesture with your hands indicating the negative. “we’re just friends, he would never be my boyfriend,” you laugh it off. gunwook tenses up, and the corners of his lips suddenly become downturned. “yeah, we’re just friends...” he agrees, sounding somewhat unsure

that’s what happens every single time someone mistakes you for a couple. you’re the first to refuse that assumption, while gunwook just follows your lead

you thought, “hey, maybe he’s just shy around the topic of dating.” and so you don’t push it, or even ask about what he thinks of the rumors surrounding you two

at this week’s study session, which he scheduled at his house, he can’t focus

repeatedly tapping his pen and running his fingers through his hair—doing anything but his homework, really—he doesn’t even spare you a glance

and so you take the responsibility upon yourself to ask. “is something bothering you?”

Gunwook sighs, looking as if he’s internally debating the pros and cons of unloading his baggage onto you. His eyes dart around his room, from the door, to the desk, to the bed, and finally to you, before he swipes his tongue between his lips and lets out a breath. “Can I ask you something?”

You drop your pen. Why does he seem so conflicted?

Readjusting your position on the bed to face him, you lean closer to Gunwook as you shove your school books and other materials out of the way. “You can ask me anything,” you say, determined to comfort your friend.

He visibly hesitates, biting his bottom lip. He’s still not looking at you, and not so much as a second is allotted for one glimpse. “Do you...” he pauses, trying to muster the courage. “Do you really think of me as just a friend?”

The question almost makes your jaw drop to the floor. What does he mean by that? Sure, you did have a short-lived crush on him when you first got acquainted, but it faded instantaneously. You didn’t know you could be anything more—you thought you had no chance with a guy like him, so your feelings were trivial to you.

Tilting your head, you reply, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Gunwook shrugs, also following your actions and pushing all his textbooks away. “I guess– oh my god, this sounds stupid, but,” he groans, “I’ve liked you since last year, since before we even became friends. And whenever someone asks if I’m your boyfriend, you just– you immediately say no.”

He... likes you? You’re dumbfounded, eyes wide and mouth actually agape this time. You’re certain your cheeks are red, judging from the heat you feel rush up to your face.

At your silence, he continues. “I know it’s stupid. I didn’t just become friends with you because I like you, it’s more than that, but everytime you say I could never be your boyfriend or something like that, I hate it.

“I’ve liked you for so long, and please answer me,” he sounds breathless as he speaks, “Can I... can we be anything more?”

yujin 유진

first love / teenage crush

you didn’t know when you started liking yujin, you just did

maybe it was when you would watch him play soccer after school, with him alone on the field practicing and you doing your homework on the bleachers

or maybe it was when he bought you a drink that one time. you were thirsty after running to school because you were on the verge of getting an offense on your permanent record if you were late one more time

clicking a few buttons on the vending machine, the solace provided by strawberry milk was nearly yours—until you open your wallet to find that there’s only a thousand won inside

“maybe next time,” you think, “i don’t need to drink anything right now.”

but before you can leave, someone sneaks their two thousand into the slot for you, and the milk drops down into the small metal box below for you to claim

when you turn around, you’re met with yujin

and then a switch flipped. since then, you’ve noticed han yujin wherever you went

you stumbled onto the soccer field on a hot day when you were assigned cleaning duty, and you found that he was the only one there

deciding to repay the favor, after spectating him practicing for a while, you go to buy a drink for him too when you buy your own

you leave it next to his bag with a note, saying: “you’re really good! i bought this for you, make sure to get some rest ♡”

and so watching him practice while doing your homework became a regular occurrence for you, even if you weren’t 100% watching all the time. it was like background music, and your interest in him (caused by him buying you milk) became a full blown crush

Following the steps of your daily routine, you hurriedly arrange your books in your backpack, ready to go see Yujin—the best part of your day—when your teacher stops you at the door.

“[Name], I’d like to talk to you about tutoring someone,” she says, a soft smile plastered on her face as if she wasn’t actively ruining your day. “You’re one of my best students, and a classmate of yours really needs help.”

As hard as you tried to get away, you got stuck in the classroom for the rest of the afternoon, discussing possible tutoring times and the topic outlines where your “classmate” needed further explanation. Not only were you annoyed you missed some time to see Yujin, but when you got to the field, hoping he would still be practicing late into the night, he was gone.

Although you were displeased at the thought of having to tutor your male classmate every day of the school week, you had no choice. In addition, he was at least paying you, so it wasn’t like your hard work was for nothing—just that now, you would have to sacrifice your time with the boy you like.

You started to tutor him after school, and going to see Yujin became a rare possibility. Your tutoring was yielding good results, however, and your tutee received high marks on almost all tests after being taken under your wing.

He runs up to you, showing you his paper with a big red ninety-eight in the corner; he got an even higher grade than you did. “[Name]! Thank you, look at this! I’ve never gotten a grade this high!” You nod, but everything he’s saying is going in one ear and out the other. Since he technically doesn’t need your help anymore, maybe you could go watch Yujin today.

You cancel your session for the day, with permission from your advising teacher. After two and a half weeks, you’re finally back at the field—but this time, he’s the one who isn’t here. You let out a deep breath, deciding to power through and do your homework like normal.

You’re in the middle of trigonometry when a cool sensation is pressed up against your cheek, water beginning to drip down your skin. Flicking your head towards the perpetrator, you discover it to be Yujin holding a strawberry milk for you. He giggles, handing you the small box and sitting down beside you. “Here. I haven’t, um, seen you in a while. Why’s that?”

You take it from him, detaching the straw from the back of the box and poking it through the designated hole. “Yeah,” you say, sipping on the milk for a few seconds after. “I started to tutor Jiwon, so I couldn’t come the last few weeks.”

“Oh, you must be busy, then. Nevermind,” he mutters, shaking his head. “No, what is it? You can’t just say nevermind.” You scoff, a teasing grin making its way onto your face.

Yujin gulps. “Will you, uh... come to my game this weekend?”

[blueparadis]

╰┈➤ MASTERMIND ✦ NANAMI KENTO.

⟣ ──┈ · · · + synopsis ➢ Nanami decides to pay you a visit on such an auspicious day to congratulate you but fate had other plans for him.

+

⟣ ──┈ · · · + cw ➣ fem!reader x (morally grey but ultra-soft)!nanami kento, canon+ fix it au, manga spoilers, mention of clan head!gojo, secret relationship b/w reader and nanami, mutual pinning, angst, scar worship, friends with benefits dynamic, s&d dynamic, mention of orgasm denial, orgasm control, love-hate séx (make-up séx ig) + unprotected, baby trapping. 2,6 k word count. half-based on this thought ( + I've a lot of hcs about gojo clan; one of them being that satoru had a half-sister whom he found accidentally while on a mission, so i used that here. ) | blog navigation + koct’23 masterlist. |

Nanami walks through the porch of the Gojo estate while taking a call. It has been half a month since the grim reaper graced him with a peck on his cheek showing him a glimpse of the afterlife. He has been facing trouble adjusting back to his old life again despite healing himself through the reverse cursed technique. He has left behind the life of being a jujutsu socerer but partly. Besides, he now works as an advisor for all jujutsu socerers who are gradually making their way to earn their ranks yet deep down, a part of him wants to tell how bold farced lie is all this is.

But something is still holding him back, and deep down he is vividly aware that he wants to grow his roots rather than uproot them. He is just unwilling to admit it out loud. Nanami is still unable to untie his attachment towards a certain girl who is also best suited to be the head of the gojo clan, as per the strongest’s opinion, y/n gojo. He still remembers the night he spent in that cheap motel with you, talking and drinking, drinking and touching, touching and kissing; making promises to you while being inside you. He does not regret it per se, he is afraid for those wishes to come true. There is too much at stake.

When he got the invitation to the ceremonial celebration for you being bestowed with the title and authority to act as a clan head by Satoru’s side he did not know why he could not refuse or not bother to turn up. Maybe he needed an excuse to apologize at length for not being in touch with you. Maybe you would not be so angry if you knew death was knocking at his door but he had to come back, he had to make it through the tunnel to see you, to embrace, to kiss you, for one last night time.

With such thoughts clouding his mind, the sound of sliding a door almost did not reach his ears yet strangely, he turns back only to find none other than you. Standing five feet away from you, in his Yukata he looks more handsome than before, especially with those scars on his face. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll call you back.” With each fall of his words, his eyes move from head to toe. You are still not ready for the ceremony yet. Wearing a plain hakama, hair braided, a few loose strands kissing your jawline, and a mole near the corner of your lip that just unlocked the memories of that night.

“Nanami-san. . .” you murmur and bite your trembling lips. Tears threaten to flood your cheeks as you take a few steps towards him. He immediately backs away averting his gaze. But you can see him, his guilt, his silent sea of sadness. Nanami Kento is now nothing but a tapestry of quiet despair. A tug on one loose end of a thread and it will all come crashing down.

“Hey...” he states as soon as he realizes the gravity of his action but it is too late now. You have already turned around, started to stroll inside the room, and prepared to slide the door. Clicking his tongue he follows you but does not enter just stands on the other side of the wooden bar separating your room and the porch. His shadow is covering your whole body. He can only see your back, so he does not look up, just stills his eyes on the ground. “Congratulations on your succession —” His voice trails off as your haori drops on the floor.

“What’re you doing?” He raises his voice perking his eyes up at you. You turn your head slightly in his way and he notices bruises around your neck. Suddenly he can feel every bead of perspiration running down his spine. Have you been fucking other men while he was away? He has been wrecking his mind day and night thinking about how to let you down lightly, how to end this relationship without hurting you, what to say, and what not to say so that you can just move on with your life but meanwhile, but you have been seeing other men. How vile! How insulting!

“Why are you still here, Nanami-san?” You turn around without averting your eyes from him.

Nanami enters the room without a second thought closing it behind. “Is it what I think it is ?” He enquires curtly.

“I don't know. You tell me,” You murmur pulling up the sleeves of your nagagi, “what you are thinking. . .” There are certain wounds all the way up your neck in a particular pattern as if someone carved them on you. He does not budge. His brain cells do not finish the path of such thoughts.

Watching his contorted face you let out a disappointed sigh,“Yes. The answer is yes. I went through the ritual.” Nanami swallows, his eyes unable to avert from your body. He wants to see those marks, see each scar, and kiss them. That would be very unethical, wouldn’t it? “If tooru-ni would have been here he wouldn’t have let me go through it.” You walk away towards the window finishing that line of thought, “But I can’t always rely on him. Can I now?” 

Okay, that’s good. You have made half of his confusion clear. What about the bruise on your neck? With long strides, he closes the gap between you two. His strong muscular toned arms curled around your waist before his lips aligned with yours. “have you been seeing other men?” He rasps against your mouth. Your hand rests on his firm chest. It is possible actually, since you are going to be appointed as a supportive clan head, marriage proposals are going to lurk like wild animals amongst the shadows of celebration, especially Zenin Clan. They do not let any cursed energy bearer getaway.

“Why? Would that make you jealous?”

“Yes. definitely.” You can not help but ket out a short-lived simper that not only makes Nanami’s throat dry but also fills his bones with your pesky ignorant attitude. It makes him wanna loathe you. He lifts you a little yanking you by the window side, caging you between the wall and him. He has not let go of his hand from your waist and his other hand rests on the concrete. You look at him with eyes full of longing and lust. You know this is wrong, this whole thing of meeting him here, seeing him before the ceremony. It is wrong in so many ways. Your fisted hands unfurl. You could feel his heart rate being faster now. 

“Can’t we just run away?” you murmur so low and so meek that Nanami thinks he might just hear it wrong. Suppose he did run away with you. What then? People from the Gojo clan is going to hunt him until the end of time. He always has to run away and hide, like a coward.

“That wouldn’t be appropriate,” 

Another chuckle. “Yeah? Then, what’s appropriate? Are you telling me this isn’t inappropriate? you and me, locked in a room, so close to each other. anyone might think we are— 

“Then, let’s make their suspicion into something real,” He breathes against your mouth. There is just a thread of gap between his lip and yours before he opens his mouth with a ‘pop’ and you feel his warm, wet tongue along the column of your throat that makes you shut your eyes instantly, tears rolling down along your cheeks for holding back for so long, for waiting for him so long. Your arms slide along his shoulders slowly as he explores your neck and chest with his mouth making you almost melt in his arms. 

“No. No. No. No. we can’t be doing this again,” He moves away from you shaking his head so much, his breathing labored and irregular. There is that look in your eyes, that sad look of having to fight all alone with no one by your side, that look that has so much sincerity and loyalty underneath. 

“But Nanami-san, I’m not seeing anyone.” You mutter inhaling deeply feeling dizzy. Oh dear! Aren’t you a little too naive to be a clan head? Maybe there is no way out, day in and day out he thought about it but he could not find any. “what happened when you said you would take me to Malaysia?”

"You know we can't do that, baby." He shifts his gaze at you, rasping, "And, you know we were both just drunk and talking about what ifs...does that count? should it count?" You bite your lips looking at the robes scattered on the floor, him and yours, lifeless and entangled with each other. Nanami feels his heart constrict in his ribcage, as if someone had tied his heart with ropes and now both the free ends are being pulled like in a tug of war.

“Ahhh,” he groans. “Fuck it,”  with that he holds your face in between his big soft palms kissing your lips as long as he can. Your fingers clamp around his wrists as you feel his tongue go inside your mouth before he sucks your lips, one by one, fervently, as if you are the source of his oxygen, not the air surrounding you two. He guides your limbs around his nape breaking the kiss to breathe in before kissing down the column of your throat. 

“Take it off,” His husky whisper hot against your chest as he waits.

“But—” you try to protest making him more impatient. It is not like he does not get your point. You will have to go soon otherwise people might come searching for you. These fucking clan rules. Without any delay you let the upper wrapper cloth of your yukata fall down revealing your breasts. 

“You know, you shouldn’t be roaming around like this,” He tartly says before licking up from the base of your chest to the middle of your collarbone.

“Oh Yeah? was waiting… for you,” Nanami’s hand finds your mounds, firm and large hands massaging both of them simultaneously as he presses his hard-on against your waist. His hands now rest on your hips pulling you into his body, while his mouth peppers kisses all over your bosom. Your nipples are so taut, skin awake with goosebumps. His hands travel around your back pulling you into his embrace. Your breath hitches as his grips grow stronger while his mouth latches onto your boobs, sucking your tits and biting them making you moan shamelessly. 

Your constant tugging and fidgeting with the sash of his hakama has now paid off. It hits the grown revealing him in boxers. You take his cock out pumping, sliding the foreskin, and exposing the slick crown of his cock. Nanami grunts, taking his cock and pumping it by himself. “Look at me, look at me, baby”, he murmured while rubbing his nose against your neck, your skin glistening with sweat. He clusters your hakama around your waist and your hands hold them in place, around your stomach. He smiles at that gesture. He is impressed. 

Lifting you up by clasping around your inner things, he holds your back against the wall ready to push his cock inside you. You guide his cock at your slick entrance. As soon as the cock-head is inside he quickly scans your features. You are panting, sweating, mouth open, and eager to take him. He pushes his cock inside you with a deep strong thrust hitting your spot. His grip on your thighs becomes stronger as he starts to glide his torso, to and fro. Eyes flying back ripping off your sanity as he pushes his cock inside you as if he was not hitting the spot making you squirm underneath him.

The bridge of his nose grazes your pulse point as he groans right into your ears asking, "You good?". You stare at him through the corner of your eyes, mouth open ajar, panting rashly too sucked into delirium to form words, but you nod. Kento knows your melting point yet seeing you taking him so well, being so obedient, being so responsive his lips curve in delight. He hums weighing his thoughts about whether it is okay to pull out another orgasm from your heated overstimulated body or not since he has been fucking you nice and slow for what seems like hours. Every time you are close he diverts your attention by pausing and then putting his mouth to work, either on your lips or on your nipples.

His warm cackle reaches your ears as he jerks up towering over your body, fingers clamping underneath your inner thighs. "Oh Gawd!", you whimper earning a smirk from him. "Don't worry angel! I'm not gonna stop until you ask me to!", he declares as he thrusts his cock with a single broad stroke earning a gasp from you. Those chocolate brown eyes gleam in an insatiable hunger as he starts to move in and out, slowly, watching your cream leaking around his cock from previously denied orgasms.

"You're still clenching me so hard baby!", he utters with a chuckle slamming his cock inside you with brute force followed by a long pause and making you arch your body like a bow against the wall. It is euphoric. It is aching. It is maddening.

"So good! such sweet pussy.", he groans as he starts to thrust harder, faster folding your legs over his broad shoulders. You grab your boobs, squeezing, biting your lower lip, filling the room with trails of whimpering moans blessing his ears. With his throbbing cock still inside you he yanks you into his lap, lips never disconnecting from yours he takes you to the futon laying you down. The hakama is clustered around your waist covering your pussy but it is better this way. At least, you are not so coy-like that night.

Kento quivers, balancing himself on his arms against the futon and letting you relax your legs. "Fuck wanna cum in you already", he coos immediately crashing his lips onto yours not giving you a chance to register his momentary lapse, a desire to see you carrying his babies. Moreover, he loves the taste of your salt while sucking your puffy lips inside you. Curling your hands around his nape, fingers skimming through his hair you moan into his mouth breaking the kiss. 

His eyes blink as he feels your hands over his arms. While he is still feasting his eyes over your ravishing sex glow, you roll him along the futon without pulling out. Eyes soaked in surprise Kento is still taken aback by your strength as he gawks at your naked beauty with lust-blown eyes. “Your wish's my command, Sir”, you amend. As the words fall from your lips you start to glide, slow but steady strokes. He holds you by your waist, his lower lip being exploited in between his teeth as you bounce on his cock.

Seeing you bob like an animal, boobs bouncing at a steady rhythm he was in nowhere to decline you; after all, he wanted this too, to fill your womb with babies and those breasts with milk.“Oh yeah! Yea-ash baby!”, he mumbles as you keep jerking. He is close, you can sense it. He flinches feeling his cock twitch in pain but could not care less about it. All he wants is to fill you up to the brim. He sits up adjusting you in his lap.

“Say you hate me.” he huskily mutters.

“What?” you do not pause, just slow down.

“Say you hate me” he quips holding your waist and making you pause your movements. “Or I won’t let you cum,” When you do not believe him he quips with a smirk, “You know, I can do that, don’t you baby?” and strangely you remember how he felt you alone in the room when you made a move on him. You do not want that to happen now, absolutely not, especially with his dick inside you.

He starts to make you bob again, at this point so close to your orgasm that you do not even put up a fight. “Yes. yes. I hate you. I hate you nanami kento I hate you,” you whimper out those words as he thrusts you on his cock. Good, good, that is good; he can not have you admit those feelings out loud, just like him. Your legs quiver feeling the euphoric high approaching, marking his back with crescent indecent as he shoots his cum inside you. Warm, thick, and seeping along your thighs, soaking the sheets. He pulls out with a pop; a prideful glint smothers his face watching his marks all over your chest that run up to your pulse point on the neck. Kento shoots a look at you, your face. He maintains eye contact, puts his mouth around your nipple, and continues to suck until he feels your gummy walls clenching his cock again. “Ahhh—aH!”, you scream hands resting on his shoulders nails digging into his skin. He hates you, he hates you so very much.

Nanami hunches down a little more, kissing your temples, and before sitting upright again he whispers, “Yeah, let’s go to Malaysia. Let’s just run away, honey.”

[dg-outlaw]

Why No Love for Red Hood: The Hill?

I think it's all in the marketing and about what's being delivered versus what readers expected.

So I almost made this post on a reblog, but I didn't want to overwhelm that thread. Plus, I'm not sure if people get mad when someone does a long reblog on their short OG post? Anyway, the point of that post was that Issue 3 of 'Red Hood: The Hill' came out and no one's really talking about it, especially Jason/Red Hood fans.

I think the biggest problem (IMO) with this series is that someone wanted to write a story about The Hill and some new characters (which is fine), but like the 'Batman: The Hill' comic (which I think this series is sort of a sequel to), it's banking off a known character, Red Hood, to be it's selling point. "Come for the Red Hood, but stay for these other characters and their story." All fine and good, but a little deceptive when the marketing leans more toward it being a Red Hood (and new 'Outlaw' friends) story rather than one where Jason is a random guest star.

Series description:

In Gotham City’s early days, The Hill was one of Gotham City’s most dangerous neighborhoods, one that required the residents to band together to keep themselves safe when the police – and sometimes even Batman – wouldn’t. Now, as the Hill finds itself gentrifying, old habits die hard as the vigilante known only as Strike works with her team to keep the town safe—but she’s not alone. Jason Todd, one of the Hill’s newest residents, is more than happy to don the visage of Red Hood to help Strike keep his new home safe. But a new villain is emerging from the shadows. Will Red Hood, Strike and the Hill’s small militia of vigilantes be able to keep their home safe?

And this brings me back to the marketing and advertising of this series, especially versus the Batman: The Hill comic.

Obviously we can see the artistic parallels between these two covers (above). Overall, good job and nice throwback, but... there's a major difference. These two are not similar.

The first cover has "THE HILL" in bold, prominent text and Batman is in the background. This says that Batman is part of the story, but he seems secondary to whatever's going on in the foreground, which is mostly true to the story.

The second cover has "RED HOOD" prominent in the title with "The Hill" as secondary and smaller. Jason is also front and center with Batman looming behind him (who only just showed up at the end of issue 3. There's only two more issues left). The character of Strike, our new protagonist and The Hill's main hero, is down at the bottom and barely in-frame, further suggesting it's more about Jason (and maybe Batman) than The Hill or other characters. Again, clever marketing and nice design nod to the original cover, but deceptive when it comes to the series content. I don't necessarily blame the cover artist here as they might've been given a different brief on what the story was about and I get the fun throwback to the old Hill cover, but these covers are almost reversed in terms of Bat-character prominence.

In the original, Batman was more intertwined in that comic's story than Jason is in his series, which further adds to the audience letdown. If anything, this series needed to go with the coffee shop musician strategy: play a bunch of cover songs to win over the crowd and then slip in your original music (OCs) here and there. Once you have your audience hooked, go all out with your original stuff and then throw in 'Wonderwall' just for kicks and to keep them invested.

Ultimately, I think the biggest problem of this series is pacing and balance. The series needs more Jason to allow readers time to invest in the new characters, but as those new characters develop through their interactions with him THEN Jason can fade back as a partner character or just random character who comes in to help out. As it is, he's a guest star in series called, 'RED HOOD: the hill' with most of Jason's actions being 'day-in-the-life' stuff or a random action panel or two.

If anything, I think Red Hood #51 and #52 did a better job of establishing Jason as a main player, but also working alongside a new hero (Strike) and citizens of The Hill in solving a case. The covers above also display a more balanced composition and preview of what you're getting. Yes, you're reading a Red Hood comic, but there will be some other significant characters playing in this sandbox that you should care about and watch out for.

Sadly, I think the untrue message DC will take away from this series if it doesn't do well is that: (1) Jason is NOT an instant seller so let's shelf him because he couldn't carry this series (that he's barely in), and (2) readers don't like these new characters (most of which are BIPOC and/or LGBTQ), so let's ditch them and do more Batman stuff. 🤦‍♂️

And that's unfortunate because I think there's potential here had this series been executed in a better way. I see where the writer wanted to go with these new characters and they actually seem like an interesting and cozy bunch, but I feel like I'm stepping into an already established found family/friend group, but I don't really know them and I'm the outsider. So eventually I'll find a random distracted moment to quietly say bye to my friend Jason and slip out before anyone notices... like the socially awkward introvert that I am.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 88

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 88: Cursed Child

AO3 - Masterlist

The Council Chambers fell silent as her father, the Hand of the King, stood and began to collect his parchments. With each movement, Alicent’s heart sank deeper, burdened by a sense of impending disaster. She could hardly bear to watch, turning instead to gaze out the chamber windows, where the city sprawled out beneath the shadow of the Red Keep, blissfully unaware of the darkness growing within its red walls. 

When she turned back, her gaze fell upon her son. He was watching Daenera with the intense focus of a boy fixated on something he had been denied–something he believed was his, something he would fight for. The possessive longing in his eye stirred a deep unease within her. Stepping forward decisively, she intercepted, placing herself between them. 

Alicent reached out for Daenera, her fingers brushing against the younger woman’s before she could retreat. Grasping her hand firmly, Alicent spoke with a voice of measured calm. “I will be going to the Sept. Join me.”

A frown tugged at the corners of the young princess’s brow, her blue eyes mirroring a mix of unease and suspicion as she regarded Alicent with weariness. Alicent understood her hesitation; after all, she had been vocal in her opposition to the marriage and her terms for freeing her men. Yet, the decision had been made–regardless of her personal reservations, the union was to proceed. Alicent now resolved to speak with the princess alone, hoping the sanctity of the Sept would lend gravity and sincerity to their discussion. 

Turning her gaze to her son, Alicent dismissed him with a sharp look. Aemond’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching as he scowled. He briefly sought Daenera’s gaze, which she deliberately avoided, seemingly focusing on the dust motes swirling in the light. With a low hum of frustration emanating from deep within, his gaze hardened and he turned from them. 

Daenera met Alicent’s eyes, gently pulling her hand away. “I fear I have exerted myself today. I should return to my chambers.”

Alicent stepped closer to Daenera, grasping her hand with a firmness that brooked no argument. Her voice, unwavering and commanding, suggested, “A visit to the sept might do you good, not just for your physical well-being, but for your soul as well.”

Linking Daenera’s arm securely with her own, Alicent led the way out of the Council Chambers with an air of determination, brushing aside the young woman’s reluctance. As they emerged into the hallway, where Mertha and Oliver awaited, Alicent’s gaze fell sternly on Mertha. If the older woman had kept a tight grip on the princess, she mused silently, they could have avoided the day’s complications. She steered Daenera forward, leaving no room for protest, her expression a mix of resolve and subtle disapproval. 

As they moved into the expansive grand hall, the atmosphere subtly shifted, filled with the low buzz of conversations among the courtiers clustered throughout. These groups congregated not only in the hall itself but also at the first landing of the grand staircase, where they could observe the comings and goings within the Red Keep. 

The servants, threading their way through the nobles, stood out in their new liveries, a change from the traditional Targaryen red to a more subdued forest green, marking a new era under a different reign. Their movements were brisk and purposeful, a sharp contrast to the leisurely pace of the courtiers. 

As Alicent and Daenera advanced through the hall, each courtier paused to bow before them, offering hushed, respectful greetings. The titles of 'Queen Mother' and 'Dowager' felt like ill-fitting garments to Alicent, new and uncomfortable additions to her identity that she reluctantly bore. She had always been addressed as 'Your Grace,' a term that resonated with her regal authority as queen, a role now relinquished to her daughter. These new designations grated not only on her but on her entire family—her son, her daughter. Each of them was encumbered by these titles that marked a transition in power and responsibility. Despite the initial discomfort, Alicent knew they must adapt, bearing these titles with the dignity and grace expected of their station, until they became a second skin.

The stone beneath their feet transitioned from the cold, smooth rock of the Red Keep to the rougher cobbles of the landing, and eventually the gravel and dirt of the courtyard. The sprawling courtyard, framed by the towering red walls of the Keep, was alive with the early afternoon activities of the castle. Guardsmen patrolled the peripheries, their armor glinting in the waning sunlight, green cloaks fluttering in the wind, while servants hurried across the open space, carrying messages and materials.

The air was filled with the mixed scents of the nearby gardens–late blooming flowers and the earthy dampness of freshly watered soil, adding a soft, almost sweet fragrance to the stench carried on the breeze from the city below. 

Royal Sept’s spires reached towards the sky, its stained glass window catching the light of the sun, transforming them into vibrant mosaics of light. Alicent guided Daenera up the steps of the Sept, it’s grand oak doors standing as imposing as those of the throne room, adorned with ornate carvings smoothed by the passage of time. They pushed through into the serene quiet of the Sept, where the sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, scattering a mosaic of colors across the marble floors. While Alicent had always favored the subtle grandeur of the Grand Sept, she could not deny that there was a lavish beauty to the Royal Sept. Its opulence, though excessive, held a majesty that commanded respect and reverence.

Under the light of a grand stained-glass window, the statues of the Seven stood like silent sentinels, their faces etched in solemnity as they watched over the sacred space. Each figure cast a watchful eye from its alcove, bathed in the fragmented light that spilled across the floor. At the base of these idols, small altars lay adorned with candles of varying heights, their flames gently swaying in the still air, each light offering a silent prayer. 

And in the center of the sept, a robust circular altar of rough-hewn stone drew the eye. Its sides were carved meticulously with the depictions of the Seven, encircling the structure like guardians of old. This central altar was crowned with hundreds of candles, their soft glow casting a serene light that filled the chamber, yet struggled against the pervasive chill that seemed to seep from the marble itself. 

This coolness lingered stubbornly, undisturbed by the warm flickers of candlelight that danced across the walls and floor. It wove through the air, intertwining with the draft that occasionally stirred the flames into a dance of light and shadow. The air fragrant with the scent of incense that mingled subtly with the lingering aroma of polished wood and wax from the candles that lined walls and altars. 

As they entered, the septas bowed their heads in deference and quietly exited through a side archway, descending to the lower levels where they attended to sacred duties. The Royal Sept, now devoid of other souls, enveloped Alicent, Daenera, and Mertha in a cloak of silence. With Mertha lingering discreetly at the room's edge, Alicent led Daenera down the central aisle towards the rounded altar. Their footsteps echoed softly, the sound a gentle whisper against the serene quiet of the vast, sacred space. At the altar, Alicent released Daenera’s hand. Her voice was soft as she watched the flames dance in reverence on the altar. “When I was younger, I often sought comfort in the Sept, and still do, though my preference has always leaned towards the Grand Sept…”

The words hung in the air, resonating in the hallowed silence. Alicent mused that perhaps her fondness for the Grand Sept stemmed from its location outside the walls of the Red Keep–it offered her a semblance of freedom. There, the darkness was a solace, the vast space barely lit by candles and dim light filtering through the distant windows–just enough to break the enveloping shadow but not enough to banish it. The Royal Sept, in contrast, while dim, dazzled with its opulence and vibrancy. 

“The gods deserve reverence in simplicity,” she reflected aloud, her gaze drifting to the stained glass. “Nothing should overshadow their presence.”

Alicent gracefully adjusted the fabric of her gown and settled onto the cushioned bench surrounding the altar–the Great Sept had no such luxuries as cushions, and would often leave her knees bruised after long prayer. She took the taper from the holder, her movements steeped in the comfort of familiar rituals. Lighting the taper from an already glowing candle, she watched the flame flicker to life, her voice softening with reflection. “When your grandmother, Aemma Arry, passed away,” she said as she used the taper to ignite a candle in remembrance for the Queen that came before her, “Your mother found herself at a loss for how to grieve. She loved her mother dearly, as all children love their mothers. She became isolated, distancing herself from those who cared for her…” 

Alicent had loved the Queen, Aemma, although she had not been particularly fond of her in return–she had treated her with kindness and courtesy, but there had always been a wariness to their relationship. Aemma’s death had struck a profound blow not only to Rhaenyra but also her father. In the quiet moments that followed, Alicent had often found herself contemplating what her life would have been had Aemma Arryn survived childbirth and born Viserys a son. Would she have married a kind lord? Would she have found love? Might she have clung to the remnants of her childhood a bit longer? These reflections served little purpose now. 

The wax from the candle dripped onto the altar, joining the layer of dried wax that had accumulated from years of devotion. Periodically, this wax would be scraped away, the altar restored to a pristine slate, seemingly erasing all the prayers and meditations once poured onto it. Yet, the cycle would repeat: new layers of wax would build as new prayers were whispered and old ones renewed, a testament to the enduring reverence for the gods. 

Alicent spoke softly as she continued her reflections, “The void that forms from losing a loved one deepens when one is uncertain how to properly grieve. To face such a loss alone, without recognition or comfort, it cools the heart… brews anger… and from anger, often comes folly…

“I thought bringing her here might comfort her as it did me when I lost mine own mother,” Alicent murmured, her voice low but clear in the quiet of the sept. She paused, her gaze lingering on the newly lit candle as she brought the taper to it’s wick. Alyrie Florent. “The gods are a comfort in moments like these, and we should take comfort in knowing that those we lost are at peace…”

Alicent’s gaze settled on Daenera, who stood a few paces away, her hands clasped before her. The flickering candlelight played across the princess’s features, casting her face in a warm glow that seemed to kindle the unshed tears in her eyes, giving them a shimmer like that of the flames themselves. “Come, sit with me…”

There was a moment of hesitation, Daenera's eyes fixed warily on Alicent before she carefully gathered her skirts and knelt beside her. As she settled, there was something almost childlike about her demeanor, her gaze captivated by the flames. She almost resembled a daughter at Alicent’s side, her dark hair styled similarly to Alicent’s own, delicate earrings swaying gently, and her dress of soft green fabric wrapping her figure. Yet, the reflection was not so complete—Daenera's eyes, blue and alight with an icy flame, marked the difference. Alicent turned her attention away from the young woman, focusing instead on the warmth and dance of the candle flames before them.

Alicent’s voice held a solemn timbre as she spoke, “The Stranger will claim us all..” She paused, her gaze fixed on the candlelight. “But death is not the end. The gods pass judgment on every soul. Should we seek absolution and repent for our sins, there may yet be peace for us in the next life, even if it eludes us in this one.”

Her thoughts drifted as she silently recited the prayers she had often whispered here, a litany of hopes and supplications: for forgiveness, for alleviation of fear and pain, for a son to fulfill her father's expectations, for a child she could call truly hers, for strength to endure, for recognition of her suffering, and for her sacrifices to be acknowledged and rewarded by the gods. 

It almost came as a start as Daenera’s voice cut through the silence. “Do you repent for your sins?” The princess asked, her eyes cold with judgment as they met Alicent’s. “Is it absolution you seek by bringing me here?”

Alicent’s breath caught in her throat, her heart thudding dully, each beat echoing the heaviness that settled when her son had returned from Storm’s End a kinslayer. She blinked, turning her eyes from Daenera’s probing gaze, her eyes finding refuge in the flickering candlelight. Was she guilty for what had happened to the poor boy? In her heart, Alicent knew she couldn’t escape some measure of blame–she had sent Aemond to Storm’s End, and it was her son who had committed the dreadful act. It was never meant to end in bloodshed. And with Aemond showing no sign of remorse, she felt compelled to shoulder the burden of penitence herself–if he would not seek redemption, she would implore the gods on his behalf, beseech them for mercy and forgiveness. 

“I have repented for my sins,” she answered, voice a whisper of conviction. “The gods have seen what is in my heart. They understand my regrets, and I believe they will offer forgiveness…”

Alicent drew a deep breath before speaking, as though shaking off the princess’s words. “Do you know why we light candles?” She didn’t need to glance at Daenera to feel her attention shift towards the flames–she felt her gaze leave her, felt it as profoundly as stepping out of a shadow and into the light. “We light them so that our prayers are brought into the light before the gods–we light them so the gods might hear us…”

Holding the taper to another candle a new flame came to life. She watched the drip  of wax grow closer to her fingers, a reminder of the taper’s fleeting existence. “We light these candles not only to elevate our prayers but also to honor those who have left this world…” She said, her voice softening as she mentioned the next name with a pause, thick with emotion. “Viserys Targaryen.” 

In the quiet solitude of the Sept, she often found herself reflecting on her life, and her marriage to Viserys. Despite the resentments she felt–resentments stirred by the sacrifices she’d made for him, the opportunities he had permitted Rhaenyra and her children to snatch from her own, and his failing as a husband and father–she mourned him. Yet amidst these resentments, there had been companionship. 

Duty had tethered Alicent to Viserys, a binding force that connected them as surely as their vows. She had embraced her responsibilities without protest, molding herself into the queen and wife expected of her. Yet, while duty was a sharp-edged thread that had often cut into her, Viserys had borne it as a man of his station might: with a sense of entitlement and a certain heedlessness. She had been left to shoulder the weight of their shared obligations largely alone, bearing the brunt of their duties with a stoic grace that belied the sacrifices she had to make.

She grieved him not only as a wife who had lost her husband but as a queen who had lost her king. Her sorrow was intertwined with the implications his death brought for both her and the realm. She did mourn him genuinely–for everything he had been to her, but somewhere, within that grief, there was a profound sense of relief. 

“May it guide him to the warmth of the gods’ light…” she added quietly. 

Alicent paused, the taper held above another candle. Wax dripped onto the wick as she hesitated, reflecting on the weight of her next words. Finally, with a somber resolve, she lowered the taper, its flame kissing the wick to life. “And for Lucerys Velaryon.”

Holding the taper aloft for a brief moment, she closed her eyes, allowing the silence of the sept to envelop her. In this sacred stillness, she recited silent prayers for the departed souls, beseeching the Father for his just judgment and imploring the Mother’s warm embrace to shelter them eternally.

As her eyes settled back on Daenera, she noticed the princess focused intently on an unlit candle, her gaze sharp enough to ignite it through sheer force of will. Her posture was rigid, her jaw set tightly as her eyes burned with a faint shimmer of tears that threatened to spill. She seemed almost like a child then, fragile and unsure.

Offering the taper, Alicent watched as Daenera took it, her scrutiny of the small flame turning to hesitance. Finally, with evident reluctance, she accepted it, her hand shaking subtly as she reached out. The candlelight cast a soft glow on the girl's face, accentuating her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes, giving her an almost haunted appearance. She held the taper unsteadily, poised just above the wick of the awaiting candle.  

Hoping to offer some comfort, Alicent spoke with soft sincerity, her hands clasped before her as she looked up at the faces of the gods. “I had hoped you might find some solace in knowing that your brother is with the gods now…”

The taper stilled before it reached the wick, nothing more than stub now and growing precariously close to Daenera’s fingers. Her voice came as a fragile whisper, “My brother isn’t with the gods.”

Alicent faced Daenera, taken aback by the intensity of the young woman’s gaze, alight with scorn. Daenera brought the taper to her lips and extinguished the flame with a deliberate puff, then set the spent taper aside. “What remains of him not scattered across Shipbreaker Bay,” she said in a chillingly calm voice, icy with disdain, “Is left buried in a pile of shit somewhere.”

A disquieting heaviness settled in Alicent’s stomach, her heart uneasy. The child-like countenance she had observed moments earlier seemed to burn away in front of her eyes–turned into something darkened by resentment. Her glare, heavy with judgment and accusation, bore into Alicent. 

Her voice softened as she addressed Daenera, attempting to convey genuine sympathy to alleviate the young woman’s suffering–hoping to dispel the accusations lurking in her gaze. “I am deeply sorry for your loss. We have all suffered too much already… I–I never thought Aemond would… I never thought he would do such a thing; it was a grave mistake. I condemn it.”

Daenera’s expression only hardened, her eyebrows knitting together as a scornful scoff escaped her lips. She briefly averted her gaze, shaking her head in disbelief. When she looked back at Alicent, the flames of the altar burned dangerously in her cold blue eyes, filled with such unsettling intensity that it made Alicent’s heart tremble. 

“Your condolences means as much to me as the dirt beneath my heels,” Daenera spat at her, voice trembling with emotion. She rose to her feet, her dress whispering against the floor with each agitated movement.

Alicent exhaled sharply, her eyes seeking the divine faces of the gods, silently pleading for the strength to endure this confrontation. “It was never my desire for things to turn out this way–”

“Did you not?” Daenera retorted, voice thick with anger as tears trailed down her cheeks, quickly brushed away by her fingers. “You nurtured his resentment, you shaped his thirst for vengeance. He is but a hound, and you, his master. If he bites, it is only because you failed to teach him restraint–his actions are a reflection of your failings!”

The sting of Daenera’s words whipped across Alicent’s conscience, shaking her at her core. She had counseled Aemond to exercise restraint–that he was not to be the one to draw first blood in this war. And yet, he had not only ignored her advice but rebelled against it. Was she truly to blame for his defiance? The blame was Aemond’s to bear but she felt its weight on her own shoulders. She had hoped her son would heed her counsel, but Aemond had always possessed an inherently obstinate and willful nature–traits that at times overshadowed his sense of duty.

She recalled the instances of his rebellious spirit: his secretive ventures into the depths of the Dragonpit in search for a dragon to claim and the audacious way he had claimed Vhagar under the cover of night, the dalliance that had grown between him and Daenera continued even after her explicit command to end it. 

Her second son had always had the capricious temperament of a dragon. Perhaps of all of her children, he was the most Targaryen in nature–inherently willful with a fiery impulsivity. 

Alicent’s gaze hardened, the sting of accusation resonating deeply. With a firm voice, she answered, “My son is not a dog. He is a man. His actions are his own–”

“And my brother was just a boy of four and ten–a child–when he was slaughtered by your son!” Daenera sneered back, her voice cutting through the quiet of the sept, seeming to ring out in the high arched ceilings. 

The weight of those words settled heavily on Alicent. Had her own son not also been a victim, forever marked by the violence inflicted by another? “And what of what my son was owed?” She straightened, hands clasped tightly in front of her. “He was scarcely more than a child himself when your brother maimed him. Where was the justice for him?”

Daenera’s reply was sharp, her scorn palpable. “You cannot hide behind old grievances. Losing an eye doesn’t grant him the right to murder my brother!”

Alicent’s voice was soft, the word burdened by a weight. “No,” she agreed solemnly, “It doesn’t. I repudiate his actions with all of my heart. It was never my wish for things to turn out this way. All I wanted was for my son to get what was owed to him, what was his rightful birthright. This bloodshed, this war… none of it was what I desired.”

“Then you were blind,” Daenera stated decisively. “The moment you began to plot for Aegon to take the throne, this war became inevitable.”

“Be that as it may,” Alicent answered, her voice tinged with weariness. Was it foolish to have believed things might have unfolded differently? Was she the fool to hope that Rhaenyra would have accepted the terms they had offered? Was it folly to still hope for a resolution to this without any further bloodshed? And amidst the chaos, was she a fool to hope that Rhaenyra might forgive her for it? “But if the gods hadn’t desired Viserys’ son on the throne, they would not have blessed him with one.”

She had often mused on the cruel play of fate–how different their lives might have been had Rhaenyra been born not as a daughter but as the son and rightful heir to the throne. If Rhaenyra had been a son, perhaps her own path would have been different. Instead of being wed to Viserys, she might have found her hand promised to his son. Her life would have been different then, and yet much the same; she would have found herself burdened with similar duties, with similar sacrifices–but perhaps there would have been love and happiness. Such a twist of destiny might have spared the realm the looming shadow of war. 

Yet, the gods had different plans. They had made Rhaenyra a woman, and they had made their will known in the form of a son–her son. And Viserys had willed it by declaring Aegon his successor with his dying breath. 

Alicent couldn’t deny him that.

“The gods were, perhaps, cruel in making Rhaenyra a woman,” she mused, fingers intertwined tightly in front of her. “But that is their will, and they still saw fit to bestow Viserys with sons.”

Daenera’s words were sharp, laden with a note of skepticism and heavy with contempt. “The gods’ will has no part in this. This is by your hand–you and your fathers. Viserys declared my mother his successor–he chose her, a woman, ahead of your sons. If he truly wished for Aegon to rule–”

“He did,” Alicent cut in sharply. 

Daenera pressed on relentlessly, “Then he would’ve changed the succession long ago.” 

A deep, weary sigh fell from Alicent’s lips, her eyes briefly closing. “Viserys was a kind-hearted, amiable man. He loved your mother deeply,” she said, opening her eyes again to meet Daenera’s incredulous gaze. “I believe he wanted to spare your mother the disappointment–”

“You believe,” Daenera echoed, head shaking.

“Viserys always sought to please,” Alicent continued, voice softening. “He would avoid conflict at all costs. He wouldn't have wanted to cause a fight with your mother over it.”

“And yet he chose to plunge the realm into chaos by changing the line of succession with his dying breath?”

“He did, Daenera,” Alicent snapped. “He did. With his last breaths, he named Aegon–declared him The Prince That Was Promised. He said that he would unite the realm.”

A crude, humorless laugh escaped Daenera, reverberating over the smooth stone floors and resonating in the arched ceilings, lingering in the air even as it faded. She shook her head, scoffing, “And do you truly believe Aegon capable of that?” 

“I do,” Alicent affirmed, maintaining her stance with unwavering certainty. Aegon had potential. He might be fickle and capricious now, but he was still young and still malleable. With time, as the novelty of ruling wore off and he had gained experience, he would mature into a competent ruler. She held this belief close, convinced that with the proper guidance, Aegon would indeed become a great ruler. 

“Then you are either delusional or a fool,” Daenera retorted coldly."Had Viserys truly desired Aegon as his successor, he would have shown more care and guidance, teaching him what it means to be a king." Her lip curled. “Aegon is only a puppet for so long as he doesn’t realize the true extent of the power he holds, and once he does, then we shall all surely pay for it.”

“You may see it that way,” Alicent responded, her voice steady with conviction. “But I have faith in the gods and their will.”

She held onto her faith with a quiet desperation, believing resolutely that the gods had a plan–a divine will that justified all her sacrifices, all her suffering. To doubt this was to question the very foundation of her actions, rendering them all meaningless. 

As she watched Daenera, all she could see was the girl's resemblance to her mother–the echoes of Rhaenyra haunted her, the same defiant stare, the same haughty demeanor, the same sense of entitlement. The girl’s insolence and dishonor seemed to be the same as her mothers, something inherent–evident in her proud posture and the dark, unruly hair that cascaded over her shoulders. She was born of dishonor, a daughter of selfishness and entitlement. 

Neither her or her mother understood the true essence of sacrifice, nor the burdens of duty and honor. 

It seemed to her no surprise then that Daenera might scorn the gods–she was born of sin and immorality. Before her stood not merely a grieving girl but an adversary, a constant thorn in her side, someone who threatened to unravel everything–someone who’d see the destruction of everything she had sacrificed and suffered for, someone who would destroy her and her children with her dark curses. 

The girl was a demon sent from the seven hells to torment her. 

Alicent faced Daenera fully, her heart thundering within her chest as she held the young woman’s gaze as it burned with the intensity of the flames of the seven hells–and they would, wouldn’t they? It was her nature after all. A cold resolve grew within her as she approached the princess, the soft echo of her steps punctuating the hushed walls of the Royal Sept. The light from the candles flickered across her face, casting shifting shadows that danced over her stern features. The cool air of the Sept mingled with the scent of incense, enveloped them as he spoke with a quiet intensity, “I am not the monster you believe me to be.”

“No,” Daenera answered, voice as cold as the draft. “You are the mother of the monsters.”

“I am a mother, and yes, my sons are… imperfect–difficult even and cruel at times,” Alicent said as she reached out, clasping Daenera’s hand firmly. Despite the young woman’s instinctive flinch, Alicent’s hold remained gentle yet insistent. “But they remain my children.” She held the younger woman's hand between both of hers, her thumbs gently caressing the cool, delicate skin. “And they are not the monsters you think them to be.”

Daenera resisted, her dark brows knitting together in a frown, seemingly bewildered, the inner corners arching in silent questioning. 

“My sympathy for you has its limits,” Alicent persisted, her grip on Daenera unyielding. Within her chest, her heart pounded—a fierce, irregular rhythm that was both foreign and oddly familiar. It echoed the same fervent cadence it had adopted years ago, when she had grasped the dagger from Viserys, driven by a fierce resolve to seek justice for her son. The memory of that resolve flickered in her eyes, a silent testament to the lengths she would go to protect her own. “There’s darkness in you–I see it–and it seeks to infect everything you touch, it seeks to destroy.”

As Alicent's grip intensified, her fingers dug into the yielding flesh of Daenera's hand, her nails embedding slightly into the skin. A wince crossed Daenera's face, her brows drawing closer in discomfort as she made another attempt to free herself. "I will not allow your darkness—your corruption—to reach my children. I will take any measures necessary to protect them and to secure their rightful place in this world.”

“Let go of me–”

“I want you to remove it,” Alicent's demand cut through the solemn quiet of the Sept, her voice so sharp that it seemed to carve a place for itself in the high arches of the ceiling. She pressed her thumb deliberately into the bandaged wound on Daenera’s palm, the action calculated and precise. 

“I don’t–”

“You are not as discreet as you thought,” she snapped, a sneer on her lips. Despite her best efforts, a sliver of contempt slipped into her tone, and the shame of it settled in her stomach like a rock. “You were seen and heard. I know of the curse you laid upon all of us–upon me,” she sneered angrily, “upon my sons.”

Fear and dread had visited Alicent the night before, settling heavily upon her and refusing to lift. She had fallen in and out of sleep, the weight of her anxiety pressing down on her even during the council meeting. Now, it seemed to claw its way out, baring its teeth at the princess before her. The very notion that someone within these walls would go to such lengths to see her family destroyed terrified her. That someone would consort with dark magic to bring about their ruin was unthinkable. To invoke such curses, she must have truly turned from the gods.

The fear had gnawed at Alicent, intensifying with every passing hour. The council's deliberations had offered no respite, and now, face to face with Daenera, the terror took on a life of its own, desperate to confront the source of her anguish. The idea that Daenera would use such malevolent forces, that she would abandon all sacred beliefs to enact her vengeance, filled Alicent with a profound sense of dread.

“I want you to remove it,” Alicent said, refusing to let her go. “Undo it, Daenera.”

“I can’t. Once done, it cannot be undone,” Daenera retorted, voice wavering. A spiteful glint flickered within the blue of her eyes, burning–burning cruelly, wickedly, condemningly. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

Alicent felt her heart sink and abruptly released Daenera’s hand, as though her touch had scorched her. Daenera staggered backward, barely managing to steady herself, steps ringing in the hollowness. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in a disheveled manner, framing her eyes–blue and penetrating, burning with anger and incredulity. 

Alicent stared at the wretched girl, eyes wide with disbelief. “You would curse the man you love?”

“I would curse the man responsible for my brother’s death,” Daenera answered, straightening. “But you needn’t fear for my curse, as no man is ever so accursed as the kinslayer.”

Alicent’s hand clenched tightly, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm as a wave of apprehension coursed through her. Her heart pounded with an increasing rhythm, the grip of fear tightening around her chest.

“If you believe yourself righteous and that this is the will of the gods, then mere words whispered in the night should be of no consequence,” Daenera said, her voice icy and unwavering. “Your gods will protect you.”

Adopting a facade of calm rationality and unwavering faith, Alicent steadied herself, even as her insides churned with unease. She regarded Daenera with a stern, unflinching gaze. “My faith in the gods and their will is absolute, and I trust that they will protect the righteous and good from the blasphemy of the unfaithful.” Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, Alicent’s tone grew sharp, “It appears your mother has failed you in teaching you to respect and revere the gods. It is not surprising, given her… questionable morals.”

“My mother’s morals have not made a kinslayer of her son,” Daenera retorted, her eyes burning with the intensity of a funeral pyre. 

Alicent’s eyes shifted toward the entrance of the sept as she called out, “Lady Mertha.”

The woman stepped forward, her footsteps echoing as she emerged from the shadows. Her dark hair appeared almost black in the dim light of the Sept, save for the streaks of silver that caught the occasional glimmer. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her face was set in the stern, unforgiving expression Alicent had come to recognize.

“Your Grace,” Lady Mertha said, her voice steady and respectful.

Alicent’s gaze shifted back towards Daenera, who wore an expression of insolence, clutching her injured hand against her chest, the silk bandage stained with blotches of fresh blood–a pang of shame welled up inside of Alicent, but she swallowed it down. “The Princess seems to require a re-education in the ways of the Faith,” she declared firmly. “I trust you can instruct her appropriately. Begin with the Seven-Pointed Star and continue until its teachings resonate with her. And restrict her movements to her chambers and the sept only. She should not be allowed in the gardens. Perhaps needlework might help keep her mind off frivolous ideas.”

“I’ll see to it that she is properly educated and cared for, Your Grace,” Mertha assured her. 

“And should she prove insolent, as is her nature,” Alicent added, her tone hardening. “A firmer approach might be necessary.” She fixed Lady Mertha with a stern look. “Take her to the Traitor’s Walk. Ensure she understands the consequences to her actions.”

Lady Mertha inclined her head in acknowledgement, her eyes flickering to Daenera with a look that promised no leniency. The shadows of the Sept seemed to deepen around them, the weight of Alicent’s decree hanging heavily in the air as she walked towards the doors. 

“Your Grace…” Daenera’s voice rang out, halting Alicent mid-step. She turned, her gaze wary as she looked upon the young woman. Their eyes met, tension crackling in the air between them.

“Do you genuinely feel remorseful over my brother’s death,” Daenera continued, her tone sharp and probing, “or is it merely what you tell yourself to ease your conscience, knowing your son has made himself a kinslayer?”

Alicent’s expression tightened, the weight of Daenera’s words pressing heavily upon her. She stared at the girl, her brows furrowing as her heart pounded unsettlingly within her chest. The accusation startled her, twisting its way between her ribs like a dagger. Of course she felt remorseful for Lucerys’s death, how could she not—he was but a boy. Her sympathy was genuine, but the words died on her tongue, left unuttered and swallowed.

She was sorry not only for the boy's death but also for what it heralded—the onset of a war that promised more bloodshed and a realm tearing itself apart. And, more dreadfully, for what it meant for her son's soul. The gravity of these thoughts weighed heavily on her, rendering her momentarily speechless, her gaze locked with Daenera’s in a silent, anguished confrontation. She turned, and walked away.

In the hallowed silence of the sept, only the Queen Mother’s retreating footsteps echoed through the stone chamber, leaving Daenera alone amidst the somber glow of candlelight. Her heart ached with a burning pain, her stomach feeling as though filled with stones. Should she walk into the sea, she thought that she would sink swiftly. She might join her brother then, amongst the waves. A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death.

Her throat tightened painfully, the air thick with the cloying scent of incense that stung her lungs and lingered at the back of her throat. Daenera’s gaze were once again drawn to the flickering candles on the altar, each flame a silent prayer–each flame a soul to be remembered. One of the flickering flames was dedicated to her brother. To Daenera, the ritual seemed hollow, a mockery. Alicent's grief did not extend to her brother as a person; her concern was merely for the implications of his death—the looming threat of war, and the grim reality that her own son had defied the gods she revered, becoming a kinslayer.

Daenera felt the emptiness of the gesture weigh heavily upon her, tainted by the knowledge that Alicent mourned not the man, but the chaos his passing would unleash.

 What comfort could these small flames offer when her brother’s body was forever lost to them? How could these flickering lights provide solace when he was denied the funeral rites he deserved? She wondered if the gods would even accept him, or if he was doomed to roam the earth, a restless spirit haunting those he loved. 

Could the simple act of lighting a candle dispel her overwhelming guilt and shame? Would lighting a candle in his name carry her deepest regrets to her brother in the after life? She wondered if the gentle glow would carry with it her apologies, her longing for things to have been different–how she wished he was alive in her stead. The quick flicker of flame seemed too fragile a vessel for such a heavy burden of sorrow and remorse–it almost seemed more a vessel for rage and retribution. 

Anger caught flame inside of her and she wished for nothing more than to grip each candle and hurl them across the room, indifferent to the scorching wax that might sear her skin or the flames that could catch the long sleeves of her dress. She did not care that the sept might burn down around her, she’d let it burn, cursing the gods for taking her brother from her–cursing them for burdening her with a heart that had come to betray her, haunted by its love for a man who had slain her brother. 

A throbbing ache pulsed through Daenera’s hand, a reminder of Alicent’s forceful grip, which left the wounds on her palms weeping. Cradling her injured hand to her chest, she felt her heart’s erratic pounding against her ribs. In her view, Alicent would be better off addressing the reckless actions of her own sons–one a drunken fool, the other a kinslayer–rather than concerning herself with what Daenera had whispered in the cover of night. 

She had spoken the truth: curses, once made, could not be unmade. Once such things had been given life, they would linger like shadows and lay in wait to fulfill their purpose. Yet, the rational part of her dismissed these curses as mere vistinges of despair and rage–nothing but words lost to the wind, an old-wives tale told to children before bedtime. What power did she truly hold over such things as curses? What magic could she possibly wield to breathe life into them? She was merely a girl, no witch, no sorceress, nothing divine. Her curses were powerless, empty threats cast into the darkness. 

Despite not believing in their power, uttering the curses had brought Daenera a semblance of control, soothing something deep within her. The gods did not answer her prayers, why shouldn’t she turn to something darker?

Daenera took a quiet satisfaction in knowing Alicent was aware of the curses. It was gratifying to see the fear and discomfort flicker across the Queen Mother’s face, to watch her sling desperately her cloak of piety and righteousness as if fearing it might unravel and expose her true nature beneath it. Even if neither truly believed in the potency of the curses, their mere utterances were enough to unsettle. 

“Princess,” Mertha’s shrill, snappy voice shattered the heavy silence, abruptly pulling Daenera from her reverie as she gazed into the flames. The sharp sound of footsteps echoed across the marble flooring of the Royal Sept, and soon Mertha was at her side, fixing her with a scornful look, thin lips twisted in a scowl of displeasure. “Come with me.”

Without waiting for a response, the woman spun on her heels and strode towards the doors, her movements charged with an air of expectancy. Daenera bristled at the tone, her eyes fixed on the back of the old woman’s head with a smoldering glare–if only her hair would catch fire from it. Reluctantly, she followed. 

Outside, the sky had turned overcast and sullen, with a gentle breeze carrying the promise of impending rain. Mertha stood just beyond the sept’s doors, her posture radiating impatience as she waited. At the foot of the steps, Oliver Norry stood, leaning against the handrail, his hands hitched at his belt, his gaze weary as he looked up at them. 

Daenera followed, the weight of her emotions still like stones in her stomach, as they moved through the bustling courtyard. As morning shifted into afternoon, the pace quickened among the servants, who moved briskly in an attempt to clear the courtyard before the impending rainfall. In the center of the courtyard, the knights of the Kingsguard trained. Dressed in their distinctive white padded gear, they stood out against the dark soil and the pale red of the surrounding walls. They wielded their swords with precision and intensity, the sound of steel against steel hanging in the air. Each step they took, cast up a small cloud of dust, the ground dry and begging for rain. 

They walked around the perimeter of the Red Keep, passing into the shadowed expanse of the curtain wall. The corridors here were dimly lit, interspersed with errant rays of light coming in from window slits and cracked doors. It retained a lingering chill within the stone, the air damp and filled with the scent of cold stone and muddied footsteps. As they ascended the wooden stairs, each step creaked and groaned beneath their steps, the wood worn smoothe from years of use. They climbed to the second, then third level, eventually emerging from the tower’s archway onto the landing between two flanking towers. 

Before them, the outer wall of the Red Keep loomed, presenting a perilous drop from the landing to the base of it. Below, the distant barking of hounds echoed up, and the pungent stench of rot wafted through the air, mingling with the stench of the streets outside of the wall. The sounds of the bustling city below seemed to scale the walls, the clamor of distant conversations becoming indistinct and muffed as they reached upward. 

From their position on the landing, they could gaze up at the stretch of gray above the curtain wall, the light harshly outlining the spikes mounted at its top…

Daenera’s heart plummeted as her gaze rose to the gruesome sight of her men’s heads impaled on those spikes–Ser Kevan Mertyns and Ser Darvin Crooler, both beyond recognition, yet unmistakably identifiable, if only to her. The sight was harrowing: Ser Kevan’s once-vibrant red hair, now lifelessly fluttering in the breeze, and Ser Darvin’s beard, distinguished by a silver streak, both served as bleak identifiers. Maggots and flies feasted upon what remained of their flesh, with crows having stripped their cheeks and eyes down to the bone. 

Next to them, the heads of Ser Sithric Greenfield and Ser Edam Varner exhibited a similarly ghastly state, their flesh swollen and translucent, the remnants of their features marred by the brutality of their fate. The birds had not spared them either, leaving their eyes hollow, the soft flesh of their cheeks picked at, noses and years black with rot by then. 

And lastly there was the head of Ser Eddin Follard–a young man once known for his sweet tooth and easy smiles. Now, a solitary crow perched atop his head, picking relentlessly at one remaining eye, greedily consuming the moisture and nibbling at the surrounding flesh that had yet to bloat and rot. His skin, plate from blood loss, mouth slack, held a ghostly semblance to the life he once carried. He had been alive only hours ago–his execution must have been that morning, as she stood outside the Council Chambers. 

“Take a good look at them, Princess,” Mertha’s voice was as soft as gravel scraping against stone. She shifted from the edge of Daenera’s peripheral vision, stepping closer to the ledge. Her murky gray eyes lifted to the ghastly spectacle above, filled with unmasked contempt. “These are the men who chose to follow you…”

Daenera’s stomach churned, her heart felt as if it had sunk to the very pit of her stomach, resting heavily among the stones she felt she had swallowed. Tears stung her eyes as she pressed a hand to her bodice, drawing in a labored breath, the sensation nearly overwhelming her to the point of nausea. 

Mertha turned to face her, eyes hard and unforgiving, a smug satisfaction lurking beneath her stern demeanor. “These are the men who trusted you. Fathers, sons, brothers,” she said, her voice carrying a weight that echoed the gravity of ehr words. She took a step closer, her lips slightly pursed, her eyes narrowing. “These are the men who lost their lives for you…”

Her accusation hung heavily in the air as shame and grief tightened around Daenera’s throat, making it ache painfully, as though she was choking on it. She fought against the urge to cry, to let her emotions spill forth controllably. She refused to cry, and instead, she held Mertha’s steely gaze, her own eyes growing resolute. 

“These are your consequences,” Mertha continued, her voice icy and devoid of any trace of humanity or sympathy. “And yet it was they who paid the price for it.”

Clenching her teeth, Daenera stood tall, her posture unyielding. This harsh truth was not unfamiliar to her; she had been acutely aware of it ever since Sithric and Edam were hanged for her defiance at the Dragonpit–how she had wished then that Rhaenys would have unleashed Meleys’s fire upon all of them. She had known the rotting faces of her men, had endured the stench of their decay, and had stood vigil over them until the Hightowers saw fit to remove their bodies. Yet, despite knowing the cruelty of her enemies, she had thought that they would show some decency, that they would grant the men a dignified burial or return their bodies to their families. Instead, they had severed their heads and displayed them on the walls for all to see, a brutal reminder of the cost of loyalty. 

“There will be no tears for these traitors,” Mertha declared, her steps measured as she approached Daenera. “They made their choice–they chose to serve the False Queen and her bastards.” She halted just in front of Daenera, the murky gray of her eyes brimming with disdain. “Look at them closely, commit their faces to memory–remember their fates. Their blood is on your hands, and one day, you too will confront them when the gods pass judgment on your wretched soul.”

Her wrinkled hand shot out, gripping Daenera’s jaw with surprising strength, her spindly fingers pressing into her flesh painfully. “You should be grateful to Her Grace for taking an interest in saving your soul. Where the decision mine, I would have had you hung for the curses you dared cast upon the royal family.”

Daenera wrenched her face free from Mertha’s scornful grasp, feeling the imprint of her boney fingers on her skin, the pressure almost bruising. For a fleeting moment, she entertained the thought of seizing the scornful crone by the shoulders and thrusting her back, tossing her off the ledge to meet her end in the blood-stained sands below. However, even withering old crones like her could serve a purpose, and Daenera was not willing to risk the delicate agreement she had reached with the Lord Hand. Taking such actions could endanger Fenrick’s chance at freedom–and she needed him free and far from King’s Landing.

Her gaze returned to the most recent addition–the newest consequence to her actions. She had always known there would be consequences–understood that it might cost the life of one of her remaining men in the dungeons. Despite this, she had proceeded, unsure whether it was out of callous disregard or a calculated sacrifice. Even now, as she watched the crows squabble over Eddin’s eyes, she knew she wouldn’t have chosen differently–even if it had been Fenrick up there, or Patrick. But she was much relieved it was neither, and dreaded it at the same time. Perhaps it would have been easier that it had been the boy’s head up there. 

What would become of her soul by the end of this war? Daenera pondered the growing tally of those she would lose or sacrifice, casualties wrought by the hands of others as much as by her own. How many more names would she be forced to condemn? How many more faces would visit her in the stillness of night? And perhaps more hauntingly, how long until her heart became numb to the loss? How long before the names and faces of those she had loved and lost faded from her memory?

A part of her had already grown cold, she thought, the innate darkness within her seeming to take root and thrive in this newfound chill. The death of her brother and the ruins Aemond’s love had made of her heart, had changed her. Or perhaps more ominously, it had merely unveiled a cruel, ruthlessness to her nature that had always lurked beneath the surface. 

With a steely resolve, Daenera locked eyes with Mertha, her voice tight but clear. “If you believe in the weaving of curses, I would tread carefully if I were you. Who’s to say you’re not the next one to find yourself cursed?”

The slap came quick and unforgivingly, its impact searing against Daenera’s cheek and sending a ringing echo through her ear. Clutching the stinging skin, she lifted her gaze back to Mertha, whose expression was a volatile mix of anger and fear. Mertha’s eyes, with the fervor of unshakable faith in the gods, also betrayed a trembling apprehension of someone who feared for their soul. 

“Your curses have no power, they are an affront to the gods themselves and you should pray for their forgiveness,” Mertha sneered, hand shooting out to roughly grip Daenera’s arm, fingers digging into the soft, malleable flesh of her upper arm with enough force that it would undoubtedly leave bruises. “But do not worry, I will teach you the grace of the gods, so that you may yet be saved.”

[eldesperadont]

@ AEW GIRLIES (gn) who are interested in NJPW lore

with All In coming up, I need fans that only know Kota as Kennys insane boyfriend and Jay as the silly Bullet Club bastard to know about their history with each other (and Kenny/Hangman) which spans 5 years at this point, even more if you count in Jays time as a trainee in njpw (2015/16), so he like.. watched and learned from them all – anyways lets go with the rambling recap

Starting with Jays first title win and how it came to that: early 2018, Kenny was in the midst of a power struggle in Bullet Club, his relationship with Cody was getting more strenuous by the day and the non Elite BC members were getting tired of their BS.

Kenny, trying to legitimise his position as a leader, thought recruiting new promising talent to his side would help, so he offered a young Switchblade Jay White “the opportunity of a lifetime”.

Jay accepted, only to attack him right after, and with that nothing could stop the threads holding Kennys BC together from rapidly unravelling.

Kenny would lose his US Heavyweight Championship to White soon after, and in the aftermath of the match even more. Hangman, finally taking a step out of his friend's shadow, got all up in Jays space, snatched the belt and obviously implied a challenge, but Kenny wouldnt have any of that. He pushed Adam aside and gave Jay his price back. (to the surprise of the crowd who expected Kenny to be more bitter apparently lol)

Enter Cody. Opportunistic and sinister as he was at the time he immediately stoked the flames, snapping at Kenny why he wouldnt let Hangman have that moment.

They seem to talk it out but whoops, Cody attacks Kenny after all, Adam helping him.

They are about to lay him out as Ibushi runs to Kennys aid, finally giving us the reunion people have been waiting for years.

In the following months a lot happens, Adam gets his match with Jay (and is read to filth by him - it’s essential to watch that promo, here) but doesnt succeed, the Golden Lovers and Young Bucks have an emotional feud, Cody continues being a menace with Hangman at his side, Kenny finally wins the IWGP Heavyweight belt, the Golden Elite was formed, Cody is a sad lil bitch now, they were all kinda friends again, oh and Bullet Club split fr*.

[*On one side you had Kenny and his friends, on the other BC originals Bad Luck Fale, Tama Tonga plus his younger brothers and technically their dad? Things were kinda messy but thats technically the BC that stayed in Japan and made Jay White their leader. The last real appearance of the Elite as BC was at the inaugural All In, their indie PPV.]

Alright end of 2018/beginning of 2019 - Kenny loses his IWGP belt at Wrestle Kingdom (njpws wrestlemania) and quietly leaves NJPW with the Bucks, Cody and Hangman, starting AEW (things behind the scenes didnt work out as expected and nooj didn’t wanna cooperate with them at first)

So yeah. Ibushi. He was all alone again, but in the summer of 2019 finally manages what he was so close to in the previous year: winning the G1 tournament.

He faced Jay White in the finals, who at that point firmly held Kennys position as Bullet Club leader and is the top gaijin of the company.

Both him and Ibushi were together with Kazuchika Okada and Tetsuya Naito the top of NJPW. And all four would be involved in the main events of the following Wrestle Kingdom. Jay and Okada as titleholders, Naito and Ibushi as challengers.

Well neither Jay or Kota came out victorious on the first WK night, but the following day, in a match for third place, Jay defeated Ibushi, making the latter the biggest loser of the event,,

Covid caused quite a mess in the following months - their next singles meeting wouldn't be till late 2020, during that years G1, where Jay gets another win over the Golden Star

but is unable to reach the finals, in contrast to Ibushi, who wins the whole tournament for a second time.

Jay doesn't wait and immediately brings up Kotas loss to him, demanding a match for the WK contract he's just won.

Alright bada bing bada boom Ibushi-

LOSES??

Yeah to the shock of everyone Jay actually managed to put himself in the main event for the following WK, thinking he'll face double champ Naito to dethrone him .. but Naito still wanted to face the G1 winner so Kota got his title shot regardless lol

so yeah we got Ibushi vs Naito on night one, and whoever wins that on day two against Jay

In complete contrast to the previous WK Ibushi would not only be victorious on the first night, but also finally beat Jay for good, becoming the undisputed double champ, and God. (their words not mine)

Which absolutely broke White, giving us a glimpse at whats really going on in the "Switchblade". He's so obsessed with success, finally wanting HIS moment, his era, and despite everything he's sacrificed it doesn't seem to happen..

(pls watch the whole promo, its an insane performance)

He'd show up for one last "contractually obligated" match, battered and bruised, taking the pin in a multiman tag match between Bullet Club and Chaos, before leaving everyone in the dark for month about whats next for him.

He'd stick with NJPW for two more years, returning even more unhinged than he already was.

Kota would go on with his reign as double champ, till NJPW unified the titles to create the IWGP World Championship (a highly unpopular move with the fans), which he's the inaugural champion for.

Jay would try his best in the New Japan Cup in hopes of getting another shot at Ibushi, but fall short in the quarterfinals - new focus new goal, he goes for the NEVER Openweight title, and becomes the first ever NJPW "Quadruple Crown" champ, having already held the IWGP US, Heavyweight and Intercontinental Championship at that point.

Ibushi, now with the IWGP World Championship, has his first proper defense with the new singles belt .. and loses to 2021 NJ Cup winner Will Ospreay, cutting his reign shorter than anyone expected.

His bad luck doesnt end there tho, despite making it to the G1 finals for the fourth time in a row, he breaks his arm in said match and is unable to continue. He'll not appear in a NJPW ring again. Mistreatment by staff which caused serious trouble in his private life has him decide against re-signing with the company.

Jay in the meantime would shake things up overseas, defending his NEVER title, debut in IMPACT, be on weird terms with the Elite, lose the NEVER title, debut in AEW, oh and not return to Japan. For a full year, missing out on key events, which had even his BC mates start asking questions.

After some rearranging within the club (kicking out old and recruiting new members) he’d finally return to Japan in the summer of 2022, swiftly dethroning IWGP World champ Okada, Jays last title reign in NJPW (youve might seen his first defence, at Forbidden door against Hangman, Cole and Okada).

He’d hold the title till early 2023 and in good old switchblade fashion be this 👌 close to realising his errors, only to blame everyone else and lose his mind over it, getting involved in a “loser leaves Japan” match against Hikuleo (who had turned his back on Jay) and afterwards, cause that somehow wasnt enough, a “loser leaves NJPW” match against Eddie Kingston. And thats how we got Jay White in AEW, mf is in exile and acts like nothing ever happened lmao

Ibushi, whos last match had been in October 2021, would finally return to the ring in March 2023, at Josh Barnetts 9th Bloodsport event, and make his AEW debut at Blood and Guts, reuniting with Kenny, the Bucks and Hangman as the Golden Elite :)

So yeah both Kota and Jay had quite different paths (that crossed a lot) towards AEW, and as someone who's been watching them for so long now I'm absolutely giddy to see them face one another again - if youd have told me a year ago that I'd get to see Kota and Jay in the same ring again, cause of KENNY of all things, I'd have imploded on the spot (positive)

📷 picture credit: NJPW World, one pic from Jays Instagram, one impact thumbnail and one aew thumbnail

‼️ feel free to ask about anything / correct me on info or spelling mistakes, english is not my mother tongue and im disabled so sometimes i mess things up

[maul-of-shame]

"Beneath the King's Gaze", a Gil-galad x OC fic

Week(s) ago I opened my "middle-earth one-shots requests" and I already posted a few over AO3!! This one’s for @serenni on Tumblr!💕 I had so much fun writing this piece—thank you for the lovely prompt!😊✨ I hope you enjoy the soft moments and the warmth between these two!! It was such a joy to bring them to life! And it's been updated on AO3 now as gift!🌙💫

As always, thank you to everyone who reads, comments, and supports my work—it means the world!💖

You can find it on AO3 here!

Do NOT repost, reblogs are okay!

The Isle of Balar, though safe, was a sanctuary marked by loss.

Souls wandered like shadows, bearing wounds of battles left behind and sorrows gathered in their hearts, yet they clung together, drawn to this place by the shared weight of fate. Among them, Séredhiel had emerged as a light that offered both peace and hope. She had neither title nor the skills of a healer, but the people sought her presence. Her words, like a gentle song, reminded them of home. Her stories brought warmth, and her laugh seemed woven from the last threads of joy they'd known before sorrow claimed them.

From across the encampment, Gil-Galad watched her move among the gathered refugees. Her deep brown hair, though tousled from the island’s winds, caught a glimmer of sunlight, adding an ethereal warmth to her presence. She was barely tall enough to reach his shoulder, yet even from a distance, her presence was as profound as any figure of noble blood. And though he could command armies and fortify kingdoms, Gil-Galad felt strangely unarmored as he watched her laugh with a child, as if the troubles of the world had momentarily melted in her embrace.

She helped mend what could not be touched by a sword or a poultice.

Today, Séredhiel was with a group of weary families, tending not to their bodies but their hearts. A child—no more than a toddler—reached up to her, and she bent down, lifting the little one into her arms. She sang softly, her voice carrying across the camp with notes so gentle they felt like a caress to the ears. 

Without realizing he’d been drawn in, Gil-Galad found himself beside her, captivated by the serenity she shared. She turned, noticing him at last, and greeted him with a slight bow, but there was warmth in her gaze, an invitation to stand at ease.

“_ My king.”; She said softly. “ I did not know you walked among us.”

“_ I needed to see our people. To understand what I can do for them.”; He murmured. His eyes drifted to her, a tender reverence slipping into his voice. “ I see now that they already have someone caring for them in ways I could not.”

A soft blush colored her cheeks, and she looked down, shifting the child to her other arm as if needing a distraction.

“_ I only give what little I have.”; She replied. Her voice softened, shadowed with sadness.“ In truth, I am grateful to be of any help at all. It is a way to honor those who… were not so lucky.” 

He felt the depth of her heart, the selflessness that pulled her to each wounded soul, each tear-streaked face. And in that moment, something slipped past his guard.

“_ You give more than you know.”; He said, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “ You shine upon them, like Ithilwen, the moon maiden herself, with light in the night. You heal wounds unseen. There is no greater gift.”

She looked up, surprise mingling with the warmth in her hazel eyes, the green and golden flecks catching the light just so.

“_ Ithilwen?”; She repeated, an amused smile curving her lips.  He realized what he’d said, and a faint color rose in his cheeks.

“_ It… suits you. I only meant…”; He stumbled over his words, not a common occurrence for him.

She laughed softly, the sound bright as sunlight.

“_ Thank you, then. I shall hold the name close.”; She glanced away, setting the child down, her gaze growing distant as she looked out across the refuge, as if absorbing the weight of everyone’s silent grief. Then, almost to herself, she whispered. “ I only hope my brother finds his way back to me.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, offering his silent strength.

“_ As do I, Ithilwen.”; He said softly. “ For his sake, and for yours.” 

There was silence between them, but it was comfortable, laced with an understanding that needed no words. As he looked at her, with her gaze far away and filled with the care she had for these people, something stirred in him—a yearning he had never allowed himself, a hope that perhaps one day, when his duties allowed, he might claim this solace for himself.

Gil-Galad watched as Séredhiel slipped back into the gentle bustle of the refugees, her presence a steady balm to the people gathered in their grief, settling down the small toddler. With a lingering look, he turned to leave her, his duties calling him back, yet he hadn’t gone but a few steps when she called after him, her voice light and hesitant.

“_ My lord…”; She paused, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze shy as she looked up at him. “ Would you… I mean… if you have a moment, would you be willing to… assist me?”

Her words came with a faint flush, her eyes bright as she half-smiled, as though unsure if she was overstepping in asking him to stay.

A king did not usually tarry long with the wounded, much less lend his hands among them. Yet Gil-Galad felt something warm spread through him at her request—a strange, unexpected joy in simply being close, to be of use to her.

“_ I would be honored.”; He replied, his voice softening. “ Show me what I can do.”

Together, they worked side by side among the scattered groups. Séredhiel spoke with gentle ease, each word a salve to weary souls. At her request, Gil-Galad gathered supplies and offered his hands, often little more than carrying linens or fresh water, but somehow, every task felt purposeful.

He noticed how the people clung to her words, and she spoke to each person with the same tenderness and care, as if nothing else in the world mattered in those moments.

She caught him watching her and let out a small, embarrassed laugh.

“_ You know, I didn’t mean to keep you here, my lord…”; She teased softly, her voice laced with a chuckling warmth. “ But I appreciate your help, all the same.”

He laughed softly, bending to offer a hand to an elder who struggled with their blanket.

“_ You don’t give orders easily, do you?”

Her smile was warm, a touch of color in her cheeks.

“_ Not to a king, no.”; She replied. “ Nor to anyone. I find it easier to ask than to demand.”

Yet he saw it, how naturally people were drawn to her, how they relied on her presence without question. Children gathered around her, their small hands reaching for hers, and those broken from battle seemed to find some sense of strength in her gaze. Even those too weary to smile managed to find comfort in her presence, soothed by the gentleness she offered.

He fell into a natural rhythm beside her, letting her lead.

She laughed often, and he couldn’t help but watch the way her eyes softened as she spoke to the people—how she met each gaze, letting them feel seen. To her, each person was a story she was eager to listen to, a soul worthy of patience and care.

He found himself in awe of her quiet strength.

Her joy felt like a revelation, even to him, for it softened the edges of his own heart. His thoughts drifted, and he wondered if there might be a place for such a light in his life. 

“How strange”, he thought, that she brought out a gentler side of him—a warmth he’d once thought he’d hidden away in his duties, his heart hardened by years of war and responsibility. He was a king, expected to stand alone in times of hardship, yet here he was, finding solace not in his own resolve but in the warmth of her smile, the sound of her laugh. The realization caught him off-guard, like a powerful wave, a sudden yearning he felt rise within him.

They settled together beside a family, where Séredhiel knelt to speak softly with a mother who clutched a newborn, her eyes red with worry. As Séredhiel whispered comforting words, Gil-Galad found himself captivated by her voice, and an image settled in his mind: of moonlight bathing her face, of that gentle light illuminating her features.

She was, indeed, Ithilwen—his Ithilwen.

But the thought felt almost too bold.

She was free and strong, a warmth that could never be contained. Yet he could not ignore the ache, the wish that for once, he might find a way to hold something purely for himself. 

She caught him looking, and her lips curved into a soft smile.

“_ Thank you, my lord.”; She whispered, her voice like a song that drifted around them. “ For everything.”

“_ Séredhiel…”; He began, then faltered, unsure of what to say. Her gaze lifted to meet his, and he knew then that his heart was no longer his own. He swallowed, hoping his gaze alone might speak what he could not say.

They turned back to their quiet work among the refugees, and as they moved side by side, Séredhiel found herself falling into the rhythm of their shared task. Gil-Galad took up each effort with surprising grace, following her lead with a quiet attentiveness that softened his kingly bearing. She couldn’t help but admire the way he brought comfort with gentle strength, meeting each soul with a warmth that felt both steady and personal.

Then, a small hand tugged at the hem of Gil-Galad’s tunic. A boy with a freckled nose and wide, tear-bright eyes looked up at him, clutching a scraped knee with a face twisted in pain and a hint of awe at the towering figure before him. Gil-Galad froze for a moment, taken off guard by the boy’s sudden need.

“_ Your knee, young one.”; He murmured, bending down awkwardly, his hands hovering as if unsure whether to touch. He glanced at Séredhiel with a faintly helpless look that brought a smile to her lips.

She knelt down beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“_ He’s looking for a bit of bravery.”; She murmured softly, reaching into her satchel for a cloth. “ You’ll do fine, my lord.”

With a small, hesitant chuckle, Gil-Galad softened, reaching out to steady the child. He lifted the boy into his arms with a tender care that surprised even him, holding him close to his chest as Séredhiel examined the boy’s scrapes. The king’s brows furrowed with an intensity that seemed almost comically misplaced, as if this scraped knee were a grave wound.

Séredhiel carefully dabbed at the boy’s knee, her touch feather-light as she worked, her voice soothing as she murmured to the child. And yet her gaze kept drifting to Gil-Galad, captivated by the way he held the boy, his face a mixture of kindness and determination.

The child whimpered as the cloth brushed his scraped knee, and Gil-Galad instinctively tightened his arms around him, rocking him gently.

“_ Brave lad, aren’t you?”; He said, his voice low and warm. “ Why, a scrape like this? You’ll be on your feet again by morning.”

The boy sniffled, peeking up at the king with wide eyes, and some of his fear faded. Gil-Galad grinned, his gaze softening.

“_ You know, I once scraped my knee too. Right before a battle. I hardly walked for a day.”; He added in a conspiratorial whisper, his expression serious, as though sharing a great secret.

Séredhiel’s heart softened, her hands stilling for a moment as she looked at him. Here was a king, one with the strength of his ancestors, yet willing to kneel in the dirt for a child, his voice a quiet balm that seemed to dissolve the boy’s fears.

“_ There.”; She whispered, her voice like a lullaby as she smoothed a strip of cloth over the boy’s knee. “ Almost done.”

Gil-Galad shifted the boy in his arms, his gaze never leaving her as she worked. He looked as though he might say something, but instead, his mouth curved into a faint smile as he watched her, his admiration deep and unguarded.

“_ You’re good at this.”; He murmured, his voice soft so as not to disturb the boy resting against his shoulder.

She glanced up, her cheeks warming.

“_ It comes naturally.”; She replied, looking at him, taking in the way he cradled the child with a tenderness she hadn’t expected. “ But it seems it does for you as well.”

His brows rose, his cheeks faintly flushed as he looked away, a faint chuckle escaping him.

“_ It… Well, I suppose it does.”; He said, his tone almost bashful, his voice barely above a whisper.

She finished tending to the boy’s scrapes, placing a final kiss to the makeshift bandage as she whispered a soft prayer for his strength.

“_ There you are, little one. You’ll be well in no time.”; She rose, watching as Gil-Galad carefully set the child down, his hand lingering on the boy’s head with a look of fatherly pride.

The boy looked up at them both, then broke into a bright grin before darting off, his small voice calling a cheerful thank-you as he disappeared into the crowd. Gil-Galad straightened, his gaze following the child’s retreat before he turned back to Séredhiel, something warm and vulnerable in his expression.

“_ Strange, isn’t it?”; He said softly, almost to himself. “ To care for one so small, to feel a… connection.”

He paused, his voice tender.

“_ One might think it would take more time, but somehow, the heart decides.”

A warmth bloomed in her chest as she looked at him, feeling a depth in his words she hadn’t expected. Her voice was soft as she replied.

“_ It does, doesn’t it? The heart, I think, often knows before we do.”

Their gazes met, and she saw in him the trace of a yearning, a quiet ache he hadn’t allowed himself to voice. She felt, knew, the weight of his burdens, the responsibility that rested on his shoulders. Yet here, in the simple act of caring for a wounded child, he had allowed himself to be simply Gil-Galad—a man, capable of love, of tenderness.

She gave him a soft smile, a quiet reassurance that she understood, even if he hadn’t spoken it.

And as he returned the smile, his eyes lingering on hers, she realized she felt something stir within her, something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel until now.

For a brief, unguarded moment, she imagined what it might be like to share a life with him, to see him like this each day—a man who could kneel in the dirt for a child, who could hold her heart as carefully as he’d held that boy. And she wondered if, perhaps, he might feel the same.

They stood in silence, surrounded by the sounds of the camp, yet wrapped in a quiet understanding that needed no words. And as they turned back to their work, her heart held a hope she hadn’t dared to feel before, a gentle wish that someday, the warmth she’d glimpsed in his gaze might become something more.

[triangle-strategy-notes]

The Hierophant and Automatons Concept Art

Concept art for the Hierophant and the other puppets/automatons you face in the final battle! Translation notes and image id under the cut.

Translation notes:

Japanese doesn't usually include gendered pronouns, so when I use "it" and/or "her" for the Hierophant, I'm inserting those based on my best guess given the context—it's not anything the designers intended to include.

The word I translate as puppet/doll/automaton is in most cases the same word, but I use the different English translations interchangeably depending on the context.

"Homunculus" on the first page is literally "nculus". I'm assuming it's shorthand for homunculus so that's what I put for clarity, but I might be wrong about that. On the second page, the actual word for homunculus is used explicitly.

"The threads are manufactured using a special growth process" seemed to have a typo or two. I tried to account for that and I think I got the translation more or less accurate, but I still feel a little bit uncertain about it. Notably there might be something about 2 strands being woven together.

"Do not defy" might have also been translated as "do not betray [me]".

Image Ids:

[Image id: Two pages from the Triangle Strategy artbook centered around the Hierophant and the automatons. The first page is titled, "C Hierophant (puppet) Rough Draft". There are several drawings of the hierophant and her doll-like construction. One note reads, "Sought after and made a human". Another reads, "A. Puppet — Ball-jointed doll". There is a subheading labeled, "B. Flesh" with some text that reads, "Even though it comes from a desert country, the skin is white and pure to the point that it looks bloodless." Another note reads, "Lifeless eyes" and another says "Do not defy". One note that points to the Hierophant's clothing says, "The garment is modeled after the Goddess of Salt's." Another reference drawing has the note, "The most complete one at the moment (Hierophant Puppet)". Another note says, "I call it 'homunculus', but it's in fact only an extraordinary puppet that has the appearance of being alive. That said, it was indeed given some human body parts during its creation… The human 'hair' is not only the doll's puppet strings, but also its internal parts, which enable the puppet to circulate magic efficiently and to manifest a level of power beyond that of a mere puppet." Another note gesturing to the puppet strings says, "The threads are manufactured using a special growth process." Another says, "Countless unfinished things." One drawing has the puppets attacking and grabbing onto a man with a sword. A nearby note reads, "If they get a hold of you, it's pretty dangerous!" An illustrator's note at the bottom reads, "The request for this included a surprise: 'the hierophant is a puppet!' I remember having a lot of back and forth about what puppets are in the context of the world, and Mr. Ikushima's ideas concerning the setting also helped. (Yasuaki Arai)".

The second page has several images, including one large one of a smoky purple room with automatons crawling down from the ceiling with Idore in the center pulling the strings. To the side there is another illustration of the puppets hanging up near the throne room's domed ceiling. At the top is a note that says, "From a distance, it looks like there is a painting on the ceiling, but in fact there are count- less unfinished puppets hanging in the shadows, and the puppeteer can control them all at once to attack." Another nearby note reads, "In the shadow of heaven, countless unfinished puppets are hanging." Next to Idore is the note, "His Excellency, The Puller of Strings. Controls countless homunculi at the same time and causes them to attack. Similar to spellcraft, it is a highly refined technique." There are some additional drawings of the automatons and hierophants showing some of their more inhuman traits, as well as some conceptual drawings of internal organs including a brain. A note reads, "If they really are just puppets, then there's no need to bother with brains or internal organs." At the bottom is a designer's note that reads, "This is a rough idea of the final boss Idore, the Hierophant, and the other puppets. I believe we also make good use of Mr. Ikushima's ideas in the battle planning. (Arai Yasuaki)" /end id]

[selfcestmovies]

In the dimly lit basement of the Avengers compound, Wanda Maximoff paced eagerly back and forth across the cold stone floor, her fingers tracing the spine of a weathered tome. The book was massive, its pages yellowed with age, the ink slightly faded but still legible. A single candle flickered beside her, casting dancing shadows on the walls as she carefully turned each page. This was one of the many books she'd been given access to since joining Earth's Mightiest Heroes — a relic from a time long past, full of knowledge she barely understood but was desperate to learn.

Her heart raced as she stumbled upon a section titled "Astral Projection." The illustrations showed figures leaving their bodies, floating in ethereal forms, translucent but powerful. Wanda's eyes widened with fascination. She had heard of this technique, seen glimpses of it in her nightmares, but had never attempted it herself.

"This… this could be it," she whispered to herself, her Sokovian accent thick with excitement. The idea of separating her consciousness from her body intrigued her. What better way to explore the limits of her power?

Wanda scanned the text. Surprisingly, the spell felt intuitive, almost as if it had been waiting for her all along. With a deep breath, Wanda began to channel her energy, her hands glowing a faint red as she focused on the incantation. The words slipped from her lips effortlessly, the ancient language twisting through the air like a soft melody.

As she chanted, she felt a strange tug within her, like something was being gently pulled from her core. She kept her eyes closed, feeling the sensation intensify until, suddenly, it stopped. Opening her eyes, Wanda gasped softly. Standing before her was a figure, identical in every way to herself. The clone was fully formed, a perfect replica, right down to the fiery intensity in her eyes.

The clone tilted her head, examining Wanda with the same curious expression. "This is… unexpected," the clone said, her voice matching Wanda’s own.

"I didn't think you could speak—" Wanda mused.

The astral double then extended a hand towards Wanda's own. Her fingers felt warm and solid against Wanda’s skin.

"And," Wanda held back her gasp. "I definitely didn't think we could touch."

"I didn’t either," the double replied, her gaze flickering with the same intensity that Wanda felt building in her own chest. The spell wasn't supposed to have conjured a corporeal twin — but Wanda had learned by now that magic often didn't behave itself. Not around her.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, neither spoke. The air around them seemed to crackle with energy, a silent understanding passing between them. Wanda’s lips parted, a thought crossing her mind—an idea that, for all its absurdity, made perfect sense in the heat of the moment.

"You’re thinking it too, aren’t you?" the clone whispered, her voice low and sultry, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips.

Wanda couldn’t suppress a grin as she nodded. "We’re the same person, after all."

Without another word, the double closed the distance between them, her lips crashing into Wanda’s with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. Wanda responded immediately, her hands threading through her double’s hair, pulling her closer as they lost themselves in the kiss. It was electric, a mix of passion and curiosity, as if they were discovering each other for the first time.

Their movements were synchronized, perfectly in tune with one another, every touch, every sigh, mirroring the other’s desires. Wanda marveled at the sensation of her own skin, her own warmth, but experienced from the outside and within. It was intoxicating, a loop of endless pleasure as they explored the boundaries of this newfound connection.

When they finally broke apart, both Wanda and her clone were breathless, their foreheads resting against each other as they caught their breath. Wanda smiled, a sense of exhilaration washing over her. "I think I’m going to like this new spell."

The clone chuckled, her breath warm against Wanda’s lips. "So am I."

[hart-feathers]

Fic Snippet

Title: The Other Half of Me

Pairing: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Summary: He finds Hannibal, as he expected, sitting in front of the Primavera. He lays eyes on him for the first time since Hannibal gutted him and it feels like the world sharpens into focus, though he had been unaware of the blurry edges before this moment. Will stares at the expanse of Hannibal’s back and he aches.

~

Prompt - "So much about this feels like a dream."

A Dolce divergent inspired by two of Lisa's beautiful paintings [x]

~~~~

As Will walks through the sprawling halls of the Uffizi he still does not know what he is going to do once he finally finds Hannibal. Two desires still war in his breast, yearning and retribution at odds within him - conflicting feelings that have plagued him since his imprisonment, they followed him from his cell back into Hannibal’s office and they refused to leave him even when his blood spilled in rivers across Hannibal’s kitchen floor as he desperately clutched Abigail’s neck in his hand. Even having the thought of his own child taken away and his surrogate child stolen from him a second time haven’t extinguished his desire, nor did betraying Hannibal sate his wrath. He remains stuck in limbo, chasing the shadows of Hannibal and Abigail in his mind. 

He finds Hannibal, as he expected, sitting in front of the Primavera. He lays eyes on him for the first time since Hannibal gutted him and it feels like the world sharpens into focus, though he had been unaware of the blurry edges before this moment. Will stares at the expanse of Hannibal’s back and he aches. He walks forward slowly, limping a little, and watches the slightest tilt of Hannibal’s head - an acknowledgement of Will’s presence as he no doubt catches his scent. Will steps up to the bench and cannot control the urge to touch, to make sure Hannibal is real in front of him, and he lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. The warmth of Hannibal’s body is searing against his palm, even through the layers of clothing. Hannibal looks up at him and smiles, something soft and genuine, an expression Will has very rarely seen before and his heart twists in his chest. He sits beside Hannibal and can feel his eyes on him, he gazes back and simply absorbs Hannibal - both of them battered and bruised as they sit before the glorious painting. There you are.

“If I saw you every day, forever, Will, I would remember this time.” 

Will can’t help the way he smiles at the almost ridiculously sweet sentiment, yet he can feel the honesty of those words and read it in the softness of Hannibal’s expression and his tender amber eyes. He has no doubt that Hannibal truly means those words. He can feel the thorn of wrath and retribution ease, his anger and hurt melting as he, not for the first time, feels the urge to kiss the other man.

He sighs, “Strange seeing you here in front of me. Been staring at afterimages of you in places you haven't been in years. I wanted to understand you before I laid eyes on you again. I needed it to be clear... what I was seeing.” He needed to find some clarity, to learn as much as he could about what made Hannibal the man he is and chase those pieces Hannibal kept so deeply buried. He needs to be sure that what he sees when he looks at Hannibal, that the emotions he perceives from him are rooted in reality and not a thread of his own deep yearning. 

“Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?” Hannibal asks, his voice low and the cadence reminds Will of the dark, quiet hours in Hannibal’s office and dining room. 

“Mine?” Will says softly as he looks at Hannibal, he has barely taken his eyes off him since he sat down, choosing to stare at him rather than the exquisite painting on the wall, “Before you and after you. Yours? It's all starting to blur. Mischa. Abigail. Chiyoh.”

“How is Chiyoh?” 

“She pushed me off a train.”

“Atta girl.” Hannibal remarks with mirth.

Will casts a glance to the sketch pad on Hannibal’s lap, a rendition of Zephyrus and Chloris etched onto the page, his own and Bedelia’s face stare back at him. He looks up at the painting and words slip from his lips, “You and I have begun to blur.”

“Isn't that how you found me?” Hannibal asks. 

“Every crime of yours feels like one I am guilty of. Not just Abigail's murder, every murder... stretching backward and forward in time.” It’s a strange and disquieting sensation, to feel so connected to Hannibal that they almost exist as one being, one soul separated into two bodies but forever tied. 

“Freeing yourself from me and... me freeing myself from you, they are the same.” In this moment Will knows Hannibal feels the same, it is just as difficult for Hannibal to sever their connection and Will wonders if he feels the same sense of being torn in half in his indecision. 

“We're conjoined.” Will says with a faint smile, “I'm curious whether either of us can survive separation.” As he says the words it finally clicks and his inner conflict falls quiet. Oh. I’ve been looking for you my whole life and I didn't even realise it. In the end it’s ridiculously simple. The core of it all just muddied by their actions, clouded by a cycle of reciprocated violence. He feels like laughing. 

“Now is the hardest test: not letting rage and frustration nor forgiveness keep you from thinking.” 

Will knows that Hannibal is half expecting him to attack, to react with wrath, and part of him wants to - a desperate and wild impulse to lash out to hurt and mark and scar. But despite that, despite everything, Will finally makes a choice. 

He reaches out, broadcasting his movements and his empty hands as he moves closer to Hannibal, the other watches him sharply and Will wants to smirk because he knows Hannibal does not know what he’s doing. He admits he enjoys the fact Hannibal can’t predict him and, in times like this, it works in his favour. Will cups Hannibal’s face in his hands, his thumbs lightly stroke over the sharp cheekbones he has admired since they first met. He delights in the way Hannibal’s eyes widen just slightly and the hitch of his breath. Unable to wait any longer, to deny himself any longer, Will moves.

He presses his lips to Hannibal’s unmoving mouth and sighs softly. Kissing Hannibal is nothing and everything like he fantasised. Hannibal is warm and his lips are soft, Will swipes his tongue across Hannibal’s bottom lip and hums quietly at his first taste. For a split second Hannibal freezes, the clatter of his pencil hitting the floor is loud in the loaded silence, then he is a flurry of movement. Large hands roughly grasp Will’s lapels to haul him closer and the previously still lips roar to life, Hannibal’s mouth turns hungry and demanding - teeth nip Will’s lips and a hot tongue slides into his mouth when he moans. The kiss quickly devolves into something passionate and filthy and uncoordinated in the desperation to be closer. 

Will pulls away a little to catch his breath, feeling giddy when Hannibal growls and curls his fingers tighter in his jacket, absolutely refusing to let Will retreat. His head feels light and the room takes on a soft glow, everything feels slow and heavy and illuminated with sharp colours, the universe shrinking down to their embrace. 

“So much about this feels like a dream.” Will whispers against Hannibal’s lips, the man presses small hurried kisses to his mouth and jawline. So many times Will has dreamt of this moment, of Hannibal and himself coming together not in violence but in passion, demanding hands seeking pleasure rather than pain, kiss swollen lips in place of blood stained teeth. He presses his forehead against Hannibal’s and stares into the older man’s eyes which have turned molten with desire, appearing almost red. Part of Will fears this is a dream, a hallucination conjured by his mind in his deep longing for affection from Hannibal. But the pinch of pain from his scrapes and bruises, the wet sensation of Hannibal’s spit on his lips, is undeniably vivid and gloriously real.

Hannibal pulls at Will’s bottom lip with his teeth, "Will, you have to know, now you have kissed me I am never letting you go." his voice has turned husky and Will shivers. 

He captures Hannibal’s lips and kisses him deeply, licking into his mouth to taste him and greedily drinks the moan that crawls up Hannibal’s throat and spills across his tongue. Will pulls back barely an inch and looks at Hannibal meaningfully and whispers, "Maybe that’s just fine."

[writermask-0807]

“winter’s eve,” or: “and the cold of your embrace.” gojo satoru x reader

Warnings: wrote this in a weird mood and a banging headache, so that's probably why it sounds so shitty lmao (😭) there’s also some stuff that doesn’t add up so there's that. angst with no happy ending (dont come for me yall), implied cheating, swearing (like one f bomb lol), also the title literally has nothing related to the fic in itself (except maybe one paragraph 😭). uhh that's all, I think, but lmk if I missed anything!!!

he comes home late, your satoru. late enough that it’s early, actually, with the pale rim of the sun trying to push weakly through the bruise-colored clouds purpling the night sky - late enough that you think he’s not coming, like most other nights. 

but when he comes stumbling in, staggering off to the side as he giggles, drunk, with pink in his cheeks either from the cold or the booze, you think it might’ve been better if he didn’t come home at all. and it sounds cruel, doesn’t it? knowing why satoru, your satoru, who can’t really be called yours anymore, (from a god to a worshipper, did you really think that he would love you like he actually, truly meant it?) is like this. why things are like this, really, but it’s getting harder to bear, these days. 

and as tears fills your eyes when your mouth parts open to speak, you wonder when it’s changed to bearing, and not loving satoru. “where were you?” you ask him, and it’s a broken, whispered thing, no longer being shouted with explosive anger, wrapped in vicious hurt and dripping venom. 

it comes out resigned. tired. you’re tired, and maybe he sees it, for once; (and you want to scoff at the irony of it all — because even with his all-seeing six eyes, satoru has always been blind to you. or maybe he chooses to slide a rose-tinted film over them, and honestly, at this point, you don’t know which one is worse-) maybe he sees the harsh shadows in your eyes and the halo of dark circles, the bitten lips and the messy hair. maybe he sees that he’s the root of all this, because he stops. 

there’s a pause - a sobering quiet, and you think he knows what’s coming. there’s something in the air, something cold and stinging, something tight enough that when you finally breathe his name, it feels like a thread snapping, something falling apart at the seams — like blood oozing through the stitches of a wound, scabbed over and over and never quite healing. a beat too late, you realize that that something is really you and satoru. you and me, he said. we. us.

there is no us, satoru. there was never an “us” and that fucking hurts.

and now it’s all gone, snowed over by satoru and his frost-cold eyes and his freezing voice and his icicle-sharp words, cutting so deep that you’re afraid you can’t dig them out, especially with your winter-numbed fingers. in hindsight, you really should have seen this coming. 

and he must see it too, now, because satoru is a man called god - mighty and powerful and all-seeing - and he truly plays the part. and so he smiles, wide and nonchalant like he doesn’t know this is ripping you apart. like he doesn’t know that this is the end. like he doesn’t even care, and you hate him for it. 

“oh, you know. out.” 

he says lazily, throwing his shades off as he stumbles his way towards you, arms wide open, grinning all the while. you flinch as he steps into the moonlight, reaching out for you, those cruel, cruel eyes holding the stormy brilliance of the skies, glimmering in the weak light — and you think that cuts through the fuzz, the haziness in his mind - sobers him up.

satoru stops, only a breath away from you, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath and the scent of another catching in his clothes and his hair and his skin, see that the smile has slipped off of his face, see the shimmer of his cold eyes, the gaping emptiness in them - a void, that, no matter how much you give of yourself to him, that can never be filled. 

“you’re leaving.” he breathes quietly, soft. broken.

you remain silent, tears clouding your eyes, spilling over your cheeks like a dam burst. because you’d expected yelling, screaming and even cursing, or the cold indifference that satoru has always used to freeze you out, and this - this vulnerability hurts so much more. you wish he would just - just - 

a trembling hand comes to cup your cheek, cradles your jaw, lifts your eyes to meet his, full of melted ice, desperate and searching for something, anything to hold onto, but it’s been ten long, painful years of breaking and fixing, hurting and healing until you’re so scarred over that there’s nothing else left to wound, and by god - you’re so, so tired.

you bring a shaky hand to cup his, curled around your face, tears trembling on your lashes, unable to bear that look of heartbreak in those damned crystalline eyes of his. did he see this, too? 

“i love you. i love you so, so much, don’t you know that?” he murmurs, voice catching, forehead knocking against yours, and you stifle a sob behind gritted teeth. because you know. of course you do; it’s why you’re here now. it’s why you’ve always been here for so long. 

“i know, satoru. i know, but this love of yours is only killing me.” you tell him in a broken whisper, and you feel his grip tighten, feel him shake against you. 

“don’t say that. don’t say that. please…” satoru never begs. he never has had the need to, but now - now he wonders if anything would have changed if he had. he would have fallen at your feet, begged you with all that he had and meant it with his entire chest, baring the tender heart inside for the entire world to see. but it’s too late.

he’s always too late.

“please…” he murmurs against your mouth, lips brushing against yours in one last desperate attempt - and it’s helpless and bitter and wet from the salt of your tears — yours or his, maybe. you don’t know anymore. 

he kisses you and you kiss him back just as hard and wanting, fingers curling into the moon-bright mess of his hair as you tug him down, nails digging into his back and his mouth crushed against yours and it’s desperate and rough and messy, and it feels like the last time and the first time in a long time but this is it. 

this is the end. 

and when he finally pulls back, panting and breathless, you think he knows it too. 

“i’m sorry, satoru.” 

you tell him, and even without the tears in your eyes, and the waver in your voice and the ache in your chest, he knows you’d mean it all the same. you’ve never been as selfish as him, even now, even when it’s your right to be. you could never be as cruel as him. and maybe that’s why this is goodbye. 

and so gojo satoru is selfless for once. he doesn’t chase after the warmth of your mouth when you press your lips to his one last time, a parting gift - a lingering curse. he doesn’t have it in him to look up even when he feels you glance at him one last time, your eyes tired and mournful and full of tears. 

and worst of all, he doesn’t hear the faint “i love you,” that lingers long after you leave, silent to his ears, the door to his house left open, but his home long gone.

FIN-

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

hello, your datamining posts are fascinating! i was wondering if you came across any info on the other thorm family members and exactly how they're related to each other?

Hi, and thank you! Glad you're enjoying the posts. Here's another excessively long one, because I love contemplating the disaster that is the Thorm family.

To start with, a quote from Isobel that isn't in the game anymore, from when you could have a conversation with her post-abduction and post-tadpoling:

I grew up in the village below here. A place built by Thorms, with aunties and uncles and cousins down every laneway.

So there was a whole lot of them. And it sure did rub some people wrong that the Thorms had the cushiest jobs around Reithwin. Sadly, on the matter of the Thorms' actual family tree, the answer is going to be disappointing, I'm afraid. I haven't found anything much about them that isn't in the game, and the game itself stays vague. (Bonus: writing this up when I've just gone through Act 2 in my honour mode run so this is nicely fresh in my mind.)

The Thorms are but collectors: collectors of coin, glory, blood, and more yet.

The only relationship that is explicitly defined is that Malus Thorm is Ketheric Thorm's uncle, as the head surgeon bemoans his displeasure with his nephew and the way he seems to favour now-openly-practicing necromancer Balthazar in the Tissue and Organ Register.

As for Thisobald, the one I, along with I imagine most other people, am most curious about - not much luck with EA stuff. A model for the "Brewer" shows up mid-2021, as seen in this datamining thread (note also the "Necromancer" who is very recognisably our gross ol' pal Balthazar). That's about it. There's files in the current game that explicitly describe him as Ketheric's son in the meta info bits, which have no reason to be untrue:

In Town in Act 2 we meet the Brewer that is son of Ketheric and shadow-curse mutated. This one is played when we defeat him. The brewer was once an ordinary person, but has been twisted by the shadowcurse and is now a huge, bloated monstrosity. He speaks in fragments, and is menacing but with an air of melancholy. He wants to drink until he forgets everything, and would like to bring everyone into oblivion with him.

As does he himself, beyond all those "Father Ketheric" references that I've seen explained as a potential title for a religious figurehead:

Son of Thorm. Sot of Sword Coast. I am Thorm. My father's tower grazed the new moon. Yours means zero, nothing, naught.

So yeah, a real head-scratcher, that one. Unacknowledged/mistreated bastard son before Melodia is something I've seen suggested, which might work. But then, he's very adamant and proud and pretty open about being a Thorm. If you choose to tell him about the owlbear mother as one of the tales to impress him, he only offers this:

[SUCCESS] Mothers. Commiserations. This place is my mother. Its teats are copper. Its milk is barrel-aged. [FAIL] We all have owlbear mothers. Mine was a lush. Unimpressive.

So was his mother an unnamed local drunkard, or is he speaking metaphorically again? Isobel, I am begging. Please explain.

What we do know is that they were all three alive and contemporaneous with Isobel's death and Ketheric's war (much love to the BG3 Wiki for having pretty much all of the in-game book/documents graciously transcribed, btw), and are in fact not ancient Thorms raised during Ketheric's Myrkul days and his "desecrating my family's mausoleum" phase, as I've seen theorised.

Gerringothe was banned from the Waning Moon (SHE KNOWS WHAT SHE DID). She was also in her secret logbook complaining about Ketheric's brewing war ruining her profits.

Malus is interesting - he has the big, extra-pointy elf ears (and so does Thisobald?) and he seems to be really old. Reithwin Necrology has him listed as the head surgeon in 986 DR, which is a little over 500 years before the events of the game take place, and so about 400 years before Ketheric's fall. Interestingly, the document lists the casualties of a battle between Dark Justiciars, Selûnites, and even a druid. I wonder if this might be a conflict taking place during the original Sharran occupation of Grymforge, which lasted for 800 years - and perhaps this is how Ketheric came to know of its existence. We also get to hear about some of Malus' atrocities thanks to sister Anna Lidwin, a tragic figure in her own right.

The Waning Moon: Consignments, written by Thisobald, is an extra spicy bit of text, talking about the entire family, and the way they operated before it all became an open conflict:

The ale she fed me was poisoned - and by my own hand! My truth serum was all too effective. I professed the lot: the poisoned drinks, Malus' 'treatments', the interrogations - all of it. She means to reveal our 'schemes' to the Baldur's Gate authorities. Unless, of course, I grace her palm with more gold than Gerringothe could muster. Father would have my head if he knew - or worse yet, donate me to Malus.

The document concludes with this very, very interesting bit:

The Harpers came too close - they poisoned Father Ketheric himself, yet he professes no ill effects. Malus insists it a fluke. Doctor he may be, but he is no less a fool for it: Father has achieved that of which I can only dream: immortality. I have long suspected. I can guess Father's purpose, but I cannot fathom the means.

If you beat all of the checks while drinking with Thisobald a century later, it turns out he did find out the means after all (and Ketheric was aware, threatening him into silence):

Player: What can you tell me about Ketheric? Thisobald Thorm: Father. Father is father. Eternal, invincible, forever, except not. Player: What do you mean? How can I defeat Ketheric? Thisobald Thorm: No, must not, can not, will not mention her. You want father's personal mysterious - (secret) - secret. No, not, never! Father said, ordered, commanded. Don't say it, don't say it! The cage. Her cage. Talk and… perish, die, buried. Buried in Thorm tomb. Father told me. I can't perish - no, nay, neither. Too strong, too…

After all, he does describe himself as a collector of "that which holds the most value: information".

Going back to Early Access, the quests leading to lifting the shadow curse evolved a lot, with one iteration being you needing to find "anchors" for the curse. Madeline (now of He-Who-Was quest fame) was a long-dead Harper and the sister of another Harper character called Callie you could meet. She died fighting Ketheric and, disillusioned with the Harpers as an organisation, hated that she'd inspired her sister to become a Harper too.

Madeline? But she died back in Ketheric's day. Madeline. Her name was Madeline. And she died fighting Ketheric with her last breath. But that's not enough is it? Madeline didn't want Callie to be a Harper. Nothing. What you saw was the truth. Madeline died hating the Harpers - and her darling sister Callie has no idea. Indeed. Madeline died realising she was just a name on a tally, and she hated the Harpers for it. Indeed. Madeline died hating both the Harpers and herself - for she led Callie down the same path.

She - or a keepsake of hers, her Harper pin - was one of the anchors for the shadow curse. You could also "witness her last moments" somehow, which I assume grew into the post-mortem "trial" we have in the game now.

The darkness emanating from that... it must be an anchor for the curse. What, I know not, but it torments this Harper. The memento is the key - the anchor. Do you have the fortitude to retrieve it? This Harper's soul is trapped in an endless cycle of pain, fear and regret. Her soul is trapped here - and a memento she gave you is doing it. If you give me that pin I'll put her soul to rest. I promise. But I don't know you. And I'm not gonna trust you with Madeline's Harper pin. So be a good egg, and bugger off.

It seems you'd do something like this several times. Isobel and Halsin were the main NPCs involved here - you'd find the anchors, and then presumably one of them would do something with them.

I've been studying the curse ever since, searching for answers. Trying to restore the damage my father has wrought upon this land. My life is devoted to unravelling the torment Ketheric inflicted on this land. So please, find the anchors, and bring them to me. I spent years researching the curse, trying to put an end to it. Nothing has worked - yet. The Shadowfell itself pours through this place, but there is no single portal or anchor. Ketheric was a brilliant general, but not a mage. He must have anchored this corruption and opened a path for Shar. This cursed land is ripe with grief and regret. Find the dead filled with such agony - find what anchors them here. The anchors would be infused with Shar's blessing, concealed where the curse of the Shadowfell is strongest. |Please do. For now, focus on finding the anchors, it's the only way we can understand the curse.| These are both anchors. Yet I believe there must be more. Bring back another anchor, and I will tell you.

You would progress after gathering all the anchors, and learn that you needed the "blood of a Thorm":

Yes! The anchors alone are not enough to end the curse. We need blood from the Thorm family line. That makes sense. A Thorm is the one who made it. How do I get the blood of a Thorm? By bleeding Ketheric. The rest of his family... is long dead.

I bring all of this up because at one point the anchors became the "Bones of Contention", and "the Thorms" were what was sustaining the curse. This is also where we get the full trio of "Distillery boss", "Hospital boss", and "Tollhouse boss", who you'd need to defeat to get the bones. A great writeup of this version of the quest, highlighting Halsin's part in it, can be found here in a post by @merrinla. And as you can see in the post we once again have Isobel on research duty. These are from Patch 6:

How do the Thorms sustain the shadows? [NEEDS FLAG]

Interestingly enough, that line survives to release, and is now answered by Thisobald during the drinking game with "the spirit of the land".

|Please do. Come back to me after the night, hopefully I'll be done researching the bones you brought me.| |We know about the bones and we know we need the blood of a Thorm...|

I also found these tidbits that seem to imply a "sacrifice Isobel" option was at least something that you could discuss in the game:

But you have all the bones. Can't we end the curse at Moonrise? Does that mean your death could end the curse? Perhaps. I fear my sacrifice alone may not be enough. / It's possible I may have to sacrifice myself. But this is my father's crime.

Funnily enough, behaviour scripts for Aylin and Isobel that are still in the game include references to the bones, such as:

[Nightsong] "Stand with Isobel while she's researching the Bones of Contention"

receivedBonesFlag = Flag([[SCL_ShadowCurse_Event_GiveBonesToIsobel_26c0ec08-561f-411f-9053-458341c6a7e9]]) finishedResearchFlag = Flag([[SCL_ShadowCurse_Event_BonesResearchProgressed_91936c5f-a3f6-741a-3f1f-ac956ee649f5]])

But I haven't found much beyond that.

And with that, I'll conclude this giant word soup. Hope it was at least slightly interesting!

[mumms-the-word]

Wandering the Gray

Pairing: Gale x gn!Tav Summary: In the midst of a brutal battle against Viconia DeVir and the Sharrans, Gale finds himself in the Fugue Plane once again. But this time, he recognizes a voice echoing in the distance. ao3 link A/N: You can 100% blame a 1 minute section of The Underworld from Epic the Musical by Jorge Rivera-Herrans for this fic. That's the entire inspiration for this fic. I don't want to spoil too much but if you've heard the song you know what's coming. also I suck at titles, every other title was too spoilery to me anyways enjoy the angst CW: some mention of suicidal ideation, death, grief, sad feels in general,

The air is thick with magical darkness, thick enough to drown in, and Gale is barely hanging on by a thread. He can feel the darkness choking him as he stumbles back, narrowly dodging a blade as it arcs toward him, appearing and disappearing in the inky black. Spell effects from the others briefly illuminate the darkness like obscured lightning amidst stormclouds, but nothing is effectively dispelling the swirling black. Shadowheart had warned them this would be the Sharrans’ tactics, and they had prepared as best as they were able, but the darkness was relentless. Gale had lost sight of her and the others ages ago. Now, he dares not cast spells with wide damage, lest he harm Shadowheart, his other allies, and Tav as well as the Sharrans.

His back hits granite and he realizes too late that he’s backed himself into a wall or platform of some kind. He grips his staff, jaw clenched, ready to swing outward or thunderwave the next Sharran that emerges from the darkness. His heart thumps loudly in his chest, in his ears, and though the battle rages all around him, it’s all he can hear. Every last desperate beat of a heart that is failing, his wounds too much to bear.

He nearly freezes as Viconia herself steps through the darkness. She sneers at him, but something in her stance assures him that he’s not worth her time. Before he can so much as summon a firebolt, however, she gestures sharply toward him, uttering a curse in Drowic. He feels the curse wrap around his chest, squeezing tightly, and his head begins to swim. A barrage of thoughts crowd his mind, clawing at his every insecurity and tearing them open to be laid bare and bleeding. Inadequacy, shame, guilt, terror, they all threaten to overwhelm him.

He sucks in a breath and flings a chromatic orb of crackling lightning at Viconia, but she blocks it readily with her shield. Smirking faintly, she steps backward into the darkness, leaving Gale with her curse, like a thousand voices screaming in his mind.

Pathetic. Weak. Flew too close to the sun. Defied your goddess. A shadow of your former self. Not worth redemption. Use the orb, Gale. Kill yourself. Kill yourself!

He doesn’t see the mace come arcing down toward his head until it’s too late.

—

When he opens his eyes again, he’s not surrounded by darkness, but by shades of gray. Gray and white fog swirls slowly around him and the sky overhead is shrouded in low-hanging clouds, all dull silver. Flakes of ash drift by, born aloft by winds that he cannot feel or sense.

The Fugue Plane, he realizes distantly, looking slowly around him. There’s nothing to see. Even the flat ground beneath his feet is a colorless gray, not quite stone but not quite earth either. When he shifts, his steps kick up a fine dusting of ash, or perhaps mist, which floats upward to join the shifting fog around him. There’s not even a shadow of the looming city of the dead to look for, to guide his steps. 

Just an endless expanse of cloudy gray.

The sheer emptiness of it all settles over him immediately, threatening to make him fold. He’d hoped since the last time he died, he would never have to return. Or at least that the next time would be decades and decades away. To be back so soon…

He lifts a hand to his chest, as if seeking out the pouch that formerly rested over his heart, but he knows it’s not there. Even in the Material world, he no longer wears the pouch. Tav carries it now, though it bears little more than a scrap piece of parchment and a flute, the scroll of true resurrection used up some time ago. He knows he ought to be at least a little concerned, though logically, it won’t be the first time that Withers had dragged one of them from the Fugue Plane for a meager sum of gold. It’s just a matter of waiting.

But it is the waiting that wearies him. A moment in the Fugue Plane stretches on for aeons, in his mind. Even his movements feel weighted down. But with nothing else to do but sit or walk, he chooses to walk.

As he moves through the fog, the hush of the plane is oppressive. Like a droning whisper, the only sound he can hear is a white noise that feels thick enough to cut through yet distant enough that the source is always out of sight, out of reach. There are no words to pick out from the hush, however. As he walks, he moves through the mist alone. No other souls pass by or even materialize in the gray.

Never has he felt so desperately alone, so isolated.

But then…a voice. 

He stops and turns his head as he hears it echoing through the fog, half thinking it’s his imagination. But then he hears it again, this time clearer and closer.

“…waiting…”

He grows still and would have grown cold, had he any body left. That voice…he knows that voice.

“It can’t be,” he whispers.

“I’m waiting…”

He takes a cautious step forward, following the voice deeper into the fog, straining his ears for more of that familiar voice. It must be a trick, and yet…

“Waiting…I’m waiting…”

“Morena?” he calls through the gray, but his voice is muffled, swallowed up by fog and mist. He turns to move in the direction of her voice, following it through the swirling gray.

“My darling boy…”

“Mother!” He stumbles forward and then to a halt, a figure materializing in the mist. “Mother…”

There she sits, perched on the flat of a rock, her hands resting demurely in her lap, the same way she sits in her favorite chair on her balcony overlooking the Waterdhavian harbor. A slate gray sea laps onto the ashen shore around the rock, the rest of the waters disappearing into the dark fog. The sound of the waves should have been familiar, comforting, but the sound is quiet, as if he stands yards away rather than only a few paces from the shore.

She doesn’t turn to look at him. Instead she sits, her head turned toward the water, just as he remembers her looking the last time he visited her in Waterdeep, over a year ago. Before his fall. Before his folly. She’d been admiring the sunset then, a wistful smile on her lips, a book abandoned in her lap. Now her expression is distant and tired.

She should not be here.

“Mother,” he murmurs, venturing another cautious step closer. But she doesn’t seem to hear him. She never once glances his way as he finally reaches the rock she sits on, kneeling down near her feet. He barely notices the water soaking his robes and trousers as the sea flows up toward the rock and ebbs away. “Mum...”

Again she ignores him, her white, clouded eyes on the horizon. Or what would be the horizon, if the swirling mist were not obscuring every view. She hums absently under her breath, little melodies that are heartbreakingly familiar, but she never once looks away from that hidden horizon.

She shifts, her hands making a stroking motion as if she were petting something in her lap. “I know he’ll be home soon, Tara,” she murmurs, her voice echoing softly in the mist as it did when he was searching for her moments ago. “I don’t mind waiting for him.”

“I’m here, Mum,” he says softly, his throat closing around tears he can’t shed. He doesn’t have a body to produce tears nor a physical heart to break. So why does he feel so desperately sad? Why does it feel like he’s about to unravel completely? Some part of him still desperately hopes this is all an illusion. A trick. “I’m…I’m right here.”

But she never hears him. The souls of the dead rarely see or acknowledge each other. He knows that from his last visit to the Fugue Plane. But she can’t…she can’t be…Tara would have said if she were…

She breathes a small sigh, smiling gently to herself and looking down at her lap. “My darling boy…my little love. I do miss him, Tara. But I know he’ll return soon. And when he does, I’ll be here for him. Waiting right here, where he knows to find me.” She looks again to the distant horizon. “I don’t mind waiting…as long as it takes…”

“No,” Gale whispers. “It can’t be…when...”

The answer unfolds in his mind with dreadful certainty. It doesn't matter when.

He took too long to return to her. His year-long seclusion in his tower. The journey from the nautiloid. Months spent traveling, moving farther and farther from Waterdeep. He kept himself away for too long and left his home and his mother entirely behind, and now…

Now it is too late.

He reaches up for her hand, but his fingers pass through her and her form flickers briefly. He curls his fingers into a fist, battling the swirl of emotions inside him. Rage at himself, fear, a desperate longing to say something, do something, to get her to simply look at him. To acknowledge him.

But mostly grief. A deep, irrepressible grief that yawns within him like a chasm with no end. Black and cruel.

“I’m here,” he says again, his voice breaking. “Mum…I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I…”

He shouldn’t have stayed away. Yet even as he thinks it, what other choice did he have? There were no choices. There are no choices. Everything he’d done since his fall, he’d done to protect her. Every choice he makes now is for that very purpose, to save her and everyone else in Faerûn.

And now it doesn’t matter. They’re both dead. 

“I love you,” he says, looking up at her, even knowing that she can't hear him. “All my heart, Mum, I love you. Forgive me. Forgive me.” He bows his head, bringing his forehead nearly to her knee, struggling to compose himself. “Forgive me…”

The hush of the plane and the faint sound of the sea are all that respond. But then a featherlight touch brushes his hair. He looks up, scarcely daring to hope.

His mother gazes down at him, her white eyes focused on him. When she sees him staring back at her, she smiles softly.

“My darling boy,” she murmurs, brushing the backs of her fingers against his cheek. Her voice still bears that distant, echoing tone, as if she’s a thousand miles away. “It’s time for you to wake up.”

“Wake up?”

“Wake up, my love,” she says again, and this time her voice sounds even more distant. Altered. Not quite her own. She covers his eyes with her hand, shutting his eyes for him, and he drifts into darkness. “Wake up.” 

“Gale! Wake up!”

His eyes fly open and he gasps, his lungs desperate for air. He looks around wildly, expecting more of the Fugue Plane, but instead he finds the familiar wooden walls and ceiling of the Elfsong Tavern. He turns his head to find Tav staring at him, their eyes wide with worry.

“Tav?” he mumbles.

“It was just a dream, love,” Tav says, brushing a hand over his sweat-soaked forehead, pushing his hair from his face. “I’ve been trying to wake you for a while now.”

“A dream…” He struggles to make sense of it, but slowly the pieces fall into place. 

Their fight at the House of Grief, where Gale had very nearly died. Nearly, but not quite. He remembers going with Shadowheart to free her parents, only to realize that their freedom meant their deaths. It had weighed on Gale’s spirit, watching her parents smile at their daughter mere seconds before turning into motes of light. He remembers thinking it was an impossible choice, one he couldn't have made on his own.

Something about it seems to have stayed with him. Even now, he half-fears that his dream is more than a dream. A premonition, perhaps, or a glimpse of the future.

Gods, he hopes not.

He sits up, rubbing his hands over his face. His shirt sticks to his sweat-soaked back and he wants nothing more than to splash his face and neck with cold water. But first—

“Where’s Tara?” he asks, dropping his hands.

Tav’s eyebrows draw together. “Tara?”

“I’m here, Mr. Dekarios.” She hops onto the back of the bed where it shares a backboard with Karlach’s. Tara always had an uncanny knack for being nearby whenever she was needed. She licks at one paw before fluffing her feathers and fixing her gaze on him. “Oh my. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Mr. Dekarios.”

He huffs a shaky laugh, but it’s without humor. “I almost fear I have, Tara. Tell me—this must sound like I’m mad but—my mother. Is she well?”

“Mrs. Dekarios? She’s as fit as ever, last I saw.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Why, only just the other day,” Tara said, flicking her ears. “I check on her regularly, you know. I wouldn’t miss our evening tea time for the world.”

Gale breathes a sigh of relief, dropping his head in his hands again. It was just a dream. Just a horrible dream. Probably left over from Viconia’s fear curse that had struck him during the battle earlier that day.

He feels Tav’s hand rubbing comfortingly against his back. “Gale? Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he mumbles. He takes a deep breath and drops his hands again, leaning back against the pillows. “Yes. My apologies. It was a bad dream, like you said.”

Tav is quiet for a moment before cuddling close, wrapping their arms around his middle. He shifts so that his arm is around their shoulders, his fingers trailing absently along their arm.

“Was it about your mother?” they ask quietly.

Gale’s throat closes up, but his silence his answer enough. He clears his throat quietly. “I saw her in the Fugue Plane. A dead soul.”

He can say no more. He reaches up to press his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, as if to block the tears that sting behind his lids. Even the thought of her sitting alone on her balcony, waiting for him, while he puts himself in more and more danger, is enough to break him. He takes a shuddering breath and Tav wraps their arms tighter around him.

“It’s okay,” they whisper. “I’m here.”

“I know. I…thank you.” He manages to compose himself enough to lower his hand and turn his head toward Tara. Her feline eyes glint in the darkness, watching him in silence. “Tara, will you—”

“I assure you, Mr. Dekarios, your mother is hale and hearty,” she says. “And we both have the utmost confidence that you’ll wrap up this Absolute business in time for the upcoming holidays, which you will be spending in Waterdeep, of course.”

“Of course,” Gale says, managing a smile. “But I have a request. I want you to go home.”

Tara blinks, and though she controls most of her expression he sees the fur on her neck start to rise. “Home? And leave you behind?”

“Please Tara,” he says. He rubs a hand against Tav’s back, knowing they’re listening quietly. “I will be fine here. You know you can trust Tav to look after me. But I need someone there to look after Morena. There’s no one more suited to the task than you.”

Tara’s tail flicks several times as she regards him in disdainful silence. But then her fur settles and she looks away. “Very well, Mr. Dekarios.”

“And don’t tell her anything. I don’t want her to worry.”

“Very well, Mr. Dekarios. If that is what you wish.”

“It is.” He knows he’s just worrying too much, but his dream has shaken him. Better to have Tara there, just in case, than to spend weeks wondering and worrying. “Thank you, Tara.”

“You’re quite welcome. But I shall expect you home within a few tendays, you know.”

Gale chuckles, settling in with Tav at his side. “We’ll see what we can do. Safe travels, Tara.”

“You as well, Mr. Dekarios. And you,” she directs her next words to Tav, who turns their head to look up at her. “Do see to it that he does not suffer more bad dreams.”

With that slight admonition, she hops down and disappears into the darkness.

Gale breathes a small sigh, shifting to get more comfortable and wrapping Tav more tightly in his embrace. “You should get some rest, my love. It’s still quite early in the morning.”

“What about you?” they whisper, their cheek resting on his chest.

He’s quiet for a moment. “I fear that after a dream like that, I’m wary of falling asleep again.” 

His dreams rarely repeat in the same night, but he can’t shake the irrational fear that if he falls asleep again, he’ll just find himself back in the Fugue Plane. Searching for his mother.

“Hmm…” Tav turns their head to rest their chin on his chest, looking up at him. “Then I’ll stay awake for a bit too.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” They shift to bring their lips up to kiss him before settling back where they were, pressed against his side with their cheek on his chest. “Talk to me for a bit. Tell me about your mother.”

“My mother? What would you like to know?”

“Everything. Whatever you feel comfortable with sharing.”

Gale pauses to think. Where does one begin when it comes to the venerable Morena Dekarios? But despite his hesitation, he’s grateful Tav is asking. He knows they’re only trying to distract him, but it helps. 

“Well,” he begins. “My mother is the inimitable, dare I say unavoidable, Morena Dekarios. She resides in Waterdeep, in a home overlooking the harbor…”

As he speaks, telling Tav of his mother’s quirks, her affection for him, the way she seems to know everyone, her favorite dishes, her talents, and more, his anxieties eventually fade away. It’s as though speaking of her like this, in the present tense, is proof that she is well. And would still be well when he finally returns to her. 

After a while Tav yawns, their voice heavy with sleep as they mumble, "She sounds lovely, Gale. I can't wait to meet her."

He smiles softly and presses a little kiss to Tav's hair. "Nor I, my love. I'm certain she will adore you."

Tav hides their sleepy smile in his chest and soon their breathing evens out, a sure sign they've been lulled to sleep. Gale listens to them breathing for a moment, grateful for every breath. Grateful, too, that they were willing to stay up and listen to him mumble quietly about his mother for an hour, of all things to talk about.

It’s enough to soothe his guilty conscience for the night. His dream was just a dream, he's more certain of that now. And one day, hopefully soon, he'll be back in Morena's parlor again, suffering her affectionate chiding and introducing her to the love of his life. The thought brings a smile to his face and he closes his eyes, comforted by daydreams of Tav meeting Morena Dekarios.

The daydreams soon bring with them the wave of exhaustion and at last he gives in, closing his eyes and drifting away for a few scant hours of dreamless sleep.

[senseandaccountability]

Ficlet: Ever on

Solavellan tears and therapy in 500 words, post-Trespasser, pre-Veilguard. Also here on AO3.

And life, as it does, goes ever on.

They work, they travel, they stay with the people that became their home.

They’re not lonely.

Dorian introduces her to a widower in his closest circle of acquaintances - Silus, a fellow rift mage who is a fair bit older than her and carries a sadness that doesn’t quite go away even as the years pass by. It suits her well.

Silus is kind and somber, clever and generous. They don't love each other and it's a blessing. She is free to go at any given moment, he in turn frequently visits a man in Antiva, a girl in Jader. But in Minrathous they share each other's solitude: they cook splendid suppers and assist each other with magical research and when the mood strikes them - less frequently these days, their passion was never strong to begin with and there’s just so much else to do - they share a bed.

They all reside in a large villa that Dorian keeps as some sort of headquarters for the assorted activities they occupy themselves with. Whenever Bull is around, he stays for months - once he stays a whole year and Dorian’s laugh is different then, fuller and warmer.

It’s a busy household, a busy home.

Ellana finds that she enjoys getting lost in it, enjoys living in it - more so than she ever did enjoy life with a clan.

She brings in orphans and makes them apprentices, teaches them old elven magic and new Tevinter one alike; in the autumns they travel out to the forests to practise Dalish spellweaving among the falling leaves and in the winters Ellana tries to teach them how to cook and preserve nature’s bounty. Two of the older kids manage to make hearth cakes without the halla butter and present it to her as a gift made for a god, kneeling in front of her, cheeks rosy and eyes glittering. There's a brief sting deep in her chest then, memories of being a Herald, of being with him. Lady Lavellan, they call her. She lets them. The title Inquisitor fades slowly and she welcomes the shift.

Silus hides escaped slaves and apostates in the spare bedrooms upstairs and Dorian hosts meetings that grow more radical by the month, involving the Shadow Dragons as well as several foreign groups working for the same goals.

“Abolish all slavery, overturn the Magisterium, justice for common people - who would have thought this?” She teases him as he wraps up a large gathering that had lasted three days and required so much wine and protective wards that they will have to do without both for a little while.

“Ah.” Dorian wraps an arm around her shoulder; he smells of brandy and embrium and whatever fragrance it is that Bull keeps using when he dresses up. “You know who inspired me, don’t you?”

And Ellana nods. She knows. Solas, too, she thinks.

“Funny, that.”

—

She still talks to Solas every night; he still visits her dreams.

If someone asked her to separate the threads of reality from the fabric of the Fade itself, she isn’t certain she could.

Or would.

One day she will face him in the physical world again, this she knows. She will look him in the eyes then. Bring her good hand up to cup the back of his head to pull him closer, run her fingers over the long-forgotten freckles on his skin. In her dreams she counts them, but she won't, not then.

“Have I proven you wrong yet, vhenan?” she will ask him, and he will answer that she has and all of this will change, again.

Until then she has a life to live.

And life, as it does, goes ever on.

[breckstonevailskier]

Rewriting Captain America: Civil War to actually make it a Captain America movie

Let's face it, the biggest problem with Civil War is that despite Captain America's name being in the title, it's not really a Captain America movie. It's more like an Iron Man 4 or Avengers 2.5 masquerading as a Captain America movie. I mean, the plot relies more heavily on threads from Avengers: Age of Ultron than it does Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Not to mention the creators deliberately trimmed/cut Team Cap scenes because they wanted audiences to be split 50-50 on what side to take, as if they needed to do that to make Team Iron Man Support a Piece of Legislation That Reads Like Something Written By HYDRA look good. And Tony Stark has more dialogue than Steve Rogers gets. And this is around the time when basically, the writing for the MCU decided to stop letting other characters call Tony out on his wrongdoings.

So how does one fix that?

General changes:

For starters, have HYDRA still be as important as they were in Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Rather than have them be conspicuously absent, they are still very much lurking in the shadows. Bonus points by having the movie strongly imply (and members of Steve's side speculate) that the Sokovia Accords might be a brainchild of HYDRA's. After all, the Accords (and the ways they basically take away the rights and freedoms of enhanced individuals) read like something out of Nazi Germany, the place that Red Skull's HYDRA originated in.

Scene by scene changes:

Lagos aftermath:

The opening act in Lagos remains unchanged. It's a great action setpiece. However, some extra stuff is added to acknowledge that Rumlow's cell is obtaining the bioweapon with the purpose of carrying out an attack directed at people who pose a threat to HYDRA's existence.

In the aftermath, what I would change is the press coverage that goes out of its way to vilify Wanda. T'Chaka's biased take blaming the heroes for the destruction caused by Wanda relocating the explosion can stay, and maybe the second one where if not for the mentions of Wanda, you'd think they were talking about Rumlow. But I'd also add at least one newscast that is speaking favorably of the heroes, and praising Wanda for her efforts.

I'd slightly tweak Steve's scene with Wanda, and instead of saying, "The deaths are on both of us," he'd say, "It's not your fault, Wanda. It's Rumlow's fault. It's not your fault that he was a spiteful coward who decided he wouldn't let us take him in alive." I'd also have a scene or two of Vision doing his best to comfort Wanda and provide her someone to express her thoughts to, not unlike this scene from WandaVision:

Also a thing I'd fix is that I'd have the Avengers make some sort of press statement to defend Wanda from those who are unfairly vilifying her. Something to the effect of Natasha, Steve, and/or Vision going in front of a gaggle of reporters to read a statement as follows:

For the past month, the Avengers have been in pursuit of Brock Rumlow, international terrorist and confirmed member of HYDRA. Last week, the Avengers tracked him down to Lagos, Nigeria, where his cell was plotting to steal a biological weapon that it is believed they were going to use to carry out an attack that would kill hundreds of people. Acting per their training, the Avengers engaged Rumlow and his men, successfully killing or incapacitating most of them, and reclaiming the bioweapon. Eventually, Rumlow was successfully cornered. However, as Captain America was preparing to arrest Rumlow, he decided to blow himself up. As there were hundreds of people in the immediate area, Wanda Maximoff instinctively stepped in and used her powers to try to relocate the explosion into the sky where it wouldn't kill anyone. Despite Miss Maximoff's efforts, she ended up losing control of the bomb, and it ended up destroying part of one office building. It is a tragedy that despite the Avengers' successful efforts to stop Rumlow, there were still innocent civilian casualties, including the dozen or so people in the office building that were killed by Rumlow when he blew himself up. However, the blame for those deaths does not fall on Wanda Maximoff. Those deaths are the fault of a madman who, two years ago, was part of a plot by an organization dating back to Nazi Germany to use gunships to mass murder 20 million people, and whose motto is "Cut off one head, two more shall take its place." In addition, it needs to be pointed out Miss Maximoff also saved the lives of everyone in that marketplace. If it was not for her split second thinking, hundreds more people would be dead. And if the Avengers were not there in Lagos, a group of terrorists would have successfully released a bioweapon into the world, one capable of killing thousands. The Avengers are not responsible for the destruction brought upon by the bad guys that they are attempting to stop. That blame should start and end with the bad guys.

Because yeah, that would do wonders for Wanda.

Ross blaming the heroes for the destruction caused by the villains:

Yeah, this is something where Ross is a fucking hypocrite. “How about ‘dangerous’? What would you call a group of US-based, enhanced individuals who routinely ignore sovereign borders and inflict their will wherever they choose and who, frankly, seem unconcerned about what they leave behind?” Then his biased presentation showing footage from the Chitauri invasion in New York (The Avengers), the destruction of the Triskelion (Winter Soldier), Sokovia (Age of Ultron), and Lagos. This presentation is clearly done to paint Steve and his allies in a bad light, and Tony in a good light.

Thing is, though, this is just Thaddeus Ross blaming the heroes for the destruction caused by the villains. Not only in every aforementioned situation would things be worse if the Avengers weren't there (New York City would've been nuked by the WSC, HYDRA would've gotten the Project Insight carriers launched and 20 million people dead, Ultron would've wiped out human life, and terrorists would've gotten away with a bioweapon), but Ross is a hypocrite to try to pin this destruction on the heroes given his failures to capture the Hulk and the destruction he caused in his efforts. @thehollowprince posited here that they really should've had Steve call Ross on his hypocrisy right there and then.

Like, in response to Ross's remarks, Steve would speak up to say, "The Avengers as a whole are not responsible for Ultron destroying Sokovia's capital city. If you want to blame someone for that, direct all your blame at that man who decided to go behind his teammates' back to create Ultron," and point an accusatory finger at Tony. And as I said, have Steve throw Ross's failure back in his face to show that he really has no skin in the game.

Passage from thehollowprince's take on what should've been said:

“But, in the spirit of fairness, let’s talk consequences.” Steve went on. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” “Yes, Steve?” The A.I. said from the speakers. “Could you roll footage of Culver University, spring semester, 2008?” The screen that had been off immediately clicked back on and began playing back footage from cellphones and cameras of Ross’ failed attempt to contain and capture the Hulk in the middle of a crowded campus, using an unauthorized enhanced human, as well as weapons that put the civilian population in extreme danger. The last image was of the Hulk launching an armored truck at another, the screen immediately going static as the footage was lost. “Harlem, three days later.” The Hulk’s fight with a severely mutated Blonsky showed on the screen next, as well as the atrocities that Emil committed on his own before Banner stepped in to stop him. Ross’s face was reddening at having one of his biggest failures played in front of the very people he was trying to intimidate. Harlem was on of his biggest failures and he did a lot to try and distance himself from it. “Thank you, F.R.I.D.A.Y.” Steve said and the screen froze on an image of the infamous Abomination lifting a car above his head, about to crush it into some police officers. “Tell me, Mr. Secretary, where were your consequences? Because from what I understand, you tried to pin the whole thing on Blonsky and Banner, getting a medal and a promotion for your trouble.”

And, as happens in the hollowprince fix-it, Steve, as a last-minute parting shot, drops a bombshell on Ross that he was on HYDRA's hit list and would've been eliminated by Project Insight in the initial attacks upon the helicarriers' launches.

The Accords debate itself:

The big problem with the debate itself is that it's very one-sided. It's more "Tony and his allies make a lot of flawed points, and no one on Team Cap is allowed to call them out on it." So basically, the way to fix it would be to rewrite the debate using a combination of this one by @thehollowprince, as well as these ficlets on Archive of Our Own.

So, obviously, I would rewrite the debate to be more in Team Cap's favor, while we get multiple opportunities for Tony's side's points to be quickly picked apart and called out. To give examples of how this could go:

Have someone on Team Cap point out the whole fact that HYDRA would benefit greatly from this legislation, since it would curtail the freedom of superheroes' ability to respond quickly. And even for those in the UN who might not be compromised by HYDRA, it's a power grab. And it's also a power grab for Ross.

When Rhodey brings up Ross's medal of honor, have Sam point out (as he does in thehollowprince's fix-it) that a Congressional Medal of Honor doesn't mean shit, and comes off with Ross like a white man being rewarded for doing a subpar job. (Also, have someone remind Rhodey that the Accords would've prevented him and Tony from rescuing the President of the United States from Aldrich Killian had they been in place at the time of Iron Man 3, especially seeing as the Vice President was also in Killian's circle.)

I'd cut Vision's whole BS equation entirely. Instead, I'd have him on the side of Team Cap for this movie, and logic, "The number of potentially world-ending events has risen at a commensurate rate. Oversight is not an idea that can be dismissed out of hand, but the form that is being given to us by Ross is one that makes me calculate that the next world ending event has a likelier chance of succeeding.” (Vision's reason for being on Team Cap here is partly because he cares for Wanda, but mostly because he views himself as human, and the way Ross just dehumanized Thor and the Hulk by likening them to nukes makes Vision think Ross would view him the same way; this would actually be consistent with the will he has in WandaVision where he wished not to be turned into a living weapon, the very will that Tyler Hayward disregarded. On top of which, he realizes that he, Wanda, and Steve would be the most severely impacted by the Accords because they seem to be harsher on those who have innate superpowers than those who have removable suits.)

Have an instance or two of Tony being called out on his America centrism. Particularly when he brings up Charlie Spencer's death. In response to that, I'd have Wanda snap at him with a bit of pure rage. Why would I have Wanda do this? Because he's basically ignoring all the Sokovian citizens who died, up to and including Wanda's brother. "And what about my brother, hmm? What about Pietro? Remember him? Does his death matter to you, Mr. Stark? Or do you not give a shit about him because he's not American?"

Use Ross's antics from The Incredible Hulk to posit that Ross or HYDRA or any party with nefarious intentions could use the clause about demanding enhanced give up blood samples so they could use said DNA to create their own army of super soldiers.

Peggy's funeral, UN bombing, pursuit of Bucky

There's few changes here. But one change I would make is that Steve wouldn't just go with Sam to bring in Bucky. I'd have Wanda and Vision brought along too, because after a serious discussion, they think that the best way to salvage Wanda's reputation with the public is to have her going out to do heroism in public. When they get to where Bucky is hiding out, they bring him in, and Wanda gets to use her telepathic powers to render unconscious some of the SWAT forces sent to bring Bucky in. Then T'Challa joins the pursuit, and they are all captured in the tunnel.

Wanda meets Zemo and T'Challa

We then have the whole setpiece at the detention center where Bucky is detained. Natasha is firmly on Team Cap's side, but is taking a neutral stance to gain dirt on the other side. In addition to all the canon interactions, we also have Wanda interacting with T'Challa and recognizing his revenge quest because she still remembers very well what it was like for her last year wanting revenge against the Avengers, and how badly that ended for her. She empathizes with T'Challa and tries to persuade him to look at the bigger picture, not with much success. When Zemo infiltrates the facility to activate Bucky's Winter Soldier programming, Wanda goes down with Steve to subdue him and ends up encountering Zemo. She recognizes him because she knew his wife and son before they died, she once met him at the dedication of one of the memorials to the victims of Ultron's attack, and he's got a reputation in Sokovia as a killer.

Airport battle

The airport battle obviously is very different. Tony has Rhodey, Spider-Man, T'Challa, and a few other superheroes (or maybe Ross's special forces are there as backup). While Steve has Bucky, Scott, Clint, Wanda, Natasha, Sam, and Vision. This airport battle plays out more in Steve's favor, and despite Tony's efforts, everyone on Steve's side makes it to the quinjet and flees to Siberia with him.

Siberia final act

Steve and his team enter the HYDRA base, and make it to the containment area where the other Winter Soldiers were kept on ice, and have been all put down by Zemo. The fact that the Winter Soldiers are already dead, all shot in the head with a pistol, makes Steve surmise that they're walking into a trap.

They've barely had time to acknowledge this when Team Iron Man arrives and corners them. At this point, Steve is fed up with Tony for having such flawed judgement, and T'Challa still very much is on the warpath against Bucky. But as the two sides prepare to clash once again, Zemo chooses this moment to reveal himself. He wasn't exactly expecting to have an entire Avengers team there, but he's willing to improvise. Zemo even tries to liken his crusade to Wanda's misguided revenge campaign, only for her to shut him down by pointing out that she never wanted innocent people to get hurt, whereas Zemo did murder innocent people for his crusade (T'Challa's father and everyone else at the UN; the doctor that he killed and stole the identity of to get into the detention center to activate Bucky). After that, Zemo plays the surveillance footage of Bucky killing Tony's parents.

The moment Steve and Natasha realize what the footage is showing, Steve gestures for the others on his team to get Bucky away from Tony. Rhodey also realizes that Tony's preparing to attack Bucky, and tries to reason with him, but to no avail. Steve doesn't want Zemo to win, so he clarifies that he didn't know it was the Winter Soldier that HYDRA used to kill Tony's parents. This only enrages Tony further, and a nervous Natasha admits that she was also there when Zola told Steve this information.

In that split second, all hell breaks loose. Tony's rage boils over and he shoots Natasha with one repulsor, throwing her backwards and knocking her out. He tries to shoot Bucky with the other, but Rhodey is able to grab his hand and deflect the blast away from Bucky.

A fight ensues. Like in canon, T'Challa is the one who captures Zemo, though he also has some help from Scott, Spider-Man, and maybe Clint. Meanwhile, the other Avengers are left either fighting Tony, protecting Bucky, or both. With a fight that basically plays out as a mix of "the Guardians plus Iron Man, Spider-Man and Doctor Strange vs. Thanos on Titan" and a bit of "Payback vs. Soldier Boy from The Boys".

Ultimately, the Avengers still in the bunker succeed in taking down Tony, but Natasha, Rhodey and Bucky take severe injuries in the process. The fight ends when Wanda leaps on Tony from behind and uses her powers to attempt to disorient him, giving Steve an opening to smash his arc reactor with his shield. Vision then tears it out of the armor for good measure.

The Avengers effectively turn their backs on Tony Stark, and the movie ends with them as a whole condemning his misguided actions as well as condemning the Sokovia Accords, and taking the unified position, "After the events that happened in the course of pursuing the person responsible for bombing the UN in Vienna, the Avengers have elected to reject the Sokovia Accords, although we are open to alternative forms of oversight if the UN is willing to negotiate with us and also purge their ranks of anyone who might have ties to HYDRA." They also make publicly condemn Tony for trying to murder Bucky out of misplaced anger. Vision and Wanda settle down in Westview, Clint and Scott return to their families, though they'll still meet up with Steve, Sam, Natasha and Bucky for missions, and Natasha still meets up with Yelena and her old spy "family" to destroy the Red Room.

This then segues into another movie that's about Steve and his team of Avengers (Sam, Natasha, and occasionally Wanda, Vision, and Clint) going around the United States doing everything to get the Accords struck down and Ross removed from office for his abuses of power (especially since while the UN's been forced to let them go, the Raft is a walking human rights violation that no one should be locked up in for any reason).

[ominouspuff]

;w; Untitled please, gutpuncher was too aptly named

This one is not in a specific AU; it’s just some scroobling around with scenes of a Victory!AU and what follows. (There is an extremely undignified dance eventually.) Imagine the end-scene of the Return of the Jedi where there are parties on every planet, but with the Clones present and shouldering a healthy share of the event management load just by taking initiative and partying the hardest they can.

UNTITLED - BOOT-SCOOTIN’ VICTORY - Smol Snippet:

One might have thought it would be an awkward position for a general to be suddenly on equal footing with his subordinates, ranks dispensed with and titles tossed like so many petals into the air. When the general in question is one Obi-Wan Kenobi, it is no such thing.

Beneath the vast dome of the senate’s rotunda, surrounded on all sides by bodies and noise, Obi-Wan watches the crowd of men before him instead of the senator still speaking to him, grinning so broadly he’s sure his cheeks will split. 

Every threat is gone. The case is won. They are free men.

Obi-Wan can see familiar faces amid the sea of mirrored features. He is possessed with the urge to grab each set of hands, seize faces and shoulders and laugh into messy, sweaty hair that smells of life and living. The impulse is not his own — his own feelings well low and deep in his gut, incandescently overjoyed, but not so bubbling. His fingertips twitch with it. Like a swelling wave he rides the immaterial singing force in the air, maintaining his position within it, hands clasped at his back. 

Waxer is dancing, Obi-Wan thinks; although he makes a show of redefining the word. Boil is laughing from his knees, eyes screwed shut and face upturned, something wet in the sound. 

(More happy-vibing sightseeing from Obi for a bit here, runs into a few more familiar faces, still doesn’t involve himself directly)

Obi-Wan searches the crowd again, laughing now — and catches a glimpse of Rex.

Rex is trembling with hands upraised and fingers loose, eyes glazed wide with shock, caught up in what looks to be a painfully tight embrace with Obi-wan’s very own Marshall-Commander-no-more. Cody’s close-shorn head buries into the other’s neck-guard, his gloved fingers squealing where they grip at plastoid, armored shoulders rigid and still. They are still as statues compared to the heaving throng of clones around them.

Obi-Wan excuses himself from the throng of watching senators poorly, his voice reduced to a thread, his words tumbling gracelessly, conflicting needs to laugh or burst into messy tears tearing painfully at the corners of his mouth. 

Sluggishly he moves, and when he finally quits the halls it is with backwards steps into helpful shadows, because — Force have mercy on a giddy fool, but joy renders Obi-Wan an indecisive man who cannot pick which glimpse must be his last.

END SNIPPET