#Chime of Indigo Cloud

[rjalker]

anyways fuck you Martha Wells for making both Chime and River blatantly trans-coded and then treating them like shit for it.

“We’re both mentors,” Chime added firmly, as if Moon might argue.

and then Chime receives nothing but literal abuse--literally repeatedly gets the shit beaten out of him for being trans--and never receives any fucking support and any time he tries to talk about how much his magically-induced unwilling sex change fucking sucks everyone rolls their eyes and tells him they don't care and he needs to get over it already :|

Even the fucking people he grew up with refuse to treat him as his actual gender, fucking LITERALLY snarling at him and chasing him away from the gender-exclusive tasks that he should be able to fucking participate in because he's literally part of that gender.

But no, fucking magic said he has to have a sex change so now everyone just treats him as the gender his body now is even when they've known him since he was fucking born.

And this is just about Chime, this isn't even getting into anything with River's trans-codedness.

This is yet another example of Martha Wells' biological essentialism and equating sex and gender. She fucking accidentally wrote not one, but two trans-coded characters and then treated them both like shit both within the story and in the writing.

I promise it would not be difficult at fucking all to have other Raksura treat Chime (and River!) like shit for being trans and have that behavior be portrayed as bad, yes, even if Moon, the narrator, agrees with the bigots.

You can in fact have bigotry in your story and condemn that bigotry at the same time. It's so fucking easy.

[reverseexorcist]

Hello, can we get Sera x Winner!Reader?

The reader has hipdips, because I'm so frickin' gay and I got hipdips.

Unsure what form this would be, you can choose how to write it^^

❥ 𝐌𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐨𝐯𝐞 ❥

Boy I am sure a sucker for the twevle foot tall maybe but probably not homicidal seraphim. She's just so gaslight gatekeep girlfail, y'know? (Also I just love old testament style angels in general <3)

➲ Sera+ !F!Winner!Reader

➲ Romantic ☒, Platonic ☐

➲ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 Count; 1,776 Words

➲ Warnings/notes; Bird tendancies for both Sera and the reader (nesting, preening, cooing), very fluffy, I just think she's really pretty, me when I saw Sera fr, slight hint of angst (exterminations), but with lots of fluffy comfort

Clouds fogged the window, the glow of the setting sun and edging indigo of the approaching night sky ebbing behind cotton fluff as the first few array of sparkling stars blipped to life. The wind chimes outside the pearly kitchen window swung softly, almost inaudible in the faint breeze - Despite the twining height of the heaven-sent spire, the topmost dwellings of the holy realm were at peace from the harshest of the winds, mostly because they didn't actually exist in such a utopian place.

You exhaled, wiping your hands messily across the front of your apron before returning to the simmering pot on the stove. The smells that wafted out from it were incredible, mouth-watering even. It was a new recipe you'd gotten from your seraphim sister-in-law, Emily, after your last dinner party, claiming it to be one of Sera's favourites, which was all the allure you needed

Sunset. Sera's workday was almost over.

You found it kind've unfair that even amongst the afterlife, there were certain angels that still had to work. There were volunteer jobs sure, something to keep peoples' hands busy so they didn't die again from boredom. But, you hummed as you thought, someone had to keep this place running neatly, and the heavenborn seemed made for this time (which, y'know, they probably were.)

It didn't make you any less salty about it, though. Winner pairs had every single hour of their artificial days to spend time together if they so desired, wandering around the bright metropolitan cities and the mellow, enchanting countrysides, and yet you and Sera spent most of your days apart. And then, you remembered with a rather sour twinge, on her rare scheduled day off a trial of utmost importance had popped up.

Marble crumbled underneath your strengthening grip on the counter, cracking pitifully before tumbling in a fine dust on to the floor. 'Whoops' - With pursed lips you waved your hands, angelic light seeling the cracks and repairing the damage you'd inadvertantly caused within seconds.

Outside noises drew your attention, a chorus of wingbeats fluttered down to the door, a holy sound so synonymous with Sera and her six wings that had you perking up immediately. Firm, yet you could tell even from the kitchen window that something was wearing on her. From the way you heard the falter before her landing and the uneased rustling of angelic feathers, there was a sort've weight to every single one of her movements that made your heart worry. Your own wings flexed nervously as you made your way over to the doorway.

Sera was already inside, brushing her dress down and picking at a few loose feathers clinging to the swoop of her neck, preening. Her brow was furrowed, probably in thought if her perpetual thinking lines meant anything, but there was a certain dullness in her pearlescent eyes.

Now you were definitely worried.

Even as you neared, it was the eyes on her crownpiece the swivelled to face you first, then the ones that dotted her enormous wings. It was only then did she sigh and turn to you with the smallest of smiles.

Tired was one word to describe her expression.

The seraphim's arms were wrapped around her middle, wings tucked tightly to her back and anxiously puffed up, the very epitome of 'something's definitely not right'. Which was certainly not something anyone ever thought of when imagining the the high seraphim Sera. And that in of itself was the problem - To see such a confident, caring and durable figure of authority so down in the dumps. But, more importantly, it made your heart bleed to see your life-partner so gloomy and still trying her hardest to not let it show (and obviously failing, which really only made you more fidgety.)

"Sera?" You tried to peer in her eyes, to gauge her emotions. She sighed through her nose, spreading her wings half-heartedly and crouching down more to your height, cooing softly like a dove. Delving into her warmth, you nuzzled against the silken fabric of her dress, wings brushing against wings as her feathers gently encased you in a warm hug. The feel of her slender fingers threading across your face, trailing down your neck till they rested on the fluff of your wing joints, rolling the downy, warm feathers gently between her forefingers as the eyes decorating her body slowly blinked closed, the tension in her shoulders slowly melting away as you returned her light touches. Trailing across her shoulders, through the sleek feathers decorating her shoulders and collarbone - Shiny like crystal, yet softer than clouds.

Sera hugged you a little tighter, palms rubbing circles on your back tenderly, holding you wholly within her much bigger being. The gentle weight of her head rested atop yours, nosing around. Bergamot and chamomile swept over you, sweet and citrusy with a hint of spice that clung to Sera's feathers, now shifted to your delicate plumage.

However, you could still feel the rigid anxiety flexing through her wings. As tightly as they hugged you to the tall seraphim's chest, they were taut and strained, not free and sleek like they usually felt with every hug. And as much as you wanted to ask, something told you that she'd reveal everything with time - Despite the sore subject of truthfulness between the two of you at the beginning of your relationship, it was something she'd worked on diligently over the hundred or so years you'd been paired.

"Sera, hun, you're tense," You murmured into her breastbone, "go relax, have a shower. Dinner's almost ready."

She seemed so reluctant to let you free of her grasp, feathers fluffing as you slowly pulled away. Lithe, long fingers trailed from your back muscles down your sides, tracing the dip in your hips back and forth. WIth a playful sigh, you pressed one kiss to her throat, then another on her jawline with a third and final smooch on the tip of her nose. Content, a faint coo warbled from her throat, eyes slipped closed before you peeled yourself away. Much to her dismay.

"Supper's on the stove! We can cuddle more after dinner," You flicked your wingtips, amused at the almost puppyish look of longing on Sera's face. Confusion creased the white flecks framing her eyes, and she wrung her fingers together before ultimately raising herself up to her full height, feet floating ever so slightly off the floor as she shuffled into the adjacent dining room (as much as one could shuffle when their feet weren't touching the floor, that is.)

Emily was right - The tired, worried, anxious look traced on Sera's face disappeared as you placed her bowl down before her, even more so when you sidled up next to her. Tentatively, her smallest wing reached out as it usually did, feathers tapping softly against your arm and own wings before wrapping around your shoulders. Satisfied with at least being in contact, dinner was enjoyed in a peaceful silence.

Outside, the windchimes danced in the breeze.

Your nest felt startlingly empty without Sera curled around you.

It was a feeling you never thought you'd get uesd to, and you always felt so small picking your way through the carefully placed plush walls, ducking your head under the twining fabric that hung from above creating an almost dome-like ceiling to shield the light of the moon away from your eyes. Sparse inside, but incredibly soft and warm to the touch, you found yourself practically sinking into the mattress, two silken pillows tucked comfortably underneath you.

Sera herself had perched herself right on the edge, one wing (the biggest one) spread out in front of her, fingers working swiftly yet thoroughly, plucking loose feathers out and righting crooked ones. Your own fingers were doing something similar with another one of her smaller wings, tentatively carding through her well-kempt plume.

The look was back, and her thoughts seemed so far away. Eyes aglow in the dim light, the stripe down her nose crinkled ever so slightly as she silently mulled something over and over in her mind.

Your fingers faltered, and she peered over her shoulder and down to where you were curled up at her side, wings sprawled over the nest like another blanket.

She held your gaze, and finally spilled those words that had been gnawing at her mind.

"They…" She opened her mouth, then closed it as if considering her next words very carefully. "Everyone knows."

You tilted your head, but with the way what you now realised was guilt had spread over her face, you knew exactly what she was talking about.

The exterminations were a contentious topic between the two of you - It almost caused you two to split within the first decade of your relationship, and it wasn't a subject you liked to think about all too often.

There was a part of you that felt vindicated. Heaven deserved to know the truth with how extreme the whole operation was, especially seeing as the exorcists just lived in and around the general public without anyone knowing, preaching about love and peace just like everybody else.

But, you knew the guilt Sera had been carrying ever since she'd made the decision. You'd had your fair share of fights that lead to one of you sleeping elsewhere at night, or even escalating to the point you returned back to your apartment for a few days just to cool off. And you'd worked past all that. Difficult, yes, but Sera was your life partner and you loved her with all your heart. Maybe in the future you'd be able to convince her to start a redemption program, like many had suggested in the past, but for now you just opened your wings and shuffled as the seraphim joined you in your joint nest.

Now it was perfect, nestled up in to crook of her neck amonst her downy feathers, indigo and gold as the night sky sat firmly outside. Blankets strewn over your legs, giant wings wrapped around your entire body - This was your personal heaven.

Sera's hands fell to your hips, thumbs rubbing against the gentle dips as her head braced against yours, dove-ish coos escaping her with every breath puffed form her nose. She was already fast asleep curled around you, all the weight now lifted from her shoulders for the time being, wings perfectly preened and delicately soft, perfect for cuddling.

Your own wings were cleaned too, a pleasant buzz tingling from where Sera had traced her loving fingers.

Chamomile tea, citrus and chashmere, soft feathers tickled your nose, and yet you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

Rules + Info,

Masterlist,

[shiny-kaibernyte]

hi i heard you're The Guy Who Writes Drayton Stuff /silly uhhh if you're ok with it could I possibly request something with Drayton x Reader who's mute (and bullied because of it)? thank you :)

This is the first post i have written since coming back for the new year. I'm currently focusing on my new etsy shop I'll be opening soon but I'm so happy with how this one turned out and I do hope you do to. 💜

Moonlight Silence | Drayton x Mute Reader

Pokémon Scarlett and Violet Indigo Disk DLC Spoilers ahead!

Mentions of bullying and self doubt. Drayton comes to your side in your moment of zen. Deciding to tell you what he truly thinks in the first moment he gets to share with you.

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It was so quiet. The stars above you shining brighter than normal, the moon's radiant light more prominent than you’d seen it before, almost a halo around the planet. Refreshing. That was the only word your mind could muster up in the sea of peace. Just you and the sky, no Pokémon, no people, not even a cloud. Pure peace, the odd sound of a Pokémon cry being the only thing truly bonding everything together. Sometimes the thought of what was up there ran across your mind… what if you could just grab a star, hold it, love it close up instead of admiring from afar. As if you were trying to make your thoughts come true, your hand reached up towards the sky, covering the moon so only the stars could be seen by your eyes, until another sight took over. “Seems you’ve taken, reaching for the stars literally huh!” Your new vision chimed looking down at you completely covering your vision. Lowering your hand you realise your visitor is no other than Colgate himself, Drayton. 

Quickly sitting up, you stare at him in pure confusion. Drayton was never up at this time, he may have been a bit laid back but he stuck to a very strict sleep schedule, so seeing him up past that was highly confusing. Not to mention the fact he was out here alone, normally he’s paired up with Crispin. Apparently your confusion was noticed by your new companion who simply chuckles at the sight of your face, sitting down beside you.

“I came looking for you…” Drayton bluntly responded, a small smile appearing on his face when your confusion only grew more. He was looking for you? Once again as if he could read your mind, he continued. “Your confusion, I can tell you are wondering why I'm out here. Now you're asking yourself why I came out here specifically to find you… If I'm honest, I've been trying to find you all day. Seems Arceus had other plans for me today.”

Turning on your knees, you give him your full attention, confusion now curiosity as your attentive ears perk up in anticipation. Why had he been looking for you all day? He had your number so he could have just texted you, left a voicemail, anything at all. Why in person?

With a sigh, Drayton turns his head to the sky admiring the same stars you just were. “You know I'm not one to use tender words. Just wastes time and plays on the emotions of others. I prefer speaking plainly and honestly! You know that better than anyone… So I'm going to ask you this plainly all you need to do is nod yes or no.” 

His attention was now back on you, a small bit of concern laced over his eyes, causing your stomach to sink slightly.

“Yesterday, those two boys… were they bothering you?” He asks plainly. Within a moment your eyes grew wide as you replayed the scene in your head. Skipping over small details, only remembering the feeling of them pushing you against the wall, dragging you around in a strange push pull game, yelling hurtful and disgraceful things to you, all because of your silence. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence either by these two. To be used as they’re punching bag in a sense. But never once would you go for help, to you, it would have only been confusing. Having to write down what you wanted to say. So all you could do was repress the thoughts in your head and continue on with your day, as if it never happened. But now… sitting here, being, asked about the event. The images of their faces, coated in a sinister smile, as if these boys had some kick in seeing your misery. Their eyes were black in your mind, blocked out completely, only their mouths repeating the words over and over. “That’s a yes”

Drayton's sudden words pulled you from your daze, staring intently at him, confused as to how he knew this. From your knowledge… No one else was there in that hallway.

“You know you can come see me if you're being bothered right? You don’t have to go through something like this alone! No one deserves to be treated like that. And don’t give me that ‘I don’t know what you mean look’ This isn’t the first time I've witnessed it…” He looked at you completely focused on your expressions reading each one perfectly. Gently taking your hands into his he pulled up towards him before continuing once more. “I care about you… so much, and seeing how people treat you, just because you don’t talk is heart breaking, but knowing the fact you didn't think you could come to me, hurts even more. You are so important to me, and I want you to know that I will always be here for you. And I want you to know that I will protect you, even if you don’t want me to stand by your side, I will protect you from afar, or as close as you’ll allow me. But please, don’t push me away, it's alright to be afraid, to feel outcasted. But know, you will never be left behind by me, I will never leave you out to dry.”

Tears began welling up in your eyes, your mind running through the words he said over and over again.

“I just wish I had said all this sooner… This whole Kieran situation, the battle league, everything was keeping me away from telling you this…” Suddenly he snaps out of his own daze, seems he got so caught up in the moment he hadn't realised what was going on, and seeing your surprised face, tears running down your flushed cheeks caused him to smile warmly, running his free hand across them to clear away the tears. “I’m sorry, seems I got caught up in my own talking I barely gave you a chance to process anything I said”

You began profusely shaking your head, not wanting him to apologise to you for anything, you just couldn't understand why he was saying any of this to you or why he would care so much in the first place. Just thinking of it made you smile. This whole situation was so overwhelming yet so comforting, the only thing you could get your body to do was hug him. A hug which he returned, no hesitation. His embrace was warm, comforting, even more so than the night sky you’d been absorbed in just moments before. All his words seemed so true at this moment.

“You know… I’ve seen many sights since I came to this school, views many people only dream of seeing, and yet, none compare to your smile.”

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 64

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 64: The End of a Noose

AO3 - Masterlist

Daenera found herself engulfed by the forest’s unsettling embrace, navigating silently through its depths. The crunch of fallen leaves under her feet marked her passage as twilight descended, the shadows stretching among the trees. The forest was on the cusp of nightfall, slowly descending into darkness as the last rays of light reached through branches. 

A thin mist enveloped the air, ethereal and cold. It danced around her, caressing her skin with its chilly touch, leaving droplets that glistened like pearls in her hair. Clutching her skirts, she moved with hesitant steps, her breath forming clouds that melted with the mist, as if it were siphoning fragments of her essence. A shudder ran through her, an ominous premonition, as the hairs on the back of her neck bristled with apprehension. 

The forest’s immensity disoriented her. Every path seemed misleading, compelling her to venture deeper into its enigmatic heart. 

Daenera’s heart throbbed with unease, its rhythm echoing her growing anxiety. She sensed the forbidden nature of this place, that she wasn’t supposed to be here. 

Lifting her gaze, she looked beyond the skeletal canopy of trees, stripped bare by winter’s hand. The sky stretched above in a deep shade of indigo, devoid of stars. In the absence of the stars, she felt an unsettling solitude envelop her. 

As Daenera’s eyes returned to her surroundings, she noticed a solitary wagon nestled among the trees. From its roof hung an array of trinkets, chiming a melody unfamiliar to her ears. It was the first hint of human craftsmanship she had encountered in the forest–first sign of anyone. The sight of it seemed familiar, yet not. Perhaps that was what compelled her to move closer.

“Hello?” Her voice, unsteady and distant, barely seemed her own as she called out. “Is anyone there?”

In response, a voice, soft as the breeze yet clear, murmured, “Your future… I see it. Woven in shadows and light, black and green, red and blue… Woven. Weaving, it is.”

As the breeze strengthened, the chimes suspended from the wagon’s roof sang a haunting tune, each note resonating with profound sadness. Surrounding her, the bare branches of the trees creaked and groaned, their sounds eerily akin to the snapping of bones. This unnerving melody filled the twilight, the sky above growing darker, still devoid of any stars. 

And in the distance, the agonized cry of a stag pierced the silence. 

Startled, Daenera stumbled on the wagon’s steps, falling to her knees. More cires, distant and chilling, filled the air. She quickly regained her footing, casting a wary glance back into the dark embrace of the forest before stepping through the wagon’s door.

Instead of the wooden floor she expected, her foot met with the unexpected coldness of smooth stone. 

Daenera found herself standing in the midst of the somber throne room, enveloped in darkness. Here, the oppressive shadows seemed to thrive, engulfing the weak glow of torches and resisting the illumination they offered. Despite the pale moonlight filtering through the grand windows, it could only cast a ghostly sheen over the room, the mist from the forest eerily presisting, lingering among the immense stone columns. 

The silence was heavy, almost tangible, as if the very air was holding its breath in anticipation. The faint sound of Daenera’s footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness, each step resonating with a sense of foreboding. 

At the room’s end stood the towering throne, it's daunting presence seeming to command the shadows themselves. Darkness clung to it, enhancing the menacing curve of the swords that formed the seat of House Targaryen, jutting up cruelly from the floor. 

Above her, the obscured faces of her ancestors loomed, their features lost in the shadows, yet their unseen gazes felt intensely upon her. Daenera observed the eight figures emerging from the stone columns, standing as silent sentinels. Her gaze drifted from one to another, a frown creasing her brow as her eyes fell on the unfamiliar figure of a man with half his face completely concealed by shadows. An almost skeletal hand rested solemnly against his chest. 

Her attention shifted to a figure on the opposite column, revealing an incomplete carving. It appeared as though the sculptor had abruptly halted, leaving the figure only half-emerged from the stone, an artwork frozen midway through its creation. The stone seemed scorched, black marks of soot covering the unfinished work. This unfinished statue imparted a sense of interruption, a story left untold. 

A strange sort of weight settled on Daenera’s chest. 

Beside the unfinished column, there was another that depicted a scene of desolation. This sculpture appeared as though it had been ravaged by destruction, its form disintegrating before it could ever be fully realized. The rough texture of the stone bore the marks of scarring, with deep fissures fracturing the artwork. Bits and pieces of stone lay strewn at the foot of the column, silent witness to the statue’s state of decay and that had eroded its once intended glory.  

The last figure, almost entirely engulfed in darkness, presented a stark contrast; the only visible part was a hand, delicately holding a stone flower. This singular detail, emerging from the shadows, drew her closer. 

Suddenly, something lunged from the shadows, seizing her wrist. A startled yelp escaped her lips as she felt the icy, unyielding grip. 

“Beware the wings of war and the vengeance that rides on the wind,” a voice hissed. “One shall fall, many shall mourn. Kin slaying kin.”

From the embracing darkness, a weathered face emerged into the moon’s pale light. Time had carved deep lines into his visage, as if the shadows themselves had etched their mark upon him. His eyes, wide and clouded, seemed to see beyond the physical world, carrying the weight of unseen knowledge. 

Daenera struggled against his grasp, a mix of fear and urgency rising in her throat. 

The beggar’s grip on Daenera was unyielding, his breath crept across her face like a lingering mist, carrying the unexpected scent of marigold.

He whispered ominously, “The Stranger follows you. With knives, with poison, at your command, the Stranger shall find himself in great company.”

Abruptly, the beggar retreated into the shadows, releasing her with such a suddenness that Daenera stumbled backward, landing ungracefully on the stone floor with a thud. Her palms scraped over it, burning. Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest, and when she looked up the man had vanished, his daunting words echoing in the throne room like the distant chimes outside the wagon. 

Regaining her composure, Daenera stood, her eyes scanning the room before they fixed upon the throne and the sinister crown resting upon it. Drawn by a mix of fear and fascination, she approached, the air filled with the ghostly wails of a thousand souls – the thousands that had died in the making of it. 

Reaching the first step leading to the throne’s dias, a chilling thought crossed her mind: Had anyone ever been impaled by the swords jutting out from the floor?

A sharp pain suddenly interrupted her thoughts. She hissed, looking at her palm to find a fresh cut, blood flowing warmly down her fingers, each drop falling drum rhythmically onto the floor. The sting of the wound was fleeting, overshadowed by her focus on the blood’s steady drip. 

Ascending the stairs, she held her hand over the throne, allowing her blood to fall onto its cold, unforgiving surface. The throne seemed to crave it—hungered for it. It was an offering, a sacrifice. 

Her fingers lightly brushed against the cold steel of it. 

A shiver cascaded down Daenera’s spine as she turned, her eyes landing in the witch reclining in her chair behind a table shrouded in cloth. In the center of the table rested a glass orb, a candle flickering ominously beside it. The witch’s laughter echoed through the throne room, filled with a cruel mirth. 

Trials and tribulations… Tested by fire and betrayal… So many threads, so many fates… The words seemed to emanate not from the witch’s lips, but from the very shadows that filled the room, whispered, an echo of the past. 

The witch’s eyes, dark and gleaming, peered out from beneath the hood that concealed most of her face, her cloak reminiscent of the Stranger’s, the fabric black, as though made from the shadows. A sly smirk played on her lips. 

“The dance begins,” she announced, her voice oddly trailing the movement of her lips. 

Confused, Daenera descended the steps from the stone, settling into the chair across from the witch. Perched there, her feet dangled above the floor, her small hands gripping the chair’s edge. A prick on her fingertip drew her attention momentarily, her eyes glancing down to find the skin unbroken. 

“What dance?” She inquired, her voice that of a child. 

“The one that brings fire from the skies,” the witch replied cryptically, tilting her head slightly, as though amused by the frown on Daenera’s face. “The one that pits kin against kin… You sense it, don’t you?”

“Sense what?” Daenera’s reply was faint, the innocence of youth evident in her tone. 

“The rope.”

Daenera’s frown deepened, her understanding eluding her. 

The witch watched her closely. “You will, in time.”

The throne room was suddenly filled with the haunting sounds of creaking and groaning wood. Daenera watched in awe as the threes writhed, their branches twisting skyward like gnarled fingers. Leaves rustled and skittered across the stone floor, gathering at the base of the immense columns. Lifting her gaze, she was met with the sight of the night sky stretching across the ceiling arches, a tapestry of darkness without a single star.

A chill enveloped her, her breath materialized more distinctly than before, her exhalation forming a visible cloud in the cold air. The witch’s voice, disembodied and echoing, resonated again, rising about the creak of the trees. 

Princess of Flowers… Princess of Poison… Princess of Curses…

Daenera turned her gaze back to the witch, her heart hammering loudly within her chest, feeling fear grip her. The taste of dread was acrid on her tongue. 

“It dwells within you,” the witch intoned. 

“What does?” Daenera asked. 

“The power, ancient and dark… coursing through your veins,” the witch answered. 

The wind seemed to carry her words, whispering, Blood will play a significant role in your life, with debts made and paid in equal measure. Pain will be your constant companion as the cursed power in your blood will be wielded with the precision of poison. 

“Vows of blood,” the witch continued, her gaze dropping to Daenera’s hand, now grown from its childish proportions into the hand of a young lady. Daenera opened her palm, revealing the stinging, deep red cut, nearly black in its depths. “Vows. Curses. Poison.”

The witch extended her hand, and Daenera hesitantly placed hers within it. The witch then examined the cut and the pooling blood, keeping Daenera’s fingers spread to prevent her from clenching her fist. “You feel it. You will understand. It’s in your blood. It’s your price to pay.”

Then, with a startling act, the witch dragged her tongue across Daenera’s palm, greedily consuming the blood, smearing it across her mouth and lips. 

Daenera recoiled, snatching her hand back as the witch’s laughter echoed through the room, loud enough to make the windows vibrate, like thunder cackling in the sky. Snow began to drift down from the starless sky above, landing softly on the ground. 

The stranger will visit you more times than you can count. He follows you and those you love. You will plead with him. You will barter with him. You will send him more company… 

“Do you feel it now?” The witch cackled, her voice weaving through the air. 

Strings of duty. Strings of love. Strings of fate…

Daenera rose abruptly, the chair toppling from the force of it. She felt ice course through her veins, her blood chilling as it continued to drip onto the snow-laden ground. A sense of entrapment, of being ensnared, overwhelmed her. 

Poisoned Princess. Cursed Princess. Princess of Blood…

As the overwhelming sense of fear and confusion took hold, Daenera realized she had reverted to her childlike form, her stature diminutive and vulnerable, shaking and crying. In a desperate plea for safety, she called out for ser Harwin, her voice echoing with a child’s urgency. “Harwin! Father!”

Poisoned cups may be turned around on yourself, and the power of curses always comes with a price… poisoned cups… cursed blood… 

Daenera bolted, her small feet plunging into the biting snow. The witch’s laughter thundered through the throne room, a sound as chilling as the winds that howled around her and the blood rushing in her ears. The room had transformed again; no trees remained, and snow descended from an endless, starless expanse above.

“You can feel it encircling your neck, can’t you?” the witch’s voice taunted. 

And Daenera felt a constricting sensation around her neck. Panicked, her hands clawed at the rome that had ensnared her. With a brutal jerk, she was yanked backward, her hopes of reaching the doors dashed. Briefly glimpsing the rope, she saw it was woven from threads of hundreds of colors.

Spools of duty, honor, and loyalty. Spools of love and betrayal. Spools of blood. Weaving. Being weaved. So many spools. So many possibilities. Spools for a crown. 

Suspended in the air, her feet dangled helplessly as the rope hoisted her upwards, draping over a stone arch like a noose. The pressure choked her, and she kicked wildly, struggling in vain to loosen the rope or alleviate its grip. Her body swung like a pendulum, the silent stone faces of her ancestors and the witch the only ones to witness her distress. 

Approaching her, the witch posed a malevolent question: “What was it he said to you? ‘To know one's future is to tie a noose and hang oneself with it’?”

The pressure in her head grew as her lungs ached for air. The tears cascaded down her cheeks, and she briefly feared they might turn to blood as the blood vessels in her eyes burst. Her body was hoisted higher, and from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of another figure suspended from the stone arches. Initially, she saw only boots, then a glimpse of a golden cloak, and finally, hands that she remembered as kind and firm. Fireflies hovered around the hanging figure, creeping over the burned side of his face. 

She was lifted higher. 

As she rotated slowly, the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, her teeth gritted as she desperately struggled against the noose. 

“You should have heeded his warning,” the witch taunted with merciless glee. “And he should have heeded mine.”

Spinning, Daenera’s gaze landed on a woman clad in a red and gold dress, adorned with a lion on the bodice, hanging like a macabre ornament. Her skin was ghostly pale, her golden hair flowing over her shoulders. But it was her striking green eyes, full of scorn and disdain, that truly unnerved Daenera. This woman was a stranger to her, yet she was not alone; numerous others hung suspended, enveloped in the silent descent of snow. 

Amidst this chaos, Daenera fought against the rope that bound her, emitting a strangled, horrified cry. 

Then, her eyes fell upon a woman with dark hair tinged with gray, hanging limply with her back turned, blood dripping from her dress. She was closer than the others. There was something hauntingly familiar about her, a presence that resonated with Daenera in a deeply unsettling way. 

As she continued to be hoisted up, she witnessed the surreal scene unfold around her; a man with a hand of gold, another with the head of a wolf crowned in iron, a woman in green silk and a poised expression on her face, a man with kohl-lined eyes and bells in his long hair, and a beautiful woman with pale silver hair, her body entwined with the figures of three dragons. There was a boy with dark curls and arrows jutting out his back, a burned body swaying back and forth, a young girl with sad eyes, a boy with half his body missing. 

Around them, a myriad of individuals appeared, each distinct yet sharing a familiar fate. There were men and women with hair of silver moonlight, of spun gold, black of the deepest night, fiery red, and earthy brown. Their eyes were a mosaic of colors – dull gray, vivid blue, warm brown, and piercing green. Thousands of them, each suspended from vividly colored ropes, spinning in a macabre dance. 

Feeling an unfamiliar weight on her brow, Daenera frantically tore at with one hand, ripping it off. It was a crown. 

With a surge of determination, she used the crown’s sharp points to saw at the rope, even as the witch’s laughter echoed around her, louder and louder, crackling like a thunderstorm. 

“You have one last question, Princess of the Blood,” the witch declared. 

“I… don’t know it,” Daenera gasped, choking for air. 

“You do, but you haven’t yet learned how to ask,” the witch retorted. 

Finally, the rope gave way, and Daenera felt herself plummeting into an endless fall, and with her, the stars fell as well and in the distance a baby cried.

With the fall of the dragons, the long night is coming.

Choking. 

Hands that grabbed her. 

Rope tightening around her neck. 

Hands that shook her. 

Falling.

A voice drawn taut in a loud whisper.

Her eyes flew open to the feeling of someone gripping her shoulders and shaking her firmly, fingertips desperately pressing into her flesh. A voice she recognized was calling her name, its tone laced with urgency. Gasping for breath, she sat up sharply, her mind momentarily lost in the disorienting darkness that surrounded her, a residual dread clinging to her body like a shroud made of lead.

As a reflex, Daenera’s hand shot to her neck, her mind still half-convinced to find rope wrapped around it. Her fingers, trembling slightly, found nothing but her own smooth, unmarked skin–though the ghost of it wrapped around her, tight and choking, lingered like a dream at the edges of consciousness. 

Her bed chamber was faintly lit by the dim glow of a torch held by a shadowy figure, its light barely piercing the enveloping gloom.

As her eyes rapidly adjusted to the sparse light, clarity gradually returned to her. She glanced to the side of the bed, her heart sinking slightly at the sight of the empty space beside her. Her hand brushed over the cool pillow, frowning deeply as she expected to find Aemond at her side. 

With a lingering ache in her throat and still feeling disoriented, she turned her gaze to the figure who had awoken her, their eyes blinking back at her in the dimness. 

Daenera’s voice emerged in a stammer, tinged with confusion and a trace of fear. Her heart pounded fiercely within her chest, echoing the turmoil of her abrupt awakening. Her body was taut with tension as her hand wrapped around the wrist of Joyce. 

“Wha–What is it?” she asked, her voice quivering slightly. “What has happened?”

Joyce’s gaze, serious and aged by the wavering light of the torch, met Daenera’s. Her voice, though firm, carried an undercurrent of pity. “It’s the King.”

A heavy sense of foreboding settled in Daenera’s stomach. “Is he dead?”

The unspoken confirmation was evident in Joyce’s expression. Daenera felt a tightness in her chest, her mind spinning as the remnants of the nightmare faded, giving way to the stark reality that enveloped her. 

In that moment, the torchlight flared erratically as Fenrick moved, his features set in a grim determination. “We must leave. Now.”

“We have to alert my mother,” Daenera insisted, even as Joyce briskly pulled the blankets away and handed her clothes with a silent command to dress quickly. The soft cotton of the hoses brushed against her skin as she hurriedly put them on. Joyce helped her into a simple servant’s dress, lacing it up with haste. 

“There isn’t time to go to the rookery,” Fenrick responded, respecting the princess’s privacy by turning away as she dressed. His hand rested on his sword hilt, his gaze fixed on the door, alert and ready. “The Hightowers would have sent their men to lock it down.”

“We must send word to my mother,” Daenera insisted, adjusting the unfamiliarly coarse fabric of her hastily donned dress, fingers fumbling slightly with the bodice, a stark contrast to the fine garments she was accustomed to. 

Fenrick, however, was focused on a more immediate concern, his tone firm as he said, “Our priority is to get you out of the city.”

“Jelissa and Patrick have gone ahead to the ship. They’ll be waiting for us,” Joyce informed.

Daenera’s voice trembled slightly, a mix of fear and determination. “I assume the Hightowers are making their move?”

“One of the kitchen girls overheard the boy, who found the King, speak with The Queen’s handmaid. She was able to sneak us a note,” Joyce shared, her voice underscored by the gravity of the situation. “The Hand has called for a council meeting.”

Daenera felt the urge to point out that convening a council meeting wasn’t out of the ordinary following a King’s death, but her words faltered and remained unspoken as Joyce pressed on. “They’ll start rounding up the servants soon and closing the gates. We need to leave before that happens. 

Daenera’s gaze drifted back to the empty side of the bed, a bitter taste forming in her mouth as she pondered the reason behind his absence. Did he know? The thought that he was actively involved in the current machinations against her and her mother, sent a shiver down her spine. The realization dawned on her that guards could be at her door at any moment.

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to set aside her personal grief and fears. The weight of the direness of the situation pressed heavily upon her, tightening her chest as thoughts raced through her mind. The King was dead and now was the opportune time to move against her mother. 

With swift movements, Joyce wrapped a cloak around Daenera’s shoulders, fastening it securely at the front and drawing the hood over her head. “Keep your head down.”

Daenera, driven by a sense of urgency, rushed across her chamber to a table. She quickly grabbed the witch’s coin, deeming it essential, and tucked it into her stays for safekeeping. However, her sworn shield showed clear disapproval of the delay. He grasped her arm firmly, guiding her out of the room.

“Leave it!” He insisted, his tone sharp and focused, emphasizing the need for haste over any material possessions. 

As Daenera was urged out the doors of her chambers, she was met by a small contingent of her own guards. Eddin Follard, Darvin Crooler, and Edam Varner stood watch, their hands resting uneasily on the hilts of their swords, their eyes scanning the dimly lit corridor. The tension among them was palpable as they shifted. 

Darvin Crooler, his expression solemn and his voice barely above a whisper, addressed Fenrick. “Kevan and Sihtric are arranging horses for our departure.”

Fenrick responded with a nod, his expression just as serious. The brief exchange, devoid of any unnecessary words, underscored the serious nature of their undertaking. Each of them understood the stakes, and the need for swift, discrete action. 

The corridor they traversed felt unnerving, a stark contrast to its usual bustle, though not entirely unexpected at this early hour of the morning. The absence of servants and guards only intensified the eerie, almost oppressive atmosphere that enveloped them. Only the distant sound of heavy footsteps offered any indication of life, a subtle reminder that they were not completely alone. 

Fenrick’s grip on Daenera’s arm was firm and purposeful, as if he was silently communicating the urgency of their situation. He seemed to be propelled by a fear that loosening his hold might cause Daenera to halt in her tracks. Their own footsteps echoed distressingly loud in the deserted hall, each step reverberating off the walls and seeming to linger in the air.  

To Daenera, even the flickering of the torches felt amplified, their crackles and hisses echoing in the quiet, heightening her sense of apprehension. Each sound seemed magnified, fueling her trepidation that any noise might betray their presence and intentions. The torchlight cast dancing shadows along the walls, adding a surreal quality to their cautious progress through the corridor. 

“What of–” Daenera began in a loud whisper, her words ebbing out as their escape was abruptly halted at the end of the hallway by a group of guards. 

Time seemed to stand still as Daenera instinctively held her breath, her eyes wide with fear. She harbored an irrational hope that if she remained perfectly still, she might somehow evade notice. Her body stiffened, every muscle taut with anticipation, as she watched one of the guards’ hands gravitate towards the hilt of his sword. 

The sound of his blade being drawn from its sheath reverberated through the tense air, sending a shiver down Daenera’s spine. The sharp, metallic hiss of steel seemed to hang in the corridor, a foreboding prelude to what might come next. It was quickly followed by the collective sound of the other guards drawing their swords in unison, creating an intimidating chorus of metallic echoes. 

As the tension in the corridor escalated, Daenera’s guards instinctively reacted. With swift and decisive movements, they too drew their swords, readying themselves for any confrontation. Their expressions were resolute, their stance defensive yet prepared for an offensive move if necessary.

Fenrick firmly tugged her to a safer spot behind him, positioning himself protectively between her and danger, his stance rigid and alert. With a low, determined growl, he issued a command. “Take her. Run.”

Joyce swiftly took hold of Daenera’s hand, pulling the princess along with her. Stealth was no longer their ally as the sound of their hurried footsteps echoed through the halls, their skirts and cloaks billowing with each frantic stride. Daenera’s heart seemed to throb both in her throat and in the pit of her stomach, a dual sensation of fear and adrenaline. 

Descending the stairs at a breakneck pace, with Ser Edam Varner close behind, they reached the ground floor. Suddenly, Joyce came to an abrupt halt. Daenera, caught off guard, stumbled into her maid, barely managing to stay upright. 

As Daenera raised her eyes, she was met with the sight of the gleaming, pale armor of a Kingsguard. The knight stepped out from the shadows of an adjacent corridor, his dark eyes exuding a cold authority. 

Dread gripped her chest once again, squeezing her lungs as she panted. 

“Do not run, Princess. It will do you no good,” Ser Criston Cole warned, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, yet not drawing it. 

Daenera glanced over her shoulder, her eyes briefly scanning the open doors leading to Maegor’s Holdfast’s inner courtyard. The night’s darkness was gradually giving way to the early light of dawn, the sky transitioning from deep blue to a soft morning yellow. Turning back to face Ser Criston, Daenera glared at him.

The knight advanced towards them, his movements deliberate and his expression resolute, a clear intent evident in his demeanor.

Feeling the dryness of her mouth intensify, Daenera found her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as she managed to utter, “Am I to be their prisoner?”

“Prisoner? No,” Ser Criston responded, though his tone offered no comfort. 

Daenera glared at him. “So I am free to leave?”

“No,” Ser Criston replied, his dark eyes narrowing. “We can’t have you alert your mother of the King’s passing. Return to your chambers, Princess. It is for your own safety.”

“It sounds like you are preparing to usurp my mother, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne,” Daenera sneered, her voice full of scorn.

Ser Criston Cole drew his blade, the sound of steel leaving its sheath chilling. 

In that tense moment, Joyce acted decisively. Releasing Daenera’s hand, she swiftly reached up to the back of her head and removed the pin that held her long, graying hair in place. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in waves of brown and gray. It was strange to see her with her hair down, jarring.  

“Joyce,” Daenera began, her voice faltering.

But Joyce’s expression was one of unwavering determination, her eyes blazing with a resolve as fierce as any dragon’s, and with a short command, she gave Daenera a shove towards the doors. “Go.”

As Daenera turned and fled, the clamor of swords erupted behind her, a cacophony as loud as thunder in her ears. The shrill sound of metal striking metal sent a shiver down her spine, fueling her flight with the urgency of fear. A bitter surge of tears clawed at her throat and blurred her vision, but she forced them back, focusing solely on escape.

Her legs carried her forward with a frantic energy, her lungs tightening within her chest, reminding her of the breathlessness that had haunted her in her dream. The dream itself was quickly fading from her memory, leaving only the chilling sensation of rope tightening around her neck. Even in the harsh reality of her current predicament, the imagined noose seemed to scratch against her skin, a ghostly reminder. 

With a grim sense of poetry, she found that her end might not be at the hands of a suffocating noose, but rather by the chilling, unforgiving kiss of steel. 

I should have gone with them, she thought regretfully, nearly losing her footing as she hurried down the steps through the courtyard. Behind her, a yelp rang out, causing her to glance back over her shoulder in a moment of unthinking reaction. This momentary distraction led to her foot catching on the edge of an uneven stone slab, and she tumbled to the ground. The impact of her palms against the stone was loud and painful, sending a burning sensation up her arms. Her knees throbbed painfully as she clamored back to her feet, her heart racing wildly.

For a brief moment, she caught sight of the sky painted in vivid oranges and bleeding reds of dawn, before her gaze returned to the task ahead. Her heart sank as she saw Ser Erryk Cargyll step in front of the exit, effectively blocking her path.

Her movements faltered, and she looked at him with a desperate, pleading expression. “Please.”

Ser Erryk’s expression softened momentarily, his brows lifting in a gesture of sympathy, revealing a momentary struggle within him. It was as if he was torn between his sworn duty and the human inclination to show compassion. This internal conflict was briefly visible in the hesitation that flickered across his face. 

And in that hesitation, Daenera found a spark of hope, only to feel it snuffed out as a hand landed on his shoulder. 

The flicker of doubt quickly transformed into a resigned acceptance of duty. This shift was solidified by the presence of his twin brother, Ser Arryk Cargyll. His voice was firm as he spoke, “I’m sorry, Princess, we have our orders.”

Daenera’s expression morphed into one of desperation. A sneer crossed her lips as she lunged forward, fueled by determination to break past the knights. But her efforts were quickly thwarted as Ser Erryk’s arm encircled her waist, pulling her back with such force that it knocked the wind out of her. In that instant, she let out a scream, raw and piercing, akin to the desperate cry of a cornered animal–the hiss of a fox caught in the net. She thrashed wildly in his grasp, her arms flailing, feet kicking at his legs, struggling to free herself. 

Ser Erryk’s voice, tinged with pleading, was close to her ear, urging her to cease her futile resistance. 

“It is no use,” he whispered. “The gates are sealed, and your men have been detained.”

His words took a moment to skin in, but as they did, Daenera’s frantic movements gradually subsided. Her nails dug into his hands, clawing at them to free herself. 

“Release me,” she demanded. 

“Will you stop fighting if I let go?” He asked, the uncertainty clear in his voice. 

“Release me,” she repeated, her voice firm and strained. 

After a brief pause, filled with hesitation, Ser Erryk loosened his hold around her waist, but he maintained a firm grip on her upper arm, not yet fully convinced of her compliance. 

Daenera reluctantly acquiesced to being led away, her steps heavy and resentful as Ser Erryk guided her back through the courtyard, his brother, Ser Arryk, flanking her other side. Her heart pounded within her chest, like a bird trapped in its cage. 

As Daenera was escorted through the doors, the scene that unfolded before her eyes brought a chilling halt to her feet. The grand hall of Maegor’s Holdfast, usually a bustling scene of life, was now marred by a grim sight. Ser Edam Varner lay motionless on the cold stone floor, his lifeless form surrounded by an ever-expanding pool of blood. 

The sight was shocking, but it was the image of Joyce that truly caused Daenera’s heart to plummet. Ser Criston Cole had her in a vice-like grip, his hand clamped around his wrist so fiercely it seemed as though he might shatter the bone. He forced Joyce to relinquish her hairpin, which chimed against the stone floor with a mournful echo. 

Ser Criston’s white cloak, once pristine, was now marred with splatters of blood. A streak of it marked his cheek, and a trickle of blood seeped from beneath his armor, evidence of a wound inflicted by either Joyce or Ser Edam.

Despite the evident pain and the bruises blooming on her face, Joyce’s expression was defiant as she glared back at Ser Criston. Her lip was split, her cheek bruised, yet there was no trace of fear in her eyes until Ser Criston’s gaze shifted to Daenera. 

Time seemed to suspend as Daenera locked eyes with Ser Criston Cole. His eyes were like blots of ink, dark and unmoved. In that frozen moment, he retracted his sword and, with a chilling finality, thrust it into Joyce’s stomach. The blade mercilessly pierced through her, emerging bloodied on the other side. Daenera watched, horror-stricken, as the grim reality dawned on her – the sheer brutality of steel against the vulnerability of flesh.

A barely audible “No…” escaped Daenera’s lips, a feeble protest against the unfolding nightmare. 

With a ruthless motion, Ser Criston withdrew his sword, pushing Joyce away and off his sword. She stood momentarily, swaying on her feet, her hand instinctively reaching for the gaping wound, her expression one of disbelief at the blood that flowed freely. 

Daenera’s scream shattered the eerie calm, a raw expression of anguish and despair. She struggled fiercely against Ser Erryk’s hold, her fists pounding against his armor in an effort to break free. Whether he released her or she managed to wretch herself from his grasp, she didn’t know as she stumbled towards Joyce, collapsing to her knees beside her. Daenera’s hands desperately pressed against the wound, the warmth of the blood stark against her skin and warm, soo warm... 

“J-Joyce!” She cried out, her voice breaking. But before she could do more, strong arms wrapped around her waist, dragging her away from the tragic scene. She fought against the grip with all her might, her legs scraping against the floor as she was forcibly pulled up the stairs. A hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her cries, while another arm constricted around her with bruising force. Tears blurred her vision, her throat constricted with grief as she continued to struggle against the inexorable pull. 

Ser Criston Cole’s voice, cold and authoritative, echoed through the hall. “Post additional guards at her door.”

His command reverberated, the final decree sealing Daenera’s fate as she was dragged away. 

Daenera was hurled with brute force into her chambers, the stone floor rushing up to meet her as she fell. The impact sent a sharp pain shooting through her elbow, radiating through her entire arm. Struggling to rise, the door was slammed shut with a deafening echo, a sound overpowered by Daenera’s blood roaring in her ears. 

In a frenzy of desperation, she sprang to her feet, her body crashing against the wooden barrier. She frantically tugged at the handles, pounded against the door, her cries for release merging into the sounds of her futile assault on the unyielding wood. But her pleas fell of deaf ears, swallowed by the solid barrier that remained firmly shut. 

Daenera’s gaze was drawn to the stark red on her trembling hands, the blood of her oldest and most cherished friend. A heart-wrenching sob forced its way out as she wiped her hands on her dress as she struggled with the turn of her stomach. 

Acidic bile rose in Daenera’s throat, clawing its way up. In a state of distress, she stumbled away from the door, rushing across the room to collapse on her knees beside the empty chamber pot. The contents of her stomach spilled forth, an acidic yellow bile that matched its bitter taste. Her stomach convulsed, tears dripping from her eyelashes as she wretched loudly. Spitting to rid her mouth of the vile flair, she wiped her face with a sleeve, her body quivering uncontrollably with shock. 

Daenera’s thoughts churned with anxiety, the fate of her men a gnawing uncertainty at the forefront of her mind. Had the morning’s brutal events extinguished the lives of all those she held close? Fenrick, a steadfast protector; Sweet Jelissa and little Patrick… And what of her other guards–Eddin Follard, Darvin Crooler, Kevan Mertyns, and Sithtric Greenfield? Were they to share the same grim fate as Edam Varner and Joyce, whose lives had been cruelly snuffed out in the conflict? 

These thoughts swirled in a tempest of fear and sorrow, and drove her over the chamber pot again, saliva hanging from her lips as she braced for another onslaught of nausea. But when no further wave of sickness came, she gingerly wiped her mouth and pushed herself back to her feet, movements shaky and uncertain. 

Driven by a profound urgency, Daenera crossed the expanse of her chambers with swift, albeit unsteady steps. Her movements were a blend of determination and trepidation as she gripped the balcony doors, and with a decisive motion, she thrust the doors wide open.

As the doors swung, the gentle embrace of dawn’s first light spilled into the chamber, along with a gentle breeze. 

Below, the sprawling expanse of King’s Landing unfolded, a tableau of peace and routine untouched by the turmoil that had seized the heights of power within the Red Keep. The city, with its winding streets and bustling markets, lay serene under the early light, its people moving about their day, blissfully unaware of their King’s passing and the looming shadow of usurpation that threatened to upend the realm. 

Elevating herself on the tips of her toes, she strained her eyes towards the harbor, seeking a glimpse of Meraxes amidst the veil of lingering darkness. Yet, the obscurity of night clung stubbornly to the scene with a mist, rendering the harbor little more than a vague shadow on the horizon. Despite this, Daenera’s heart held fast to a sliver of hope that Jelissa and Patrick had safely found their way onto the ship, that they had embarked and set sail without her.

As she lingered on the balcony, the grip of a chilling realization tightened around her. The prospect that Jelissa and Patrick might have been apprehended, ensnared by the same fate her other men were. The thought filled her with a profound sense of dread. Such a turn of events would ensure her mother remained unaware of the scheming taking place and the machinations against her to steal her throne. 

With this alarming thought, Daenera spun from the balcony’s edge, her every movement infused with urgency as she ran back through the room. Her mind was a tempest of thoughts and plans. She had to get out of the Keep, or at the very least, get word to her mother. 

Kneeling, she flung open the chest at the foot of her bed, digging through its contents, her gaze flicking through the fabric in search for the hidden dagger. Her hands sifted through the fabrics until they closed around the familiar shape of the dagger’s hilt. With a decisive grip, she secured the blade to her waist, pushing it into her belt. 

Bolstered by the presence of the weapon at her side, Daenera turned her attention to preparations for her escape. She procured a small pouch, swiftly gathering a collection of coins and jewels–assets that could aid her in the uncertain days ahead and pay her way to Dragonstone. Once the pouch was secured to her belt, she approached a table where half scribbled notes lay screw across its surface. 

With practiced haste, she took up a feather pen and a piece of parchment and wrote; 

The King is dead. The Hightowers have imprisoned me. They are usurping you. I will attempt to get away. Shall I not succeed, worry not for me. I will survive. 

Your loving daughter.

The ink from Daenera’s feather splashed onto the parchment, leaving a stain reminiscent of dark, sorrowful tears. She meticulously folded the note and secured it within the waistband of her dress for safekeeping. 

Clutching a candlestick tightly in her hand, she inhaled deeply, gathering her resolve. Daenera hoped against hope that the Hightowers had overlooked the existence of the castle’s secret passageways. 

Pressing her palm against the concealed door, she applied gentle force, silently imploring it to yield. To her relief, it responded with a soft click, swinging open to release a gust of chilly, musty air. The smell was a mix of stagnation and the unmistakable odor of rat droppings, and she could hear the faint rustling of the rodents in the darkness. 

Daenera hesitantly stepped into the shadowy passage. Although she knew the way to Aemond’s chambers by heart, her knowledge of these hidden corridors beyond was limited – a fact she now realized was a grave oversight. 

For a fleeting moment, the idea of seeking out Aemond surfaced in her mind, but she quickly dismissed it, knowing he would be compelled to return her to her chambers, ensuring her captivity. The pain of this realization was sharp and cutting.

Carefully, she navigated the labyrinthine passages, mentally mapping her route as her hands slid over the cool, rough walls in search for the correct exit. The scent of blood, still clinging to her dress from her earlier ordeal, filled her nostrils, a stark reminder of the stakes. She regretted not changing her attire, realizing too late that it might hinder her efforts to remain undetected.  

Daenera hesitated outside Rhaenys’ chamber, where the door had been partially sealed off with a heavy stone barrier. She exerted pressure against it, hoping it might give way, but it remained firmly in place. She then tapped softly on the wooden surface, her heart racing as she cast a wary glance down the dark passageway, the glinting eyes of rats the only response in the gloom. 

Growing more anxious, she knocked again, this time with more urgency, her throat tight with apprehension. She yearned for a sign that Rhaenys was still there–was still alive. 

“Hello?” A voice faintly echoed from the other side. 

“Rhaenys?” Daenera responded, hope flickering within her. 

“Daenera?”

“Can you open the door from your side?” Daenera asked, her discomfort growing as the rat scurried over her feet. It seemed the rat catchers had done nothing to control the pest. 

The wood of the door groaned under Rhaenys’ attempt to open it from her side, but the obstruction proved immovable. The stone barrier was not something that could be easily dismantled, effectively trapping Rhaenys in her room. After a moment of trying, Rhaenys’ voice came through again, defeated. “I cannot open it. My doors have been locked, and the nobles seem to have been summoned to the throne room…” 

Daenera felt a lump form in her throat, the candle flickering as she leaned wearily against the door. 

“The King is dead,” she revealed, her voice barely more than a whisper, laden with the gravity of the news she delivered. She swallowed thickly, and repeated her words in a higher tone. “The King is dead.”

In the wake of the revelation, a heavy silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the distant echoes of activity.

When Rhaenys finally responded, her voice resonated with a firm, experienced resolve, the tone of someone who had faced death before and endured. “You must run, Daenera. Go to your mother, tell her what’s happening here.”

Daenera’s concern for her grandmother grew. “What about you? I can’t just leave you here with the Hightowers, they might–”

“I cannot get out,” Rhaenys interjected firmly. “I suspect they’ll keep me as a hostage, unless I swear loyalty to Aegon. They’d do the same to you. You mustn’t let them catch you; it’s not safe. Go now, Daenera.”

“But Rhaenys–”

“Go, now, before they realize you’re missing,” Rhaenys insisted, her tone underscored with urgency. 

Clutching the candlestick tightly, Daenera whispered a heart-wrenching, “Goodbye, Grandmother.”

Daenera used one hand to guide herself along the wall, seeking stability as the candle’s flickering light cast unsettling, moving shadows around her. Her revulsion surged as she navigated the dark, confining passageways. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, mirroring the chaotic scurrying of rats that darted across her path, slowing her progression. She loathed the sensation–the visceral, pounding fear, the feeling of entrapment. Like the rats, she found herself trapped within a maze, desperately seeking an exit, her skin crawling at each unexpected touch of their tiny, leaping bodies against her feet. 

The stale air of the passages seemed to press in on her, thick with mustiness of neglect and the sharp tang of old stone. 

In an unfortunate misstep, Daenera’s foot descended upon an unsuspecting rat. Its sharp squeal shattered the silence, a fleeting protest before a sickening crunch signaled the end of its plight. She inhaled sharply as she attempted to sidestep the small corpse. Yet, fate was not on her side; her other foot snagged on an errant stone, sending her staggering forward. The candle, her sole source of light, slipped from her grasp. As it tumbled to the ground, the light flickered once–a desperate attempt to cling to life–before succumbing to the suffocating darkness, leaving her enveloped in a blanket of pitch black. 

Navigating solely by the faint whispers of sound and the tentative brush of her fingertips against the walls, Daenera found herself adrift in a world stripped of sight. Her journey through the darkness was a slow dance of memory and instinct until the texture beneath her touch subtly changed, from the coarse kiss of stone to the smooth caress of aged wood. 

Her questing hand, guided by a blend of hope and desperation, stumbled upon a latch–a modest sentinel guarding the threshold. A sigh of relief escaped her, mingling with the cool, stale air of the passage as she worked the latch with her finger that betrayed a hint of tremor. Gently, she nudged open a panel, stepping into a realm of light that assaulted her senses with its brilliance. Her eyes, protesting the sudden intrusion, squinted and watered as she hastened to close the panel again. 

The chamber, a ghost of familiarity, whispered echoes of her brothers’ laughter, a fleeting memory of unity and warmth. Sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a gentle glow that illuminated the remnants of their presence. 

Daenera afforded herself not a moment’s indulgence in the ghosts of memories that haunted the chamber. Instead, she approached the door with a purposeful stride, pressing her ear against the cool wood to discern any hint of activity beyond. Her fingers, acting on an instinct honed by necessity, clasped the hilt of her dagger, sliding it from its sheath with a silent resolve. Her heartbeat, a drum of apprehension, seemed to echo in her ears as the sound of footsteps grew nearer. She barely dared to breathe, her body tensed for any eventuality. The footsteps, however, marched past without pause, the transient threat receding into the distance and leaving behind a hushed corridor. 

Quietly, Daenera ventured forth from her temporary refuge, the hood of her cloak drawn forward to shroud her identity. She tread the empty halls with a blend of caution and urgency, her senses attuned to the slightest whisper of sound. At every echo of voices or footsteps, she would meld with the darkness, slipping into a hiding spot. 

Upon reaching the threshold of her destination, a flicker of hesitation stayed her hand. Drawing a deep breath to calm the storm within her chest, she eased the door open with a gentle, practiced touch, ensuring her entry went unnoticed. The room's warmth greeted, a somewhat welcome embrace after the chill of the stone corridors. 

The door shut behind her, sealing her within. Daenera moved quietly, her gaze sweeping the room for any sign of danger. Yet, it was the absence that caught her attention. 

The thought weighed heavily on her, a reminder how fallible this plan was, strung together by mere hope. 

The room lay enveloped in a profound quietude, its stillness so tangible that it seemed to press against the very air. Daenera’s fingers, stained with the vestiges of her recent ordeals–blood darkened to a rust hue and dirt ingrained into her skin–drifted over the parchments strewn across the table. In the chaos of scattered notes, one caught her attention with an immediate pang of recognition. It was adorned with her own script detailing her departure. 

Daenera receded into the room’s deeper shadows, seeking the sanctuary of concealment. 

From there, she would bide her time and wait for Larys’ return.

[teabreakpancakes]

Appease Me Scaramouche x GN Reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Warning: Obsession, yandere-ish?

psst @kasdeyalilith @mirology @smittenroses @thatjadedhotmess @shizunxie

btw, how old is scara?, also, i added my own lil twist lol, oh and they wear a kimono because kimonos are pretty, also ngl, I pulled the last bit out of NOWHERE, it was just random, can you blame me though? i've been on here for like, 3 hours, maybe 4

Dark clouds roam the skies

The chain chimes, awaiting change

Howling for freedom

"If I stop playing your game, will you finally value me as much as I value you?" you mumbled under your breath, ignoring the tears running rampant against your cheeks.

Your eyes were stained with anguish, replaying the memory of him checking up on that stupid waste of space green haired researcher. He was so so cold to you, was he even the Kunikuzushi you had fallen in love with?

Why Why Why Why WHY WHY WHY—WHY WAS HE BEING SO CARING TO SOMEONE THAT HASN'T BEEN THERE FOR AS LONG AS YOU HAVE? you screamed to yourself, nearly pulling hair out from your scalp as banged your head against the wall.

"Have I been... r, replaced?" your voice cracked, facial expression falling, gradually growing dark. Gritting your teeth, you rip the necklace around your neck, throwing it onto your shared bed.

You turn on your heel, carrying nothing but jealousy, betrayal, heartache and a lot more words couldn't even begin to describe.

Scaramouche stands before you, breathless. "Please, stay with me, I know, I know what I did was wrong but please, give me just one more chance, just once more, please forgive me" his gaze sincere.

And yet, and yet

You don't want to concede just yet, you wished to see just how far he would go in order to get your forgiveness. The thought of him on his knees, pleading—begging for your forgiveness seemed too good to pass.

It's always been you, you on the ground, praising him and showering him in your attention, how would it feel for him to do the same for you?; Countless fantasies raced in your head, only fueling your desire, your borderline sick fucking desire to see the very man you've obsessed over for decades, centuries even, groveling.

"What if..." you draw out, reaching a hand out towards the puppet, straightening a stray strand of his indigo hair as he watches you intently—"I don't want to forgive you?" your voice fades to a whisper. Tucking the lock of hair behind his ear, you smile sweetly at Scaramouche, finding delight in the way despair pools within those gorgeous indigo eyes.

His mouth falls agape, grasping at the hand on the side of his head. Your expression grows helpless as he presses kisses into your palm—the warmth of his tears hitting your skin, your heart began aching at the sight of him so vulnerable.

You cup his face with both of your hands, wiping away the tears that seemed to be endlessly falling down his smooth pale skin. Crystal eyes stare into your own with desperation, silently begging you to stay as you've always done. I wish you had done the same for me when I cried your inner thoughts cried out, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue.

He leans into your touch, his hands holding onto you as if you're the only thing keeping him afloat. You kiss his temple, leaving lingering warmth on his cold skin. "Goodbye, Kunikuzushi" you bid, prying away his debilitated arms before turning to leave.

Scaramouche stands there, stunned and unmoving. Once he comes to, your silhouette had almost faded from view due to the sheer distance. He rushes after you—using his anemo vision in order to get to you faster, wiping away his tears messily.

He clutches the back of your clothing, holding back a choked sob. "P, Please, don't leave me, I," his trembling hands reach for your hands. Smack you slap his hands away gently why the hell would you hurt him physically? you loved him way too much to do that. His bottom lip trembles, heart falling to his stomach, Do you hate me? he wondered, clenching his fist.

"N, No, I'm sorry, don't hate me, d, don't hate me please" he pulls on the soft fabric of your clothing. He falls to his knees, burying his head into your kimono. "I'm sorry I'm sorry, I love you so much, don't leave me please (Name)" he sobbed, staining your clothes with his tears.

As much as it hurt to see him like this, it also fulfilled the desire to see him finally needing you as much as you did. But no no no, you mustn't stop the show there, you needed to see more.

"If.. you want me to believe you," you spoke, hooking a finger under his chin—making him look up at you with those tear filled eyes. "You're gonna have to prove it" you continue, face void of any emotion.

Scaramouche almost immediately bows till his head met the ground, "I, I'm sorry! I'll do anything to gain your trust back, I, I just want you by my side again—", you huff, "and I thought Haypasia was the one you wanted by your side" you sneered, voice laced with venom at the thought of that damned researcher ruining and coming in between you two.

"NO, I swear, you're the only one for me, the only one" he swore. Scaramouche began kissing your ankles, attempting to show his devotion. The action causes a soft reddish pink hue to paint your cheeks, the sight nearly making you combust, hell, you felt a damned pervert for enjoying it so much.

A soft giggle fell from your lips, sounding like music to his ears. "I believe you Kuni, get up already" you said, tone soft and laced with cheerfulness. The wanderer sits up, resting on his knees, full of hesitation.

You saw no merit to making him beg more, you had already seen what you wanted after all. Using the sleeve of your kimono, you wiped away the leftover tears on his cheeks. Slowly pulling him up, indigo eyes meet yours, visibly confused.

"I... I thought you hated me?" he whispered, head falling downcast. You hum, pulling his face down to meet yours. Mwah you peck him on the lips, stupefying him.

"No, I was just trying to see if you were being genuine" you hummed, pulling him into your embrace. "I already forgave you the first time... I just... wanted to see if I mattered to you as much as you mattered to me" they trailed off.

"I.. was wrong to treat you like that—I grew to be so used to you being by my side so I—" his voice croaked, tears building in his eyes once more. "Shh, hey, it's alright now, just don't do it again okay?" you whispered.

"I, I don't deserve you" he sobbed out, pulling you close.

extra:

You and Kunikuzushi had gotten married, with the blessing of Ei of course. Shortly after he apologised to you, you both had ventured back to Inazuma.

Of course, Yae nearly apprehended him because she thought he was still the Balladeer, but with the help of the traveller, you of course explained that he's changed and that you've returned in order to get his mother's blessing for your marriage.

Yae thought you were lying until she saw the rings on both of your rings, hell, she even had Paimon rant to her about letting the lovely couple get married already.

Oh, OH but the real hurdle of the entire ordeal was seeing Ei apologise to Kuni, you see, your lovely husband always thought his mother wanted to get rid of him—turns out she just wanted him to be free.

They were laughing about it at first but then they both started sobbing like crazy. "Psst, console your wife, I'll console my husband" I said to the fox lady, motioning for her to go comfort Mrs. Ei already.

Anyways, they made a huge deal out of our marriage, it was kinda awkward to see so many people at the venue but hey, at least we're married now? Mr. Morax, I mean, Mr. Zhongli even made us sign a contract.

Oh and, I told Kuni about the weird obsession I have over him, he thinks it's fine but traveler said I was a yandere?? I don't know what that is, haha.

Me and Kuni and considering asking his mother to make us a kid, because we obviously don't want a mortal kid of ours to die in front of our very eyes, yeah, no.

[frostedlemonwriter]

Snippet from The Voice from the Wires

This is a bit from the very beginning! Below the cut since it is a little long. Thanks!

Also gonna tag @cljordan-imperium @veradragonjedi because they always seem to like my stuff.

Never had Rachel experienced failure in anything until she received the rejection email from Pharma-Tek’s internship program. To make matters worse, Stacey Reader and her clique had once again cornered her in the girls’ bathroom. Huddled on the cold toilet seat, she curled her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight. Her deep blue eyes, filled with despair, buried in the fabric of her jeans. Each tear that fell left a visible mark, stained the indigo denim. Time seemed to pass as she sat there, alone, surrounded by the silence of her solitude.

Gone were the mocking taunts, replaced by the soft melody of buzzing lights that seemed to dance and flutter above her. Their erratic flickering emitted an eerie, almost supernatural glow that permeated the air. It seemed to penetrate her very core, seeped into her bones and her mind. The flow of tears ceased as she found herself transfixed, unable to tear her gaze away from the radiant light. It was a moment that she had never encountered before, surpassing any previous instance of captivation she had ever experienced.

She had to convince herself that it came only as a trick of her tired eyes, a visual distortion caused by her overwhelming sadness and mental anguish. As her depression clouded her perception, a face emerged within the ethereal glow. Its irises shimmered with an array of vibrant colors—pinks, greens, blues—swirled and shifted like a kaleidoscope. In a surreal display, a hand materialized, reached out towards her with a single clawed finger, exuded an ominous aura. Everything turned black like the void, as it turned a deep crimson. But as the sound of giggling girls echoed into the bathroom, the hallucination dissolved, and everything returned to its mundane state.

Three girls, whom Rachel recognized but had never met before, stood in the restroom. The sound of their laughter abruptly ceased as the senior girl practically burst out of the stall. Her face turned as pale as a ghost, mirrored the color of the grave. Concerned, the underclassmen asked if she was alright, but Rachel remained silent. She washed her hands in an almost mechanical motion, her unsteady steps echoed before she stepped into the hallway as the first bell chimed, warned everyone to hurry to their next class.

Her locker, thankfully, was only a few steps down the hall. Its dull metal surface reflected the fluorescent lights above, and the panic on her face. Despite how her hands trembled, Rachel reached out and turned the lock, the sound of the tumblers clicking rung deep in her ears. With a mix of anxiety and determination, she retrieved the two bottles of medications she always carried with her—Lexapro and Seroquel. The plastic containers felt cool and smooth against her fingertips as she gripped them tighter than she ever had. Rachel popped both pills into her mouth; the bitter, astringent taste assaulted her taste buds. Despite the unpleasantness, she chewed them, felt the pills break apart under her teeth. And washed them down with a long drink from the water fountain. While the cool liquid soothed her throat and her mind. She waited for the effects to kick in.

[to-my-luna]

a playlist with what scene i thought of in each song.

wherever u r - umi, v

slow mornings. hiding under sheets. walking in our garden. basking in sunlight. sharing coffee. see-you-later kisses before work. i-missed-you kisses after work. cooking dinner together. holding each other before falling asleep.

it's you - max, keshi

good morning kisses. sleeping in. going out to visit our favorite cafe. buying each other flowers. a picnic. cool breeze. eating sweets in the afternoon. golden hour. painting the sky and the clouds at sunset.

love. - wave to earth

long cold days apart. video calls every free time. wearing each other's hoodies. watching anime and movies together through gmeet. sleepy i love yous. hugging stuff toys to sleep. looking forward to being together again.

ligaya - mrld

stay at home dates. baking cookies. whipped cream at each other's faces. kissing on the kitchen countertop. building a fort in the living room. cuddling while watching tv.

you'll be safe here - adie

waking up after a nightmare. one waking up to the other sniffling. tight hugs. forehead kisses. gentle caresses. talking under the moonlight. quiet i love yous. humming a lullaby. falling asleep in each other's arms.

off my face - justin bieber

reading books together. stealing glances at each other. discarding them anyways to kiss and kiss and kiss. listening to music while napping on the couch. one waking up first and staring at the other, admiring.

urs - john-robert

coming home to find petals scattered on the floor. dim lighting. a table with candles lit and our favorite meals. early evening with indigo skies and city lights. cold wind. warm lips.

bloom - the paper kites

weekends and early mornings. birds chirping. sun peeking through curtains. pancakes for breakfast. watering plants. soaking in the warmth of sun and coolness of the air. sketching. painting. writing.

everlasting summer - seycara orchestral, hikaru station

a hot morning. popsicles. colorful wind chimes. taking a bite from the other's ice cream. sharing a milkshake. watering plants turns to water fights. sprinklers. hose. water balloons. laying down on the grass in the afternoon.

my love mine all mine - mitski

winding down in the evening. white bath robes and wine. facials. masks. bubble baths together. slow dancing under dim lights. midnight snacks. matching silk pajamas. cuddling in bed.

you'll be in my heart - niki

a week before parting. staying in all day. cooking. taking polaroid pictures. playing guitar and singing together. making bracelets. late night talks. breakdowns. promises. "i'll be back before you know it."

v - razz t, thomas rydell

seeing each other again. tight and long hugs. out all day eating everywhere and talking about anything under the sun. feeding each other. updating each other about everything they missed. holding hands and reassuring squeezes.

afterglow - leila milki

slow and intimate moments. undressing each other, taking our time. feather kisses. soft touches. quiet moans. silk sheets. pink cheeks. rose-colored marks. making love.

love wins all - IU

a bouquet. walking down the aisle. two long white wedding dresses. veils. exchanging vows. two rings.

easily - bruno major

honeymoon. drinking wine. house by the beach. night swimming. coconut trees. cocktails. drinking together and getting drunk. laughing, dancing, singing at the top of our lungs. messy makeouts.

naturally - sydney maxine

cold, strong winds blowing our hair everywhere. the beach at night. a bonfire. walking by the shore, hand in hand. hanging out watching the waves. sharing a tent. stargazing.

tingin - cup of joe, janine

spring in japan. strolls in the park. long coats and foggy air from our mouths. hot chocolate and coffee. taking the train. sharing earphones. eating local snacks from stalls. vintage cameras. cherry blossoms.

it could only be us - beyond the sun

roadtrips. singing with the speakers blasting. sun in our veins. shades, shorts, summer outfits. floaties. mango shakes. playing in swimming pools and splashing water at each other. funny inflatables.

nahuhulog na sa'yo - noah alejandre

getting ready for date nights. doing each other's makeup. going out later than planned because we looked too good, iykyk. arcades. window shopping. just walking, letting our feet take us wherever. ramen for dinner.

every summertime - niki

getting our own place. moving in. working. grinding. saving up to open a bakery, cafe, bookstore, flowershop, or whatever we want. vacations and trips. pets. our dream life

?

[the-rising-dawn]

…Dusk’s domain runs on symbolism, we all know that. It runs on fairy tale logic, on what feels best for a character at the time.

…If this place is meant to awe, it doesn’t disappoint.

Jessy never thought he’d get to see the stars up close, for in our world the stars are distant, deadly orbs of flame and destruction. And yet, this is not our cosmos, with its scientific rules and incredible distances. This is the Celestial’s realm, and besides, no developer could properly code something as vast as our universe on older hardware, even with the circus’s possibly supernatural ability to bring things to life and sentience.

Jessy runs his fingers through a streak of aurorae, the vibrant green ribbon of light feeling comfortably warm to the touch. The stars are softly glowing orbs hanging from no visible string, constellations formed from the onlookers below making up images and tales out of simple lines, creating what may be called a species of Dusk’s angels. The sky is a seemingly infinite void of abyssal indigo, but alight with stars and watercolor nebulae, soft azure trees and flowers made with clouds and intricate light, almost like they were perfectly glass-blown. Dusk brushes a thin curtain of icy vines out of their way at one point, making a sound like a wind chime. The lesser constellations and their spectral kin, taking on the form of animals, stare at the two when they approach, endearingly curious. The goddess pets them sometimes, smiling warmly. She herself has taken on a slightly more…ethereal appearance, this domain truly is where she belongs.

Jessy needless to say has his jaw dropped at everything, that our absolutely elated and exited at everything, it seems this place is also becoming one where he belongs aswell, the star on his hand glowed and his appearance shifted Slightly to match the surroundings, he didn't seems to notice or be bothered by it

[abigailspinach]

“Even if Chime was hurt, he was still lucky; Moon could carry him back to the colony, or send Balm for help if the wing was too damaged to move without splints. Moon had broken a small bone in his wing once, slamming into a rock wall while trying to avoid being eaten by the biggest branchspider he had ever seen. He had spent three days curled in a hollow tree, sick and shivering, waiting for it to heal enough that he could shift without crippling himself.

And he needed to get it straight in his head whether he wanted to leave the Indigo Cloud Court because he thought it was too late for him to belong here, or because he just bitterly resented the fact that nobody had found him before.”

— The Cloud Roads: Volume One of the Books of the Raksura by Martha Wells

[fieldsofview]

Spider-Man: Homesickness

Rated M | 9/20 Chapters | CW: Graphic Depictions of Violence | Five years after No Way Home (ft. Alt Peter Parker) The week that Peter finally learns to let people in again, despite kicking and screaming the whole way

Read on AO3 here.

CHAPTER 9 TEASER BELOW THE CUT

He peels off his suit and tosses it into the sink, to wash later, and takes his second shower of the day. In the stifling heat of the New York summer, a cool wash of water would be just the thing to bring some clarity to everything. Something to wash away the blood and sweat and ease the burning ache in him. Something to perk him up and spark his mind to action.

He turns the tap to its hottest setting and drowns in the choking steam, coughing up lungfuls of wet, ash-ridden mucus and devoutly promising that the water dripping across his face is not salty.

Chi troppo vuole nulla stringe.

He knew better.

His web of lies is catching up to him. Spinning away from one sends him careening to another.

He has no one to lie to now but himself.

He stitches his suit up, clean and ready for a new day.

He does not stitch himself up, instead letting his wounds ooze, untouched.

He deconstructs the nano-bots from his suit, deprogramming them and leaving them in a pile to use for Miles.

He does not deconstruct the thoughts tangled in the back of his mind.

He cuts apart an older suit, shrinking it to a smaller size and reinforcing the spots that are most likely to tear.

He cuts apart his desires into confetti so small he can no longer tell one piece apart from the next, turning them into paper mache and pasting them together in a wall against the world.

The light from his window shifts from the deep, endless indigo of midnight to the watercolor hues of the early morning, and eventually settles into another bright celeste sky, without a single cloud to mar it.

He’d like to say that he ignores his phone, that he put the night behind him, never to return.

He can’t.

He checks the messages over and over again, rolling them over his tongue and ghosting his fingers over the keys, but never responding.

He can’t.

He wants to set it down, to lock it away, to forget.

He can’t.

He throws his phone at the wall, hard, but shoots a web out to catch it almost the same moment it leaves his hand. He can’t afford a new one, no matter how cathartic it might be.

At some point later - somehow simultaneously a blink and a lifetime - when he’s elbow-deep in the new code for the nano-bots, his phone chimes again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. He almost ignores it, but in the end, he can’t.

It’s Miles. The messages leave a ghost of a smile in his heart that doesn’t quite reach his face, and he simply replies: Glad you’re safe, kid.

It reminds him that he should probably get a new earpiece to add to Miles’ suit, on top of everything else. The kid will need a way to call him hands-free if there’s an emergency, and he can program it with a few extra features he doesn’t bother with having integrated into his own.

He’s going to need more money for that, which means he’s going to need photos to sell to JJ, which means he needs to go out and take photos.

And so he does.

He swings.

[rjalker]

[ID: The "I love inside jokes" meme from The Office, now edited so the first panel reads:

"River is cruel and power hungry and abusive and regularly beats the shit out of Arbora for fun."

The second panel now reads, in larger text:

"We hate him because he's trans."

End ID.]

The Indigo Cloud court hates trans people so much they're willing to overlook violent abuse that's happening right in front of their eyes and then later they only have a problem with the abuser because he's trans.

I bet they'd give a lot more shits if his victim wasn't the only other trans person that we know of in the whole colony.

The Indigo Cloud court:

[ID: The "I can excuse racism, but I draw the line at animal abuse" meme, now edited so the white woman is saying: "I can excuse River being openly & violently abusive, but being trans is just taking things too far." The Black woman responds, "Are you fucking serious?!" End ID.]

[nedsecondline]

Indigo Carousel – yaskhan

Out of the ocean azure canopy lifts ballad tune of lovers song of the ocean a heartbeat in blue chorales of Davy Jones’s hushed in the deep pale of violet breaths drifting mystic farewell as quilting clouds lacquer varnishing splashing tides ripples leap to chime the brine frothy crests twirl ocean’s glide a wet landscape holds my footsteps slip~sliding through quivering sands.. Source: Indigo…

[coquelicoq]

The consort turned to Moon, eyeing him thoughtfully. Then he stepped closer. It should have been threatening, but Moon had to still the impulse to lean toward him. There was something about him, that ability to draw you in, the same power that Pearl had. With the consort it was easier to resist, and Moon couldn't tell if he was doing it consciously or not. He touched Moon under the chin, a light pressure that made Moon lift his head slightly. It was a challenge, but Moon didn't growl, didn't twitch away. He might still know little about how Raksura behaved, but he knew this wasn't that kind of challenge. Then the consort said, "You're feral." Behind Moon, there was a startled stir, and somebody hissed, offended. Apparently it was fine for Indigo Cloud to say it, but no one else was allowed. Chime started to say, "He isn't. He's--" The consort flicked a look at them, and they all went still. I wish I could do that, Moon thought, not taking his eyes off the other man. The way he had said it had been a statement of fact, not an accusation. And it seemed to mean something else besides the usual insult. Moon replied, "A little." (The Serpent Sea, p. 102)

shut up chime! DILFs can have a little calling moon feral. as a treat

[walks-the-ages]

Raksura Writing Prompt:

Evolution does a Throwback

It's been five turns since the events of The Harbours of the Sun, Indigo Cloud has finally settled into the Reaches, the Court is thriving, the food is plentiful, there's been no disease outbreaks, and best of all, no world-shattering disasters every other month. Everything is calm. Everything is as it should be.

Then Chime wakes up one morning, and shifts.

And it's NOT into the warrior form he's finally gotten used to.

For a second, Chime doesn't realize anything is wrong. Then he sees that the scales on his hands have changed from dark blue with a gold undersheen to deep matte black, with no undersheen. The is no color banding on his claws. Chime sits down on the ground hard, mind spinning, heart racing, fairly certain he's on the edge of a panic attack.

Moon, waking up in the bower bed behind him, sleepily sits up and leans over the side to see what the commotion is. Chime looks up at Moon imploringly and sees Moon's brow furrow in sleepy confusion.

"Shade?" Moon asked, "What are you doing here?"

Shit, Chime thinks, why is it always me? and faints.

----

The Court is settled. There's no disease. Food and water are plentiful. There is no pressure on the Court.

A fertile, ground-bound Arbora turning into a sterile, winged Warrior serves one purpose: emergency relocation, and focusing all energy on getting to a new, safe area, like Monarch Butterflies and their super generations.

Now that the Court is settled and no longer actively dying out, the genes that activated in Chime to trigger his initial transformation have progressed to the next logical step: make Chime fertile again, so he can contribute his strength and survival to the Courts new bloodlines.

The thing is...

Chime does not evolve into a Consort. Maybe if Chime had been a Teacher, or a Hunter, he would have evolved into a Consort next.

But Chime was born a Mentor, with a Consort for a father instead of a purely Arbora pairing. Chime was a mentor, and all of the rare, prized genes that come with that. The ancient genes that have been passed down from the Aeriat since they first joined with the Arbora.

And so Chime evolves into... a Forerunner.

[kuruoshiku]

I love these books so much.

[ddarker-dreams]

When Worlds Collide. Yan Scaramouche x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, implied forced marriage, pregnancy mention, and mild not SFW themes.  Word count: 3k.

You never thought the day would come where you’d actually enjoy tea in a social setting.

In place of fine porcelain teacups hand-painted to order atop saucers worth more than you could fathom are plastic cups with bright, saturated colors. You don’t have to feel the leering eyes scrutinizing your every movement as if one wrong dip of your head spelled certain doom. There’s no pressure, anxiety churning your stomach from the inside out, or condescending quips meant to test your patience. There’s only—  

“Some for me,” a young voice chirps, “And some for mommy!”

—The center of your universe, a star who shines brighter than the sun, your most precious daughter, Chie.

Chie fusses about the table you’ve set up for her. The cups must be just so, adhering to rules known solely by her. For as far back as you could remember, she was particular about details. She requested for her sandwiches to be cut into certain shapes, put her toys back exactly as they were before, and took care to not color outside the lines for her art.

Her chubby cheeks pinch into a smile while she sets the toy teapot down. “Tea is done.”

To accompany her proclamation, she curtsies, the sight sending your heart soaring. She’s too much. She must’ve observed some ladies in the city doing that, her mimicry a touch clumsy yet adorable nonetheless. Not wanting to keep her waiting any longer, you pick up your plastic cup, pretending to blow away steam like it was piping hot.

“Remember to blow so you don’t burn your mouth,” you remind her, to which she puffs out her cheeks, utilizing far more air than necessary. Chuckling, you shake your head. “It’s not a dandelion, sweetie. Here, like this.”

You bring the rim to your lips and demonstrate a more gentle rendition. Chie stares up at you in awe, her eyes wide and doe-like. They have such a strong indigo inclination, you think. You’ve seen that coloration before. They haunt your dreams and lurk in your subconscious like piranhas ready to gorge at the first hint of blood. The eyes you picture are somewhat different, however;  those have crimson pigment lining the eyelid. Enough is embedded into Chie’s face that you can never forget him, no matter how hard you try.

He was everywhere and in everything. Innocent pleasures were tainted for you like a stain that would never come off. Wind chimes, ringing bells upon entering shops, jingling keys struggling to enter locks. Each sound carried with it a tangible weight atop your psyche. Promises of premonitions you wish to never come true. It’s been years, you’ll often reassure yourself on restless nights. Years of freedom that have yet to be stolen back.

Chie lights up as an idea comes to her. “Can we go outside?”

Sunlight peaks through the half-drawn curtains of your humble abode. There’s not a cloud in the sky and the wind is gentle, rustling the nearby trees in a pleasant symphony. You suppose soaking in the rays of the sun would do you both some good. The hesitation that hung over you for years to explore your surroundings has begun to thaw — not that you don’t remain vigilant. It’d be no life for your little girl if you were living in constant paranoia.

The cottage you occupy lies on the outskirts of Springvale. It’s peaceful here, almost idyllic, the days passing by without any major happenings. Unlike the other nations you’ve been to, Fatui don’t lurk in every corner of Mondstadt. It’s for that reason you’ve sought shelter here after years of being on the move.

Ever since that one little girl dressed in red became Chie’s acquaintance, she’s taken to exploring the outside world. You think you heard something about Klee being in solitary confinement recently. Without her friend to play with, Chie’s been restless, so you cave to her demands.

“Alright, but remember to stay in the fence where I can see you. Promise?”

She nods her head with newfound excitement and rushes over to the door to slip her shoes on. She then gets your shoes out, placing them side by side and looking at you expectantly.

“I’ll be right out,” you gesture to the dirty dishes in the sink from your recently finished dinner. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“I won’t!”

Household chores might be a humdrum pain to some, but you find solace in routine. Through the glass planes of the window, you spot Chie running around, arms stretched out to mimic the nearby birds she so adores. She never forgets to greet each one with an enthusiastic wave. It’s times of reflection like these where you know you made the right choice. That the loneliness, the anxiety, mistrust toward strangers, and constantly staying on the move was worth it. How could you doubt yourself when you see the culmination of your efforts living a life without a care in the world?

You’d do it all for her again in a heartbeat.

You glide across the kitchen to put utensils back where they belong. The plates in the upper cabinet, silverware in the drawer, cups on your windowsill for when Chie got thirsty and asked for something to drink later on that night. She’d recently acquired a taste for warm milk. Late at night, while you were preparing for bed, she’d wander in your room with a bedhead requesting the prized drink.

No matter how hard she tried to sneak around, the creaking floorboards would give her away. A chuckle leaves your lips at the thought. Who would’ve thought that the skill you acquired in those days would come in handy for parenting? A lot of what was crammed into your skull served you well. The important difference being the person you did it for changed.

“Chie?” You call out upon noticing she’s not in your front yard. Immediately, the rag in your hand is forgotten, haphazardly discarded while you make a beeline to the door. There are times where she catches sight of a pretty butterfly and wants to chase after it, much to your chagrin. You thought the talk you had about it last time would’ve been enough to deter her from doing that again.

Upon swinging the door open, you find the gate to your front yard askew and Chie nowhere in sight. Fear wraps its slithering tendrils around your pounding heart in her absence. You call her name out, once, then twice; the volume and pitch increasing alongside it. The secluded area you live in is both a blessing and a curse. It keeps prying eyes with potential unwanted connections away, yet also surrounds your humble abode in thick forests. The few months you’ve lived here haven’t been enough for you to memorize the lay of the land.

By a clearing in the woods, you spot the bright yellow gingham dress Chie picked out for herself today. The familiar sight sparks relief in your tightening chest. You make your way closer, vacillating between wanting to scoop her up in a tight hug or chastising her for making you worry. You hear her voice, though the sounds of nature obscure the contents. Was she trying to converse with wildlife again?

That’s when you spot a figure crouched down in front of her and your body freezes.

His clothes are exactly how you remember them. Ornate, regal, flowing like silk. The veils attached to his kasa billow in the breeze. Accompanying it is the shrill sound akin to funeral tolls after a death, You’d pictured this worst-case scenario in your head in the past. Mulled over the contingency with ideas of what you might do or say. The nightmarish daydreams never lasted long, as nausea and malaise would plague you, making it impossible to think about it for more than a few seconds.

Indigo eyes meet yours and you know he’s won. The ultimate victory at the cost of everything you hold dear. If this tragedy of your life was a play, this would be the final act, the curtains closing.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Chie exclaims, scampering over to where you stand, still as a statue. “I made a friend.”

She doesn’t slow down at your lack of response and continues, “He said he’s looking for you.”

No words form on your tongue. You just stare, your mind in shambles, unwilling to accept what’s happening in front of you. Scaramouche stands up and brushes off his clothes. Chie begins tugging at your dress’ hem, trying to get your attention. He takes a step forward and you can’t breathe. It’s not until he’s mere feet away that you snap into action, bending down to pick Chie up, holding her in a protective embrace so she can no longer see him.

The second Chie’s gaze is off him, Scaramouche’s friendly smile shifts into something sinister, the skin beneath his eyes and around his mouth tightening. A shadow crosses over his face and your breath is caught in your constricting throat. You can see your reflection in his eyes — the horror, the dread, the helplessness. He delights himself in it and devours your suffering like a fine wine.

“Mommy?” Chie turns her head and Scaramouche’s expression melts back into something deceptively softer, “Is he your friend?”

He speaks up on your behalf, much to your dismay. “Oh yes. We’re very good friends. Wouldn’t you say so, dear?”

“...”

It’s only fair that if the gods would abandon and cast him to the side, they’d do the same to you as well. Your fates were so deeply intertwined that they must regard you as one entity. His tone drips with poisoned honey, corrosive enough to break through the walls your mind built in a frenzy to protect your fraying sanity. He lifts his hand to your face, slow enough where you could flinch away if you tried, but he knows you won’t. Obedience has been injected into your veins by him, flowed alongside your blood, and been accepted by your body to survive.

His fingers make contact with your skin like death itself coming to take you to the underworld.

The weight in your arms reminds you of what’s at stake here. It’s no longer your life on the line, it could be hers too. You haven’t the slightest inkling of his current mental state. Would you be killed for besmirching his pride? Was there enough humanity in his heart to spare your daughter the grisly sight? These questions and more invade your thoughts and proliferate.

Scaramouche watches, expressionless and eagle-eyed, as you place Chie back onto solid ground. You press a kiss to her forehead. When you pull back, you notice the confusion on her face and smooth over her hair that’s the same shade and texture as yours. Your resolve cannot waver. Whatever path you must take to ensure her safety, you will gladly do so, accepting anything and everything that comes your way.

“Chie, would you please clean up our tea party from earlier? I need a few minutes alone.”

Scaramouche’s callousness is a disease that cannot be cured. You don’t want to risk Chie getting infected, and pray that there are enough crumbs of goodwill within him that he’ll leave her be. He’s sure to have lots to say to you.

“But…” she cuts herself off at the unusual severity haunting your visage, “... ‘Kay. I will.”

Chie spares Scaramouche a final glance, to which he waves, the friendly smile from before returning to his lips. She sheepishly returns the action then heads back to your home, the door still wide open from when you barged out earlier. At least she won’t have to be in his presence for a few more minutes. Now left alone with the devil incarnate, you turn to face him, resolve burning in your eyes that he no doubt intends to snuff out.

“Little Chie is right, you know. I have been looking for you for quite some time now.”

Your fists clench by your side. “When did you… how did you…?”

“The Fatui have big plans for Mondstadt,” he explains. “However, imagine my surprise when some lowly agent burst into my office, claiming to have seen my wife with some kid in the Favonius Cathedral. I didn’t take you for the pious type, [First].”

Ah, so that was how he found you then. You wanted to introduce Chie to more populous areas after years of scarcely seeing anyone other than you. It didn’t matter how careful you tried to be, how many times you checked over your shoulder, or the long paths you took to avoid being followed. Against Scaramouche, everything was for naught.

He doesn’t give you time to wallow in self-pity, a trait that hasn’t changed from what you remember.

“So, she is my daughter.”

It isn’t a question but a confident statement.

You nod and attempt to gauge his countenance which remains blank, his lips in a thin line, and his eyebrows relaxed. Whatever he’s feeling at this moment, you have no way of knowing. After what feels like forever, he snickers, his hand rising to cover his mouth.

“Not only did you leave me,” he laughs at a joke known only to him, “But you were pregnant with my child too?”

The sound of his humorless cackling makes you visibly wince. You never knew how he’d react if he ever found you, but this is definitely not what you were expecting. Gathering every ounce of strength in your trembling body, you manage to speak to him, your voice quieter than a whisper.

“If you’re going to kill me, then please, at least spare her. She has nothing to do with this.”

Scaramouche cuts his laughter off at that, his eyes narrowing and head tilting. “Kill you? Why would I do that?”

He takes a step forward.

“Do you think it’s because you begged me to fuck you that night, only so that you could lower my guard and make your little escape? Is it because I had to search for you year after year? Or maybe…” his voice drops an octave and you shiver, “You think I’d let you off so easily?”

His breath warms the shell of your ear. “Oh no, that just won’t do. You have vows to uphold to me, my sweet, sweet wife. I never intend to kill you. Or have you forgotten the promises you made to me? I know I haven’t.”

The months leading up to your escape were a blur of empty assurances and hollow smiles. You did, said, and acted in any way that might fool him into believing his revolting feelings were reciprocated. What started small as not to tip him off that something was wrong grew into a complex web of deception. How ravenous he was for validation, your validation. Which you offered in abundance at the expense of your pride. What worked once will likely never work again. You’ll have to readjust your strategy accordingly.

“So long as she is safe,” you close your eyes, wanting to block his intrusive presence out, “I’ll do anything.”

Scaramouche scoffs at this, nostrils flaring out and arms crossing over his chest.

“Hm. Count yourself lucky, woman. Had I not been so taken with you, I would’ve had that lying tongue cut from your mouth ages ago.”

He dances his pointer finger along your bottom lip. “No harm will befall the child. She is my daughter, after all. Had she not been…”

The pause is accompanied by electricity thrumming in the air and your heart plummets to your stomach. What stands in front of you is not a human but a monster wearing skin, you’re certain of it.

“We’ll be leaving for Inazuma immediately. Have her pack her things up but leave yours behind. I can’t stand seeing you in these rags,” he lifts the collar of your dress and grimaces. “You’ll be dressed in a manner befitting of my wife soon enough.”

“What am I supposed to tell her? She’s just started to make friends here, and now she has to leave them behind?”

He examines his nails like he’s bored. “That’s for you to figure out, not me. You should’ve never been in this backwater nation to begin with.”

The distaste he harbors for Mondstadt doesn’t surprise you. This is where you’ve managed to escape him for a few years — it’s a wonder he hasn’t sought to burn everything to the ground. In some regards, his affiliations to the Fatui could be considered fortunate. Without anything to tie him down, who knows what he’d do. Any hope that he’d allow Chie to live her life uninterrupted here dies almost immediately.

That doesn’t mean you won’t try.

“Kunikuzushi,” you notice how his shoulders stiffen when his real name is spoken, “Please think of our daughter. This is an important time in her development, just upping and leaving everything she knows is too cruel—”

“You should’ve thought about that before you ran. Deal with the consequences of your actions without whining to me.”

He cuts you off without remorse, then takes advantage of your stunned silence by adding, “I don’t want to hear it. Be grateful that I’m benevolent enough to not drag you kicking and screaming to the ship — I can still change my mind on that.”

If there’s anything you remember about him, it’s that his threats aren’t empty, he’d follow through if you didn’t bite your tongue. So you do just that. Your face burning up with humiliation, your gaze cast to the ground, and your eyes brimming with tears. The sound of his footsteps against the grass goes ignored until you realize where he’s headed.

Scaramouche starts on the trail to the home you’ll be leaving behind, glaring holes through it. Chie’s room on the second floor is visible from here, and the two of you stare in silence while she moves around, toys in hand. Unbeknownst to her, these would be the last few hours spent in a world she was familiar with. The thought breaks and shatters your heart into too many pieces that could never be put back together.

The monster standing beside you snakes his arm around your trembling shoulders in a mockery of a lover’s embrace, asking a purposefully provocative question that has your blood running cold.

“Now… do you want to tell her to refer to me as ‘father’ from now on, or should I?”