#PRAYING FOR A WAYWARD SPARK

[fallenrain40]

IF YOU COULD WOULD YOU ERASE ME? ERIDICATE ME FROM YOUR MIND? AND IF WE WERE TO MEET AS STRANGERS AGAIN WOULD YOU REFUSE TO MEET MY EYES? WOULD YOU LET ME PASS YOU BY?

[thatstoomanysausages]

My favourite activity to indulge in recently in non-stop binging The Crane Wives' songs, especially the new album, and tallying how many times I can somehow link the lyrics to Desert Duo.

At this point it might be a talent of delusion, and I am winning.

Here is a list of lyrics in the newest album that I am particularly delusional about (it's long. It's 2am)

(btw it's every single new song. I am tired as fuck)

Scars:

"All the love, all the kindness, all your best-laid plans/Couldn't stop me from becoming the way that I am" (3rd Life reference referring to Scar inevitable turning red despite all of Grian's plans to keep him alive and safe)

"A fatal fault at the start/Tell me it's inevitable that I'd end up with scars" (3rd Life, when Scar is quickly killed in the beginning by Grian)

"Nothing could have been done/Is that right?" (3rd Life. Conversation between Grian and Scar after the creeper prank)

"Nothing could have been done" (3rd Life. After Scars falls to red)

"Nothing could have been done/Is that right?" (3rd Life. After Grian kills Scar with his own bare hands)

"End up with scars from falling/Down, down" (3rd Life, Grian's final death via suicide)

"We were always meant to fall apart" (Not even one specific series. Every single one of them actually.)

Bitter Medicine:

"Are you ashamed of me, or did you buy what I'm selling?" (3rd Life reference about Scar's scamming nature and Grian's disappointment that hides the fact that he's charmed by Scar. Every. Single. Time.)

"Made my bed but I'll sleep anywhere, anywhere" (Wild Life reference. I think we all know. Pillows smelling like waffles? Yeah.)

Higher Ground:

"I gave up the truth and now I can't take it back" (3rd Life. Grian telling Scar that he was the one that brought the creeper over. Or. Double Life Grian if he ever told Scar about his Secret Soulmate. OR. Wild Life, Grian telling Scar literally anything about the wildcard)

"I didn't wanna hurt anyone" (Oh.)

"The corvids are calling/Warning the forest a predator is approaching/Am I in danger, or am I the threat" (Grian is often characterised as a corvid if not a parrot. Basically any scenario in Wild Life where Grian is warning Scar about the wildcards despite the fact that he is at fault of making them happen)

Predator:

"What were you thinking?/Shouldn't you know better?/You opened a door for an apex predator" (Any scenario in which Scar welcomes Grian into his home and doesn't think twice about the danger the other could be harbouring. His trust for Grian is unimaginable)

"I keep forgetting the lessons I've learned/So I keep getting hurt" (Before Scar won, he never remembered what had happened with Grian, so he went back to him for safety multiple times, teamed with him, didn't mind his company, not knowing the dangers that Grian represents just by existing)

"Your heart is a nasty place/I'm afraid to say no to you" (...Yeah)

"Keep your lies and your denial/I am fighting for survival/My heart is a changing shape/What if I said no to you?" (DOUBLE LIFE DESERT DUO TAKE ME HOME. The 'changing shape' line implying that their soulmates could change their soulbound partners if they really wanted to, and could adapt to being with another if they desired it)

"You took advantage of another anxious people-pleaser" (I can't keep doing this. Honestly, depending on your point of view, this could go either way for them in varying seasons, they're doomed in every universe)

"I keep forgetting that you wont learn/So I keep getting hurt" (And now it switches to Grian on this paralleling line. He forgets about Scar's undying loyalty and falls into the trap of his safety every time, only to come out hurting him or not protecting him like he swore to in 3rd Life. This line goes so hard)

Say It:

"Say it/If it's over, say it/So I can move forward/Please don't leave me in the dark/Praying for a wayward spark" (This whole chorus screams them. They won't communicate. They never officially separate from one another, always somehow intertwined, but neither will finalise their allyship. I need therapy)

"I'm haunted by your tenderness" (3rd Life Grian traumatised by the half-hearted hits Scar was giving because he was letting Grian win, he never wanted to fight, he felt Grian deserved to win because he had done so so much for him. He was completely smitten)

"And if we meet as strangers again/Would you refuse to meet my eyes?" (Grian internally questioning Scar after he killed him in the 3rd Life finale, harbouring more guilt than he can comprehend, literally)

"You know I'm loyal to a fault" (Scar and Grian interchangeably in 3rd Life...)

"I will sit here waiting/Waiting for the axe to fall" (Scar submitting his life to Grian after they are left the last two alive. And also, if you're insane for Treebark, there is a glaringly obvious implication of Martyn feeling incredible guilt after axing Ren down to red, even if he asked him to.)

Mad Dog:

"Keep looking for the end of the tunnel/Never seems to get any closer" (The two waiting as winners for the games to end and alongside it, their suffering as well. They will never be free from circling around each other, over and over and over again)

"We both know the ship is gonna sink/But I keep reaching for the shore/Never seems to get any closer" (They both keep reaching towards each other, knowing that they will never truly be able to be together, especially after the first time where they did, and it ended horribly for them)

Arcturus Beaming:

"My sanctuary to worship the pain" (References the panda sanctuary that Scar built to help the soulmates heal their bonds, only to never complete its purpose with the two that needed it the most, ironically including the one that built it)

"And I am tired of forming a cliff face/Inside of my chest now" (Grian remembering jumping off of Monopoly Mountain and the weight that it now burdens his heart with. This line is diabolical with the right context)

"I'm grieving all that I gave" (Both of them grieving the sacrifices they made for one another, their sacrifices only making their relationship more strained overtime)

"A mirror image of us here, but they're pointing up at our sun and/Asking themselves/What exists beyond, beyond, beyond, beyond?" (Other versions of themselves in different life series looking at their 3rd Life selves and wondering what it was like to be so tightly allied)

"But there's still time, it's not too late/Nothing will change until I change" (Grian's attempt at teaming with Scar in Limited Life, savouring the time he had with him before killing him. He will never change their bond, he is always destined to kill him one way or another)

Time Will Change You:

"Planting hearts in a grave/Pray they grow after it rains" (Grian burying all his allies, hoping that as he digs their graves, he can heal their broken bonds, the cracks only caused by himself. This can unfortunately apply to a lot of Grian's allies, but Grian and Scar's relationship tries to heal itself each season)

"Someday/Time will change you/You'll leave behind what doesn't move" (Someday Scar will remember and he'll leave Grian behind once he realises that Grian was never able to move on, and that his heart is still stuck neck deep in the sand where both their bodies laid at the end of 3rd Life)

"Give me a chance to get this right/I'm learning how to let go" (They're learning, but they'll always fail, no matter how many chances)

Black Hole Fantasy:

"There's a black hole in the living room floor/I keep trying to ignore, but it's growing" (Their need to team and interact is overwhelming, and the longer they ignore one another, the larger their need will get)

"If love is just a chemical reaction/Is there a pill to take? Something to quell this ache?/ Is this the real thing or a distraction/Is it worth the risk?/My life would detonate" (Mmmmmm I'm losing it here)

"I'm on my way to your house, I can't wait anymore" (Yeah.)

"My knuckles hesitate an inch away from the door/What happens when it opens?" (They've spent so much time apart and away from one another that they feel fear that the moment they reconnect, it won't be the same as it was in the desert)

"And on the other side is another life/A version of me with a spark in her eyes that I don't have" (Looking back to 3rd Life when everything was simpler and happier)

"You pull me in your arms and I feel your heart pounding/I take a step back to catch my breath/And we look at each other and double over/And laugh, and laugh, and laugh" (Yeah. Just yeah. This whole verse makes me sob)

Red Clay:

(Already I want to make a link to 'red' and Scar's existence in 3rd Life being very red)

"Blistering sun, my sweat soaking my clothing" (THE DESERT???)

"We don't have to do this the hard way" (We don't have to battle to the death bare handed. We don't have to.)

River Rushing:

"I know I can't grow with a hand around my throat/Hold yourself steady/Whenever you're ready" (Reference to their fight to the death in 3rd Life)

This entire song is just a narration of their fight honestly and it makes me violent.

[royal-songbird]

JUST FINISHED LISTENING TO THE NEW CRANE WIVES ALBUM. HOOOOOOLY SHIT. THAT WAS INCREDIBLE. time to ramble about each song because i can <3 lalalalala

(under a cut cause this got a little long)

Scars: Listened to this one the second it was officially released, so i've had some time to listen to it !!!and . ough. its so good. i love when the crane wives make angry songs <3 really REALLY happy that they've incorporated violin into their newer songs too. the subtle shriek halfway through, the buildup near the end....GRAH (and i know they did on past albums but tbh they did not include them Enough. i love the violin <3)

Bitter Medicine: another one that was released ahead of the full album! also very good. reminds me a lot of the queen of nothing, mainly because of "someone take my keys im in no shape for driving" vs "stop the car, i wanna get out". and the AH AH OH AH OH'S NEAR THE END. YES !!! THEYRE SO FUN TO SING ALONG WITH I LOVE THEM. and the instrumentals. GRAAAAAH !!! the electric guitar (?) at the end is AMAZING.

Higher Ground: right off the bat i loved the instruments. and then when they start singing? INCREDIBLE. the vocals for this one are so so so good. like im actually in love with them, especially the first "should i head for higher ground". and its also like. very upbeat and fun. it makes me want to run around and just get myself Moving somehow. AND THE SUBTLE STRINGS IN THE BACKGROUND AS THE SONG BUILDS UP!!! i love the plucking, it so. hrgahgrhahghr. and once again. THE VIOLIN. I LOVE THE VIOLIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Predator: i came into this song expecting something similar to the hand that feeds, so it was MUCH different than i anticipated! and honestly, i love it so much?? the guitar...? whatever funky instrument thats all wobbly is. sounds so fun. and i love the vocals so much they scratch at my brain. THE CLAPPING TOO. ITS SO FUN. another one that makes me want to get up and run around or dance <3

Say It: i was excited for this one! my friend heard it live and absolutely loved it, so i'd heard a lot about it going in. its a lot calmer than i was expecting but ohhh its so good. "please dont leave me in the dark, praying for a wayward spark" augh. ough. gruahgrh. "IF YOU COULD WOULD YOU ERASE ME. ERADICATE ME FROM YOUR MIND." RAAAAAAHHHH.

Mad Dog: another song i heard good things about! i was expecting something high energy and BOY did it not disappoint. obsessed with the pace of the beginning vocals, they sound like so much fun to sing i cant wait to learn the lyrics. AND THEN. THE CHORUS!!! OHHHH. THE ECHOES OF RUNNING AND COMING. IM GONNA EXPLODE. THEY SCRATCH MY BRAIN SO WELL. and the funky instrument in the back that i think is maybe a guitar but i cant tell....its so good and funky and oh my god i love the crane wives. honestly, this is probably one of my favorites of the album. its so good. i need to tear something apart with my teeth

Arcturus Beaming: i heard this song live back when i went to their concert in april, and oh my GOD. genuinely this song changed me i think. it rearranged my atoms. it means so much to me i literally love this song, even if the instrumentals arent my favorite out of the rest of the album i cannot put it any lower than my absolute favorite. THERES MORE TO LIFE THAN SUFFERING!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Time Will Change You: and this song. right off the bat its INCREDIBLE. the steady beat in the back. the guitar. the vocals. and just . the general Vibes. AND THEN. AND THEN !!!! THE STRINGS. HOLY FUCKING SHIT THE STRINGSSS. THE SECOND I HEARD THEM I LOST MY MIND. they are SO pretty and THIS is exactly why i wanted the crane wives to use strings in their songs more. they include them SO well. AND AUGH. THE INSTRUMENTAL HALFWAY THROUGH....AND THE VOCALS BEHIND IT....AND AGAIN!!! THE STRINGS !!!! this is SUCH a pretty song and it blew me away the first time i listened to it

Black Hole Fantasy: i wasnt entirely sure what to expect going into this song so i was a bit surprised by the introduction- and then it just kept getting better. right off the bat it reminded me of arcturus beaming, and then the general story of the song.... just. the feeling of aching so desperately for a better life, but being afraid to take that first step because you dont want to face the risks that come with it..... i genuinely almost cried listening to it, especially as the song began to ramp up. the fantasy of taking that chance but still being afraid. AND THEN. AND THEN!!!!! "AND NOW SHES LAUGHING, AND ITS KILLING ME THAT I CANNOT SEE WHATS MAKING HER LAUGH FROM WHERE IM STANDING." AND THE SUBTLE BUILD UP OF STRINGS IN THE BACK AS THE SONG RAMPS UP FURTHER. AND YOU FINALLY TAKE THAT CHANCE, TAKE THAT FIRST STEP. AAUEUEUAGHHHH. GOD!!!!!!!!!!

Red Clay: going into this song, i was expecting something with the vibes of the icarus or keep you safe, and i wasnt disappointed!!! BUT BEFORE I COULD REALLY PROCESS THE BEGINNING, I GET COMPLETELY BLIND SIDED BY SOMEONE OTHER THAN EMILEE OR KATE SINGING. im not entirely sure who it is, my best guess is dan, but its so so good. something about red clay is so specifically nostalgic for me, and for it to play right after black hole fantasy just. completely destroyed me/pos this song is so so pretty. i love it so much.

River Rushing: AND IMMEDIATELY IM HOOKED. again, i expected something high energy/upbeat like sleeping giants- and while its not the exact same, its similar, and i LOVE IT. the vocals are probably my favorite part, especially the backing vocals. BUT OH MY GOD THOSE HIGH NOTES. THEYRE SO GOOD. a VERY strong ending for the album, which i absolutely adored

and thats every song!!!! god i love the crane wives. im going to listen to this album on loop until each song is burned into my brain okay bye

[darkacademiaarchivist]

caro.... you wrote..... an Oscar fic? 👀

that's not what I just said, i said i wrote half of a first draft... i'm trying to finish it but... writing is hardddd but i got POSESSED by Say It by The Crane Wives when it came out and i had many thoughts about Oscar... also i thing that praying for a wayward spark would be a great title...

[ltleflrt]

Ltleflrt's Writing Year In Review

Not a lot of writing got done this year, but considering the level of burnout I've been experiencing in the last 3-5 years, I'm very happy with what I've gotten done :)

Total 2023 Wordcount: 67,799

Total 2023 Kudos: 247

Total 2023 Hits: 2,734

My 2023 Fics:

Peace: 18,643 (WIP)

Fenris didn't have much reason to smile and laugh in his life, until he came to Kirkwall and Hawke gives him a reason to. Fenris doesn't want to disrupt the fragile sense of peace he's found by putting his heart in the hands of another mage, but Hawke's flirting and kindness are difficult to resist.

This is a rewrite of my very first fic Peace Begins With A Smile, and technically most of the wordcount is from there. But I've got many more chapters written than posted, and I know for a fact that I added AT LEAST 10k words to the original story, so I'm keeping that posted wordcount for this year's stats :D

Peace began as a writing exercise, just to keep my creative muscles from atrophying. I had replayed DA2 early in the year, and fell down the Fenhawke rabbit hole again, and it made me want to re-read my own story. I hadn't read it in like 10 years, so it was very eye opening to see just how much I've improved and how much my writing style has developed in that time. I wanted to rewrite it with my new skills, and wow it's a BIG difference.

Reaching Out: 22,825 (WIP)

Everyone knew Malcolm Hawke was a good man. A hero in the eyes of his wife and children, and a respected pillar of the community. At least until rumors of magic started to circulate, and he had to move his family in order to protect them. He'd do anything to keep his family safe, a responsibility he passes on to his eldest son when illness takes him away. Mal Hawke not only bears his father's name, but also the weight of his father's legacy. Everyone, including himself, expects him to step into his father's role, to pick up those responsibilities and carry them with the same steadfast strength. An expectation that is tested when the Blight hits Lothering, and is strained to a breaking point by the lawless and chaotic City of Kirkwall.

This is my biggest 2023 project, all original words. Once again, DA2 infested my brain, and I got an idea for a new version of Hawke that has me really excited. Plus, I have always wanted to write a Fenhanders fic, so this is going to be it! I got stuck, and have been distracted by BG3, but I still have big plans for this fic. (SO big, omg this story is going to be so long lol)

Something to Hold: 14,733

He did not hear the telltale clank of Templar armor behind him. It was probably a local. All Anders needed to do was act as if he were a simple traveler passing through. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth mentioning to any searching Templars who might follow. Don’t run, act natural, don’t run, act natural, he thought firmly as he forced himself to keep an even pace. The only sign he gave that he recognized he was no longer alone on the road was to move to the edge to give the approaching stranger space to pass him. His heart beat like bird wings against the cage of his ribs as the sound of horse hooves and cart wheels grew closer. His fingers began to tingle with magic, and he curled them inward to hide any wayward sparks. Anders tried to keep his shoulders loose instead of tucked up tense around his ears. When the wagon drew up alongside him, Anders kept his eyes forward and prayed to the Maker that the stranger would ignore him. As was the case with most of his prayers, the Maker didn’t listen. On one of his many escape attempts Anders meets the Hawke family. And forms a special connection with the eldest son.

This was an excuse to write porn lol

I love "what if they met before canon" fics, and I decided to write one of my own. It turned out longer than I thought it would (shock!), and planted the seed for Reaching Out. It can stand alone, but I'm treating it as a prequel :D

Bathed in Starlight: 3,336

“You should have brought a torch,” Gethin scolds lightly as he comes to a stop next to Astarion’s discarded armor and clothing. It’s folded neatly, the armor stacked methodically. Astarion affects an air of carelessness, but he keeps his few belongings tidy and organized. Gethin suspects it’s his way of exerting a modicum of control over his life. “Or stayed closer to camp.” Astarion flashes a fanged smile at Gethin over his shoulder, seemingly unsurprised at his presence. “You know how much I enjoy a nip of danger, darling.” When Gethin’s lips tighten with disapproval, Astarion’s smile droops into a pout and he sighs dramatically. “There was nothing to worry about, was there? Here you are, with enough light for both of us.”

OMG a new fandom! *excited bounce*

I picked up Baldur's Gate 3 on launch day because the bear sex scene in the trailer hooked my interest (yes, I'm a closet furry), and the game has taken over my life. I did not expect to fall in love so hard, with the characters, the story, the gameplay, with my OCs, and one particular elf. But here we are, and I'm gonna fic about it.

This is just a canon conversation that I needed to write from the POV of my Dark Urge OC. Nothing special about it. And of course it had to include bathing. If I never wrote anything else for BG3, I needed to make sure I added my signature to the fandom :D

The Sun, The Moon, and The Night: 8,262 (WIP)

Caelnir and Kestrel are half brothers who were swept up by the mindflayer nautiloid at the same time. When they crash back to Faerun, they meet a pale elf who manages to snare both of them with his charms.

This is the bastard that has distracted me from my other WIPs. Yeah, yeah, I'm mad about it too, but I'm also gonna keep writing it lol

I don't normally create OCs. Like, there's Gabe Hawke and JM Shepard, but they've got more of a canon framework than most RPG playable characters. I have no emotional connections to any of my Dragon Age wardens, and the one inquisitor I care about has just the baaaarest hint of backstory. I can't even think of OCs I've created for other RPGs, because I don't care.

But oh boy, I care about Kestrel and Caelnir. A lot. Mostly because I created them with the same face shape, and I thought it would be funny if I somehow made them brothers even though one is a high elf, and the other is a drow. But they're half elves. What if their mom was just a slutty slutty human who traveled a lot? BOOM. The boys came to life, and now I'm writing fic. And since they both romanced the same character in the game, it's a poly fic. I love the challenge of poly fics, and I also hate the challenge, WHY AM I DOING THIS TO MYSELF??

Oh yeah, because Astarion is my blorbo, my boys are precious and special, and I'm the self insert slutty slutty human mom ;D

My writing in 2023 has been nothing like previous years. The fics I've written have gotten very little attention compared to what I'm used to, even going back to my very early days of posting, but I'm having fun and I've got a few friends who are intensely interested in the stuff I'm creating. I'm just happy to be writing!

My plans for 2024 are to keep plunking away at the WIPs in this post. I don't see myself going back to any of my Destiel WIPs, posted or otherwise, any time soon. I think my brain needs a break from the Winchesters for now.

(Of course, there's a shitload of Winchester Inspiration in some of my new OCs, but like...they don't have American accents, so they're TOTALLY DIFFERENT PEOPLE LOL)

Anyway, Happy New Year! Here's to many more fics, both written and read, in our future! 🍾🎆🥂

Previous Years

[waltwhitmansbeard]

For the protective prompts, "I looked everywhere for you", Keyleth and Pike?

I looked everywhere for you.

In the beginning, the people of Zephrah learn that sometimes, their Tempest needs to disappear. Not for her work—when she goes to Vasselheim or Emon or Whitestone or even Marquet, when it's official Ashari business, she informs the elders, and she takes Derrig. No, it's the mornings when the Air Ashari wake up and she is nowhere to be found. The first few times, there was panic, coordinated searches and delegates sent to Whitestone to ask the lord and lady there if maybe she'd stopped by for a visit. But then she'd come back, apologetic but unwilling to speak about where she'd gone, and over time, they learned to let her go and come back when she was ready, like a stray cat.

Pike worries, because of course she does. She's lost a lot of people, and someone getting lost on purpose doesn't sit right with her. She doesn't know what Keyleth is going through, can't imagine this kind of pain—though she and Scanlan are on a break and it's hard, at least it's voluntary (at least he's alive)—but it can't be doing her any good, this kind of isolation, this kind of distance.

So when Vex tells her over breakfast that Derrig stopped by to ask them to keep an eye out for their wayward friend, Pike decides that enough is enough. She prays to Sarenrae, but a friend on a walkabout must not be on a goddess's radar. She tries to scry, but either Keyleth is on another plane or she's too damned stubborn to be spied on. She sends messages to the other Ashari leaders, to various members of the Tal'dorei Council, to Gilmore, to Kerrek. None of them have seen her, but everyone will contact her if they do.

Days of this, and Keyleth remains obstinately absent. Frustrated, Pike goes for walk, hoping some time in the crisp Parchwood air will clear her mind. It's about an hour's hike the bench she made, and when she gets there, she nearly faceplants into a tree when she sees someone else on it. "Keyleth?"

She's sitting cross-legged, her hair tousled and knotted around her shoulders. She doesn't look at Pike as she approaches. "Hey, Pike."

Pike scrambles over to her. "I—where have you been?"

"Here."

Here. Pike could scream. "I looked everywhere for you."

"And you found me."

It's a joke, kind of, except neither of them is laughing, and Keyleth's tone is devoid of her usual spark. Pike looks at her, really looks at her, and sees the bags under her eyes, the dirt under her fingernails. "How long have you been here."

Her forehead wrinkles then. "I...don't know."

"You've been gone for four days."

"Four days then."

"Do you come here each time you...?"

"Disappear?" A little shrug. "Sometimes. It's quiet."

Pike can't imagine a place quieter than Zephrah. She slides up onto the bench. "So...what brings it on? The urge to...disappear?"

There's a long silence, marred only by the wind rustling the leaves of the Parchwood and the annoyed chittering of squirrels overhead. "I found a dagger. One he would practice with. It was in a drawer I haven't need to go into in years. Took me four hours to drag myself off of the floor. Came right here."

Short as she is, Pike has never felt so small in her life. "I'm sorry."

Another shrug. "It is what it is. Someday I won't remember." Pike can hear the words unsaid: I hope.

Pike tips her head against Keyleth's arm. "Well...for now...do you mind if I remember with you?"

Keyleth takes a long, shuddering breath, then lets it out slow. "Yeah. That...would be nice."

So they remember together, in the cold, in the quiet, small memories traded like secrets, until there is life in Keyleth's voice, color in her cheeks. And when Pike needs to head back into town, she won't go until Keyleth picks a tree and makes for home. "Will you come find me next time?" she asks as Keyleth settles her hand on the bark.

Pike sees the hesitation in her eyes. "I'll think about it."

She'll take what she can get. As she watches Keyleth disappear through the tree, she thinks about the centuries to come, and about who will go looking for the Voice of the Tempest once the last member of Vox Machina has departed this life for the next.

[foxgloveprincess]

Okay hear me out hear me out-

Pagan god au. The brothers Thor and Loki...obvious right but like hear me out because their characters are v different from the myths. Like? Being brothers and sons of Odin (ish.)

Loki, trickster god of magic, change, and winter. Thor, warrior god of thunder, storms, fertility, summer.

Reader, priestess of Thor, devoting her life to quietly serving him. Waking early in the morning to light the candles, to clear offerings after the appropriate time for the sacrificial flames. Lighting incense, preparing for festivals, offering soft guidance for wayward souls.

And of course, as a priestess, her life devoted to Thor, she is unwed and untouched.

And Loki...uh...er...fuck I'm sorry I ran out of thought but like! Imagine!!! God Loki taking his brother's priestess!!

Or!!! One of those traditions where a girl is selected as a sacrifice to a god. But they're selected years ahead of time so they get excellent treatment but know they're going to be killed.

And the reader, secretly, knowing she's been placed at Thor's feet to die, prays to Loki, who in so many ways represents disruption, change-true, chaotic freedom.

And then, when bound to the stone dias, blindfolded, she is taken-only it's Loki's hands, Loki's cock. Thor is furious, but Loki has claimed his prize, so the ,city will have to suffer.

I've been binging your god stories, can you tell? They're excellent and I have more ideas I swear. Some for Clint, one for Natasha, but I don't want to send you a book of rambling. Anyway thank you so much for writing what you did, I just wanted to share some thoughts I had!!

My full response is under a cut cause it’s kinda a long one. 😅

I have to say, my Avengers Pantheon is probably my favorite AU I’ve written. It combines so much of my love of Greek Mythology and soft darkness. It just makes me so happy inside to write it. And I’m thrilled when I see people love it just as much as I do. 😊

And I love this idea of the sacrifice to Thor stolen by Loki. It’s such a good dynamic for their characters and their relationship. It fits so well.

Right now, I’m working on something with a priestess reader, but she is not a priestess of Thor. It takes some inspiration from one of my favorite myths (Eros and Psyche). I can’t say exactly how far along it is in terms of percentages, but it’s around 3,000 words right now (I think?). And it has a lot of similar themes to what your idea has, if your squint. I’m really excited to finish it and share it.

In my AU, I do have an idea for Thor and the object of his affection. Not sure I’ll say exactly their storyline. But LOKI!!! How could I overlook Loki?!? He fits the whole pagan god archetype so well—mischievous, hedonistic, flawed. My brains gonna have to rumble around that thought………though I just had a little spark of idea, perhaps inspired by another favorite Greek myth….I shall have a think on it. 😄

As for Natasha, I kinda have a headcanon (is it a headcanon if it’s your own story?) that, especially for the first two stories, she kinda helps pluck the strings and plays matchmaker for Tony, Steve, and Bucky on their quests to claim their loves. I don’t know what kind of reader she would have, or Clint for that matter. I don’t usually write for him alone. I can write for Natasha alone, but if Clint’s involved, they’re a package deal. But I’d love to hear your thoughts on them!

Never hesitate to send me all the rambling you want. I love talking about things with people. It makes me so happy to interact with followers/readers and I’d love to know where your mind takes you with this AU. Thank you so much for making my day with this lovely message. 💜

[simplytheevebest]

The Pursuit of Misery

Author's Note: Hello and welcome back to another episode of "I make Eve Best's characters cry." I just really want Rhaenys to get to be upset over all the shit she went through. So she is. Also I'm sorry Corlys and Rhaenys aren't getting along, but I'm also not that sorry ❤️

On Ao3

Mild warnings to canon-typical homophobia mentioned by Corlys about Laenor.

The night is dark and still, no pinpricks of starlight visible behind the scattered cloud cover, the moon similarly veiled as though shielding itself from her grief. A wayward sea breeze catches the curtains, dragging them along the edge of the stone floor and chilling her through the sleeves of her nightgown; she tucks the shawl closer about her shoulders, feeling her age and twice as many years. It weighs upon her like a shroud, a heavy weakness more potent than any sickness, more agonizing than any wound. It sparks like a fever burning from within, searing through her veins with a sore ache that pains her breaths and seizes her heart. She feels frail, thin, as a favored blanket made threadbare, exposed, vulnerable and likely to fall apart if handled too roughly. The breeze picks up, curtains whirling around her still form like the Stranger’s caress: she wonders if it won’t reach for her too, pitch her over the edge of the balcony into the dark night, if it will shock her back into herself before she strikes the ground, if she’d regret it if she did.

She hums, a low, soothing lullaby as familiar to her as her own heartbeat, as familiar to her as the heartbeats of the children she’d once sung it to, holding them that first time to her breast after hours of labors. How small they had been, the tiniest of fingers and toes, softest of skin and lightest of cries. They’d been blessed by the gods with easy children, even as Laenor agonized through colic those first few months, his wails shattering her heart and stealing her sleep. She wouldn’t have traded those nights of soothing walks and cuddling for anything. The melody catches in her throat; she continues shakily, brokenly, swiping with her thumb at a wayward tear that leaks from the corner of her eye. She’s too exhausted to cry much more, she feels drained of the effort it would take.

The knock at the door is a soft thing, praying not to be heard, but she turns her head to the open doorway, pinning the intruder with her attention before they can slip away. Rhaenyra takes the glance for the beckoning summons it is, stepping solidly into the sitting room of the Lord and Lady of Driftmark. Her pale gaze sweeps the artifacts on the walls, lining shelves and covering tables, each with a story the children had delighted to hear from their father, wide eyes enraptured by the bestowing of overzealous retellings of his seafaring adventurers. How Corlys delighted when Laenor proclaimed his wish to follow in his father’s footsteps (how disappointed he had been when Laenor’s head was turned instead by dragonback and swords).

“Princess,” Rhaenyra greets softly, her own shawl loose about her shoulders and hands clasped before her. Rhaenys allows herself a lapse in decorum not to offer her tea; the hour is late for it anyway, and she doubts the younger woman means to stay long enough for it to be boiled.

“I wanted to inform you we mean to depart in two days time,” Rhaenyra continues. “The children and I are eager to… carry on as we must.”

She chooses her words carefully, and Rhaenys swallows the chafing they cause; she doubts any words the young princess could’ve chosen wouldn’t cut her to the quick. A week and two days since her daughter’s funeral, three since her son’s. It feels unfathomable that time should march on so quickly, that the world should keep turning when she feels so… trapped, as a fly in the web of a cruel and vengeful reality.

“As we must,” Rhaenys repeats in a murmur, keeping her gaze across the sea, watching the rippling of the newly exposed moon reflected on the water. As we must. As she must, eventually. But “eventually” feels such a long way away; it feels impossible that she should weather further storms of fate long enough to reach "eventually."

“Do you know if Prince Daemon means to return to Pentos?” She asks softly; she hasn’t seen her cousin since the funeral, has had no desire to speak with him much, truthfully. Her jaw clenches involuntarily at the reminder of the disrespect shown at Laena’s funeral: it had taken every ounce of control she possessed not to demand his tongue for the insult of his mirth at her eulogy. Daemon has always been a man of his own morals, his own ambitions and his own reasons. It had united them in their youth, similar rebellious spirits delighting in the exasperation of their elders. It divides them presently in their maturity, for Rhaenys knows now the joy and fulfillment of family; Daemon, despite boasting two late wives and two daughters, she doesn’t know if she can say the same of him, and she wishes not to suffer the insult of learning she is right.

Rhaenyra clears her throat, discomfort painting her words, “He… does not. He means to return to Dragonstone with myself and the boys.”

“That is kind of him,” Rhaenys remarks distantly. There is a roaring in her ears she can’t mistake for the waves. It feels more akin to the wind rushing by on dragonback, or the beat of leathery wings overhead at the approach of one of the great beasts. It’s an anticipatory sound she feels inclined to shy away from, fearing the misery it might bring.

“It is kind… and expected, of a husband to escort his wife,” Rhaenyra speaks carefully. The rushing stops, leaving a ringing silence not unlike that of riding above the clouds. That roaring wind fades to silence faster than the ears can comprehend and all is still in a way earth can never hope to be. It is calm, peaceful, removed from whatever trials and tribulations await below. This silence does not leave Rhaenys with the same peace; she longs instead for the silence of the clouds, an unbreakable silence, now more than ever.

“What did you say?” Her words are a whisper, but no less a demand. Rhaenyra has the decency -the good grace- to look abashed at the confession, and her hands twist themselves tighter together. She is every inch the spoiled child Rhaenys had sought to warn all those years ago, haughty and self-assured in her own ranking and used to the whims of a father -and expecting it of a realm- bending to her will. But it is an idea only, a wish, a farce, that Rhaenys knows better than anyone. She had sought to warn Rhaenyra of the pain of hopelessness; she wishes instead she had let the child be, to drown in her own selfish delusions.

“It is sudden, I know,” Rhaenyra speaks quickly, fearing a wrath she has every right to expect, “And we might have invited you, we intended to, only-”

“Only I was busy preparing the funeral arrangements of my son -your late husband,” Rhaenys hisses, caring little for the rudeness of interrupting her. She almost dares Rhaenyra to call her on it, but the little princess -for she is every inch the naive, spoiled girl Rhaenys remembers, if not worse- merely tightens her clasped hands and straightens her shoulders, chin raised, like she has any reason to be so high-handed.

“I loved your son-” and how quickly she applies the past tense “-and I know he loved me. I know he wouldn’t wish me to suffer alone, nor would Laena wish it on Daemon.”

“And do you?” Rhaenys demands, cold fury seizing her tone, “Suffer? Do your hearts bleed from no visible wound, as mine does, do your lungs refuse to draw air at the weight of their absence, as mine do, do you lose sleep, as I do, a mother forced to bury her children, both of them, twenty, thirty years before their time? Do you ache with the pain of it? Does it fester in your blood and rot your soul as it does mine? No,” Rhaenys shakes her head, turns from the pantomime of grief before her, and in an instant the anger is gone, as the receding of the tide on the sand and in its place a weariness she feels down to her bones, “You do not grieve him, because you did not love him, nor did Daemon love Laena.”

“I did love your son,” Rhaenyra repeats, the barest of tremors in her tone: perhaps she did feel something for Laenor, but it was not love. She didn’t love him anymore than he could love her, Rhaenys knows this, has seen the proof of it, even if Corlys is content to stay blind.

“Is it love for him that propelled you into the arms of your dear uncle, or was it love for your dear uncle that propelled my son to the hearth?”

The accusation is laid bare before them, once the faintest of thoughts Rhaenys had refused to entertain but now must, an unbearable truth pieced together by tragedy: an uncle and niece separated by the will of her father now brought together in grief of their lost spouses. Is it coincidence they were both born of her blood, or has she missed some ugly transference of power? By her husband’s own word their flesh and blood are not to inherit Driftmark because the weight of a name holds stronger. Was this always the plan, something twisted and evil born from her own kin, bred on the belief, her belief, that blood should hold more weight than connections and power? Could they not merely have schemed to take her throne, her crown, her claim, her home -must they have taken her family?

“I know you won’t care to hear it,” Rhaenyra’s tone has taken on a bite, one Rhaenys will hear many times over in the coming years whenever the subject is raised, “But I had nothing to do with Laenor’s death. I did not order it-”

“I never said you did,” Rhaenys responds cooly and the young woman works her jaw furiously, silently, for a moment.

“You mean to catch me out, Princess, and your ire is not misplaced, I understand it, and I accept it. This is not how I would have news of my marriage be spread but circumstances being what they are-”

“You have been married, on the very land born of the waves that have consumed both my children in less than a fortnight’s time?”

The audacity of the spoiled child that is spared the rod; Rhaenys turns from the window to face properly this violator of her mourning, more angry at herself for her own disbelief than she is at this insufferable brat for her insolence.

“You come to me, three nights on from the funeral of my son, a week from that of my daughter, to tell me you have already married my cousin and wish to depart with haste? And you expect my blessing?”

“Never,” Rhaenyra is self aware in that, at least, “I don’t ask for it, and I don’t require it.” That auspicious little- “I merely wished to inform you of the recent changes-” As though they are paltry! “-before our departure, specifically to discuss the girls. Your granddaughters.”

As though Rhaenys needs reminding of them. They are as prevalent on her mind as her own children, all she can think about, all she has left. Her heart seizes on the thought: do they mean to take them from her too? Rhaenyra takes her silence, incorrectly, as a sign to continue to speak her case, “We would let you have Baela, to raise as your ward.”

“You would ‘let me have’ Baela?” Her words are frozen steel but burn with the seething undertone of her anger returned, roiling beneath the tidal waves of grief like dragonfire, “As though she is an offering of peace? A worthy trinket? A trade, of my own granddaughter for my compliance?”

“That is not how it is intended,” Rhaenyra is quick to back down, “Only Daemon loves them both equally-” Rhaenys scoffs, for she has scene their father behave with nothing but clear prejudice for Baela, already a bonded future dragonrider, and against the dragonless Rhaena, her own namesake; Rhaenyra narrows her eyes “-but he agrees that perhaps the grief and… ill feelings might be tempered with this show of good faith. He knows you love the girls, cherish them as your own even, and would do right by either of them, whichever you choose.”

“I would have both,” Rhaenys snaps, “And not be made to choose, for I do love my granddaughters equally.”

“It isn’t Daemon’s wish to be parted from his daughters,” Rhaenyra’s neutrality is grating, for Rhaenys has long tired of being proclaimed too swift to pass judgement in her own tone; she will not be made the hysterical and unreasonable one, not on a topic such as this. “But he equally wishes no bad blood between our houses. We would offer you Baela, but if you would prefer Rhaena, that is a suitable request.”

Rhaenys turns from the younger woman fully, away from her beseeching eyes begging a forgiveness Rhaenys has no intention of imparting, away from impossible decisions and further heartache. The moon has risen high enough not to be seen, its twin still rippling across the lapping waves. She twists a hand hidden into the fabric of her shawl, clenching tight, the other draping across trembling lips.

“I won’t have this conversation tonight,” she murmurs, and it’s a dismissal Rhaenyra takes in stride, inclining her head at the edge of Rhaenys’ vision and stepping back.

“Then I take my leave. Goodnight, Princess.”

Rhaenys doesn’t respond, does not trust herself to do so cordially. The stars are lost behind the clouds; the moon gives way to the dawn and she tracks its disappearance on the water, as the waves deepen and the sky lightens and the gulls descend from their nests. She feels as though she would buckle under the weight of exhaustion, but still, she does not sleep.

~

The absence of choice is still a choice, and Rhaenys is not afforded the option of the one she wants to make. Her heart is no less heavy for it, but she faces the loss of both granddaughters, when she could yet have one. She can’t suffer to watch them go, either of them, and she would have both, but she won’t have none. She is selfish in her grief, complicit in the heartbreak of split sisters: she is the direct cause of their pain, and it pains her to know it, but she cannot suffer another loss, even one as impermanent as this. She presses thin lips into a thinner line, suppresses a sneer at the stoic father who pats heads and tuts softly and makes false promises of visits and letters that have no reason not to find their way across the narrow sea, but won’t anyhow.

“I would keep you both if I could,” she is quick to assure, gentle hands on youthful cheeks damp with tears she can’t wipe away fast enough. It is Rhaena’s hand she must kiss and release; Baela clings to her grandmother with a desperation Rhaenys feels in her soul, a childish but well-founded fear that she too might find herself ripped from her remaining family, perhaps flung into the sea after her mother, cast away and set adrift. It’s a cruelty Rhaenys would prefer no child to know, but has now known thrice.

Corlys’ hand is a steady weight on her shoulder, a silent display of solidarity, and only once the trundling caravan is out of sight does Rhaenys shrug it off and turn from the hurt that she knows creases his brow. There are too many spoken and unspoken things between them for the comfort that hand offers to truly reach her. Her steps are heavy with emotional fatigue and slowed by the child refusing to release her. Rhaenys isn’t in any hurry to let her go either, so it’s on lethargic, weighted strides that grandmother and granddaughter return to High Tide. The castle looms far larger and darker than Rhaenys remembers in all her years there; its halls are oppressive in their silence, rooms made emptier by the people that have vacated them ahead of their time. Rhaenys leads them clear of the main hall. The day will come when she can step within it again, look upon the hearth without seeing the body of her son, without smelling the acrid, burning stench of death she sometimes believes still clings to her hair, her clothing, her skin… but it is not this day. This day she reserves for herself and her granddaughter, to attempt to ease the burden of loss and separation they both feel as viscerally as the beat of their own hearts.

Baela is listless, and Rhaenys doesn’t feel much better, but there is a quiet strength that invades her senses, hums through her veins at the absence of it in others, the same quiet strength Corlys held when Rhaenys’ own had failed in the wake of her father’s death. She casts a glance to her husband who has been silent sentry to their retreat, and catches him looking back. She is quick to turn away: she has no strength to spare for that confrontation, not yet. She has greater priorities than wounded pride and hurt feelings.

She halts the prodding progress of her granddaughter, kneeling to once more wipe those pesky, persistent tears she herself lacks the energy to shed. The smile she offers is brittle and sad, but it coaxes one in return from a child desperate for love and approval, for reassurances and guidance from those who should have it to give. Rhaenys caresses a face so like that of her late daughter with a reverence she is not ashamed of. She knows all too well now the fleeting cruelty of this mortal life.

“Oh my dear, darling girl,” she murmurs, “What’s to be done about your tears?”

“Nothing,” is the despondent response, and it is spoken with such melancholy and woe Rhaenys feels herself torn between immeasurable grief that so young a heart should bear the weight of such sorrow, and fond melancholy for the stubbornness of children, inherited from her mother and grandmother before her, that had once seen Laena herself refusing all dragon hatchlings, determined that her mount should and would be Vhagar.

“It cannot be ‘nothing,’” Rhaenys insists, “For even the heaviest of hearts can be lightened with time.”

“I don’t want time,” Baela’s misery borders on the petulant, “I want my mother- my family.”

She breaks anew and Rhaenys gathers her nearer, her own eyes stinging with loss; she closes them against it, draws up from that well of internal strength to quiet her own sadness and reassure the girl wrapped tight in her arms.

“Your family is here, no matter the seas or eternity that might divide us, your family is with you, always.”

“What if you leave me too?” Baela whispers into her grandmother’s ear and Rhaenys fights even harder against the emotion clawing its way up her throat, cradling her granddaughter as close as she can. “You cannot know if you will,” Baela continues, “You cannot promise you won’t.”

And no, she cannot, so Rhaenys doesn’t try. She feels helpless and adrift in her choice of response for she cannot answer with what she knows to be false, nor does she dare to give the heartbreaking truth they both know. Instead she releases the girl in her arms to smooth snowy locks from her face, and the smile she gives now holds more hope of recovery than the last.

“Perhaps we’ll make a visit to Moondancer?”

“No,” Baela wipes despondently at her own tears this time, and Rhaenys reaches in the folds of her gown for a handkerchief before her leaking nose suffers a similar fate.

“No?” Rhaenys echoes, “Perhaps to see Meleys then. I’m sure she would welcome your company.”

“The Red Queen,” Baela murmurs with an awe that will forever bring a true smile to Rhaenys’ face. The title is only part of the little girl’s reverence: Baela’s own dragon is still a hatchling, too small to bear a rider, so aside from the might of Vhagar, Meleys has always garnered such a reaction from her rider’s granddaughters not only because of her sheer size, but because she is a legend in her own right, and Rhaenys herself for taming her.

“Perhaps we might coax her to fly,” Rhaenys goads, wiping the last of the slowing tears from eyes that shine with excitement beneath the lingering sorrow. Meleys has grown increasingly languid in recent years, but Rhaenys has little worry the dragon might deny her this request. There isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for her mistress, when called.

Those remaining tears of grief give way to those that stream in the wind, and even as the weight still settles solidly about them like a shroud, it eases and lifts the higher they climb. Rhaenys would chase that feeling forever, if the air did not grow too thin in her lungs. Still, it is a tempting thought, to stay forever above it all, where mourning is not a constant companion and even the Stranger’s long arms, it feels, cannot reach. Eventually, they will have to land, but Rhaenys will cling to that feeling a little longer, just a moment, a fleeting, tremulous moment. The sun warms their faces and their souls and Baela smiles, without weariness, safe in her grandmother’s arms as Rhaenys directs Meleys through the skies with barely a need to steer. Dragon and rider have flown as one for so long now it’s instinctual that Meleys should follow Rhaenys’ lead with only the lightest of tugs on the reins, the barest of pressure on her scaled flank.

The Red Queen banks left, drifting through a copse of clouds Baela reaches a hand to touch, Rhaenys’ arm secure around her waist. They drop lower, close enough to the surface of the ocean that Meleys’ great form ripples crimson on the reflection of the waves; unbidden the dragon leans to dip a wing beneath the surf, throwing it up in an arc above their heads, dampening their clothing and chilling their faces. The sun’s rays are quick to warm and dry them and it glints off the sea spray like a thousand glittering jewels, a rare moment of levity and light Rhaenys is loathe to have end. Meleys dips her opposite wing into the surf and rumbles low in her throat in a silent question Rhaenys knows the answer to. She tightens her hold on the reins with one hand in response, the other gripping tight around Baela’s middle, legs tensing in preparation astride the saddle. To Baela, she grins, speaking close in her ear, “Hold tight!”

To Meleys, she calls above the winds, “Sōvēs Meleys!”

The dragon gives a low, pleased grumble, surging up with a powerful thrust of wings -once, twice- higher into the air before tucking them in close and diving, twisting over and upended in a barrel roll too quickly for either rider to fear being dropped. It never fails to send Rhaenys’ stomach into her throat in a way that makes her feel younger at heart than true age would grant. Meleys pulls out of the roll and unfurls her wings to their full width, catching the wind again to coast above the waves. Baela shrieks with glee and Rhaenys’ grin threatens to spread wide across lips that have too recently been consumed by sorrow. It has been too long since she last flew with company, not since her own children were Baela’s age, for Corlys, a prince of the sea and sand, is none too fond of heights and the thin air they bring. He is also convinced of Meleys’ distaste for him, and Raenys likes to tease that she has a taste for him, which Meleys herself does not dispute nor indeed help, snapping at his heels when the chance is afforded like an ornery hound. Corlys would rage and Meleys would preen, and all the while Rhaenys would find herself weak with laughter and half-hearted admonishments for her playful beast.

The reminder of her husband, and the rift that stretches between them, unbridged and uncrossed, does dampen Rhaenys’ spirits, but only just. The rift has yet to heal but that doesn’t mean it will not: the wound is fresh, the pain cloying and clinging. Words have been said and actions done by two grieving, hard-headed people liable to say and do much worse if they attempt a reconciliation before either has calmed their heads and tempered their hearts. It must be soon: the second war in the Stepstones looms nearer, darkens their doorstep with the promise of further death and bloodshed to come. She cannot bear the thought that he should leave while things are left unsaid, knowing how they might remain unsaid, regardless of any care that is taken between them.

She is drawn from her melancholy musings by the child in her arms, her lifted spirits not having faded despite the darkening of Rhaenys’ own thoughts.

“Can I say it?”

She has to yell to be heard over the wind, and Rhaenys banishes her negative ponderings for a later time when she doesn’t have the privilege of her granddaughter’s company and attention.

“Together.”

Rhaenys gives a warning pressure with her heels so Meleys is already rearing back her great head as grandmother and granddaughter shout above the wind:

“Dracarys!”

~

Rhaenys removes the leather bracers with fingers stiff with wind burn and age. It’s been some time she since last flew for so long; she feels the ache in her joints and muscles that will fade to dull soreness come the morrow, but the pain is good, cleansing, for her body and soul. It’s grounding, a reminder, as Rhaenyra had said, that life goes on, that it can. The grief lingers but she is made lighter; she thinks nothing of greeting Corlys when he steps into their sitting room, a space they have not occupied together in some time.

“We’re having cake for dinner,” she reports, unwinding the plaiting woven into her hair, “And roast, if we feel like it. Baela thought we might have a picnic on the shore, as we’ve done in years past. She cannot remember the last time, but then the twins were only three.”

Her mind stutters a moment on the thought that their party will be incomplete in more ways than one, fingers stilling in her hair, but she is determined that her good mood should persist, if not for her sake, than for Baela’s. She returns to the remaining braids with renewed vigor.

“It brings me great joy to see my lady wife so at ease,” Corlys responds neutrally, a testing of waters between them neither wants to probe too forcefully.

“Yes,” Rhaenys sets the gloves on the vanity, reaching for the whale bone comb to coax through the knots and tangles brought on by the wind. “If only for a fleeting moment.”

Warm, calloused hands take the comb from her own, smoothing the loose wisps from her face.

“Let me.”

Rhaenys turns without a word, and only the briefest of hesitations, folding her arms carefully over herself as he cards gentle fingers through her hair to tame the easier snarls before following through with the comb. Neither speaks, for a moment, and Rhaenys eases the tension in her shoulders with each pass from roots to ends. The motion is soothing, as soothing as the man performing it. She’s missed this, this intimacy, this vulnerability, a closeness that feels as natural to her as breathing, as flying. If she is what calls his wandering soul back from the sea, it is he that brings her restless soul down from the clouds.

The tool is discarded and his fingers return, not combing, only caressing, draping the strands like a cascade of ivory silk down her back. He sweeps her hair aside at the base of her neck to press a kiss to the exposed skin, hands coming to rest on her shoulders, a solid warmth she can’t help but lean into, reaching for his hands when they snake around her shoulders, her back against his chest. Both are silent, relishing in the quiet comfort of one another and the trickling refilling of the void that’s stretched between them.

“I’ve missed you,” Corlys murmurs and Rhaenys’ lips twitch; she tilts her head to look at him.

“And I you.”

She turns in his arms so they slide to her waist, her own resting against his broad chest. She longs to be closer, to banish any semblance of a gap between them emotionally, physically, but she is hesitant, and her pride demands retribution for his earlier callousness, for his dismissal of her feelings is not so easily cast aside without making amends. Still, her shoulders ache with the chill of the neglect she’s been showing him, at such a time that they should have come together, not pushed each other away.

“Will you join us?” She murmurs, and the grin that splits her husband’s face is overwhelmed with relief, for it was never in doubt that she missed him, but that doesn’t mean she wishes to be in his company. This isn’t the first quarrel between them, and not likely to be the last: he knows by now she isn’t so easily won over with defeatist looks and gentle handling.

“If you’ll have me.”

“We would,” Rhaenys locks their gazes, the barest of smiles upon her own lips. For amends to be made they must both make the effort and though an apology she expects, she won’t push for it now. She can, however, extend the opportunity, “And perhaps you would rejoin me tonight?”

Corlys’ grin softens; his hands trail up to cup her face, “There is nothing I’d like more.”

~

“Wash for bed, I’ll be by to tuck you in shortly,” Rhaenys taps Baela playfully on the nose and the girl grins, her melancholy eased, if only for the day. It will take time, and the progress will be slow, but there will come a day when their smiles will always come easier, their laughs brighter, their hearts lighter. There will come a day when Rhaenys will look upon Baela and not see her dear Laena, when she will think fondly of the pride her daughter would have, and not with grief over missing the chance to see it herself. Tonight is a well-made step forward to healing; Rhaenys will not suffer a setback this early by tarnishing it with negative thoughts. She has a husband to speak with and a granddaughter to attend to.

“I mean to put Baela to bed,” she says in lieu of greeting; the grand oak door closes quietly with her weight pressed against it. Corlys lounges in the chair by the fire, his gaze distant and clearly thoughts elsewhere. He comes back to himself to return her words with a small grin.

“I thought we might talk, afterwards,” Rhaenys adds, crossing to the vanity, tugging her rings from her hands. She doesn’t have to contend with velvet and embroidery this evening; it hadn’t made sense to don such a gown for a picnic on the sand, and she was right to wear the looser trousers that can be easily rolled above the knees, for the surf is not yet too cold that Baela hadn’t wished to run through it with her grandmother close at hand. Corlys had stayed ashore, quite surprisingly, watching them with a smile that might’ve wept with the nostalgia of their own children behaving similarly.

“I think we must,” Corlys straightens in the chair, hands clasped between his knees. She dearly hopes they can put the matter to bed before they return to their own; she hasn’t felt the desire for his company as of late, but she misses it all the same. She finds no comfort in his absence, no solace in the empty side of his bed even as she’d rejected his return to it, again and again. She intends to speak her truth to him, for she has no qualms of him knowing it, but he speaks before she can.

“Rhaenys,” and there’s a cautious sort of warning in her husband’s tone, one that fills her with a rising sense of dread she can’t place. It’s the same tone he adopts when he knows she won’t like what he has to say, but he expects she’ll be difficult. It’s almost a precursive placation for a rage he knows to expect, which more often than not fills her with rage prematurely. “I know that Baela’s presence brings you comfort and I am glad of it, truly, hopelessly and utterly. It brings me similar joy to have her close. But I must be sure… I must be clear, that my intentions for the succession of Driftmark will not change, even now she is our ward.”

She drops her rings one by one onto the waiting dish, the heavy plink of metal on porcelain filling the silence between them. The breath she draws in is far more stable than she’s expecting; her hands grip the back of the chair beside the vanity, knuckles white against the dark wood. Her composure hangs desperately by a thread: she could laugh with the exhaustion of maintaining it, humorless and cold, for it feels as though she isn’t long in another emotion before anger or despair are quick to fight for their right to return.

“That is the topic you wish to indulge in,” she begins carefully, “So am I to assume that’s why you’re here, not to apologize, but to harp on again about that damned succession.”

“I would offer you a thousand apologies, my love, but do not twist my meaning, and do not pretend the thought hasn’t crossed your mind that you might change mine,” Corlys rises from the chair to stand at her side; she doesn’t look at him. “I didn’t come here to quarrel any further-”

“And yet you have found one,” she pulls away from him, creating distance so she might level their gazes. He doesn’t have very much on her in height, but she won’t suffer to be looked down on right now, “How can you dare to think I would leverage our granddaughter’s presence against you?”

“How can I not think it,” Corlys defends, moving to follow her, but Rhaenys clicks her tongue in disapproval, turning away to cross from him and closer to the door. Corlys is forced to raise his tone in the space she creates, “When it is the last thing we spoke of! You would deny our grandson his title by right-”

The term rips a huff of disbelief from her lips, and she tips her head, pinning him with a gaze rife with condescension, her own tone rising with an exasperation too-long ignored.

“Corlys for the gods’ sake- he is no more related to you than Alicent Hightower! I trust our son when he says that they tried to perform their marital duties but you know as well as I Rhaenyra was not to Laenor’s taste.”

“You talk of it like a choice-”

“It is not a choice Corlys that is the point!” Her hand makes violent contact with the back of the settee she has stepped behind, separating them further. She chews at her cheek; her gaze lowers into almost a glare, “Our son is- was, different. He did not prefer the company of women, he preferred the company of men. He would bed a man as most would bed a woman and refusing to see it does not stop it from making it true.”

Her hard tone has Corlys working his jaw silently, furiously, for a moment; his own tone is tight and reluctant.

“Fine. I acquiesce. Our son was not… as he should be-” and at Rhaenys’ scoff his is quick to continue “-though that doesn’t mean I love him any less! But it is one thing, Rhaenys, to make a claim of his preferences,” he makes to approach, his own hand settling on the back of the settee but she is quicker, retreating closer to the door and his exasperation bleeds into his words, “It is entirely another to claim his sons are not his own!”

“You have seen them!” And Rhaenys sweeps a hand away from her in emphasis, “You cannot bury your head in the sand this deeply Corlys, or you risk your own suffocation! I will not push the issue with my cousin, but those boys are not Velaryons.”

Corlys leans forward conspiratorially, his words a hiss under his breath, “You know your words would be taken for treason-”

Rhaenys barks a humorless laugh, “And do you mean to betray me, lord husband? To speak my truths beyond these walls to the vultures circling overhead?”

Corlys’ expression turns stricken, “No, never. But we have discussed this Rhaenys, ad nauseum. The pursuit of legacy cares little for blood- it is names that history will remember!”

“Your pursuit of legacy has become a pursuit of fucking MISERY!” And the word is torn from her throat in a shaking, wretched wail that leaves so piercing a silence her ears ring with it. She stands at the base of the creaking floodgates but still, she cannot afford to let them buckle just yet. Her hands come to grip at her elbows; she stands on the precipice, and she stands alone.

Corlys doesn’t break the ringing silence, but he does reach for her. Rhaenys turns from him, pressing trembling lips tightly together, “Tonight when you retire… you should return to the dressing room.”

“Rhaenys, please-”

"I have no more children left to bury, Corlys,” and as before with Rhaenyra, her rage has sapped her strength and left her feeling weak with the effort of it, “I tremble at the thought of what your 'legacy' might take from me next."

“You will excuse me,” she continues softly, steps completely out of range of her husband, refusing to meet his troubled gaze, “Our granddaughter is waiting.”

She sweeps from the room before he can chance a reply.

~

The wind is biting, stinging the exposed skin of her cheeks and fingers until they’re stiff with cold. Meleys drives them fiercely through the air until the ground rushes beneath them too quickly to be focused on. It’s not enough. She tugs on the reins harder than necessary, ignoring Meleys’ rumble of displeasure at the rough treatment.

“Sōvēs Meleys! Sōvēs!”

The dragon roars her frustration at the command but listens, surging higher and higher into the air almost perpendicular to the ground, until Rhaenys is gasping for breath from the thin air and not her choking tears. Meleys beats her wings to keep aloft, stirring the clouds into a frenzy. Rhaenys presses a hand solidly to her frigid cheeks as though she can physically will away the pressure building behind her eyes. It builds and builds and she’s helpless to fight it but she must, she must try. She cannot break, she will not break, she hasn’t since discovering Laenor, her little boy-

“Sōvēs Meleys! Sōvēs! Sōvēs!”

She digs her heels into the dragon’s flank; the Red Queen returns to flight, drifting through the clouds at a pace that does nothing to quell the pain Rhaenys desperately wants to numb. She wants to hear nothing but the roaring wind in her ears, feeling nothing but the sting of cold, thin air on her skin and in her lungs. Rhaenys tugs the reins again, but Meleys doesn’t increase their speed. She lowers further through the clouds, almost lazy in her trajectory. An island, small and no more than a scrap of sand and wind-stunted trees appears below them.

“Sōvēs Meleys, listen to me you great foolish beast-”

Meleys tosses her head, offended, and beats her wings to speed up only enough that when they reach the island to land, Rhaenys isn’t prepared, and Meleys takes advantage. The dragon rolls, stirring up clouds of sand and tossing her rider lightly from her back to land in it. She’s cushioned well enough, only her pride wounded for so ungraceful a landing, but it’s still with cold fury that Rhaenys gets to her feet to address the great winged beast eyeing her as a lazy hound before a warm fire.

Rhaenys marches around to remount, but Meleys rolls to her side, away from her, in so petulant a move it might have coaxed a grin and a startled laugh from Rhaenys any other time. Rhaenys grinds her teeth and moves to the opposite side -again, Meleys rolls away from her, single golden eye watching her neutrally. The dragon knows she’s disobeying her mistress, knows the distress she’s in, and chooses to bully her anyway. It has the emotion Rhaenys has fought so hard to keep down rising dangerously high in her throat.

“Meleys, enough!”

She reaches for the base of the saddle, knowing she has no hope of moving the dragon if she doesn’t wish to move, but making her intentions clear. Meleys does not, indeed, move, and Rhaenys shoves at her crimson flank in desperation. She cannot linger here, she cannot allow her idle thoughts and feelings to find her, not here, not now.

“Meleys please-!”

The Red Queen lifts her head high above her mistress’ and Rhaenys is forced to stumble back, believing, for a moment, she’s finally gotten through, but instead she finds herself unbalanced when a great red snout is pushed gently into her chest. She lands solidly on her backside, and Meleys folds her wings at her side, a clear indication she doesn’t mean to return to the air untils she is satisfied.

It’s too much. Everything, all at once, it breaks upon her head like a wave, drowning her senses and overwhelming her defenses. She hasn’t the strength to get up, sat in the sand with an ornery, disobedient dragon for company and what is it that awaits her at home? A husband who believes her to have used her political savvy to wager their granddaughter against him, a granddaughter who may yet come to resent her grandmother for tearing her from her twin, and empty chairs at empty tables where her children will sit no more. She will never hear their voices, their laughter, will never again soothe their tears, will not share in the joy of the milestones their children will enjoy without them. She will never hold their hands, kiss their cheeks- it is they who should weep with her loss, it is they who should be shrouded at her funeral, it is not she, not she who should suffer through life with their deaths-

No parent should have to bury their child.

The gasping breaths come first, the tears quick to follow, and once they begin they refuse to be stemmed; Rhaenys buries her face in her knees, digs her fingers into her arms, cries silently, brokenly, until she thinks she might grow ill with the force of her grief. Her tears turn to sobs, guttural wails and such great, heaving breaths she feels she might choke on them.

Rhaenys may cry for minutes, it may be hours; when she is sure her mistress won’t demand to return to the skies, Meleys moves through the sand to lie closer, setting her head within reach like a great hound in the lap of its master. Rhaenys turns into her, holds tight where she can reach and though dragon scales offer no helpful blotting of the tears that pour ceaselessly down her cheeks, the comfort given is welcome.

Nothing changes. Her children do not once more draw breath, she does not find both granddaughters in her care. Her husband does not return that night to their chambers, the war of the Stepstones does not cease its progression, and amends are not made by the time his ship departs their shores. Her grief is not lessened but it is made lighter with the relief of some of her sorrow. And though it is not, in the grand scheme, enough…

For now, it must be.

[fanartist-at-times]

It's almost done.

Cleo can see flames lighting up the entire server, mesmerising deadly fireworks in the night sky. There are no stars left she can pray to; nevertheless she chants her plea to the black dome above her.

The smell of smoke fills her nostrils and cuts her breath in half, her lungs aching as she pants up and down the hills.

She's running to Scott.

They're the only ones left on the server. Them and their soulmates. Cleo can feel Martyn's heart still beating in her chest, side by side with hers.

The thought of ripping her own chest open to take it out crosses her mind as it has done times and times again these weeks, but she quickly shakes it away.

A sharp pain in her calf draws a scream out of her throat. She falls onto the grass, cursing through gritted teeth as her blood mixes with the dewdrops covering both flowers and wheat stems.

At least now she knows exactly where Scott (or Pearl) is.

Pulling herself up, Cleo digs her hand in her small satchel. Her grazed fingers clench around the cold glass of her last potion of healing. She reluctantly chugs it and, as her teared muscles and tendons start stitching themselves up, she starts running again.

The pain quickly disappears with every step as the enchantment works its magic, but it still hurts her knowing that the same feeling of comfort is washing over Martyn as well.

Cleo glances quickly at the red string that, from her pinky, extends right in front of her. Approximately around where her and Scott's bases are. Right where the flames burn brighter.

"There you are, my love!"

When she arrives at the Bridge, Cleo has to cover her eyes with a hand to see anything but the fire. The heat and light spreading from Scott's burning house are blinding.

"It was nice of you to join us!"

Martyn's voice roars against the flames, his frame barely visible. Cleo takes a few steps towards him, carefully scanning the area. All the crops are either destroyed or burned by wayward sparks, the chests knocked over, their content splattered all around.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."

It should sound reassuring but Martyn's voice is always out of tune. As if he's constantly hiding his true intentions behind a well-timed laugh.

"Where's Scott?"

The moment Cleo voices her question, a silhouette moves on the ground. A blue-haired figure, with a bright red streak covering his eyes. A feet or two from him, another body lays on the dirt, her hoodie fallen down her shoulder and her hair all scattered around her face.

Scott manages to pull himself up on his elbows before Martyn kicks him down in his ribs. A grunt escapes his lips and both him and Pearl grip their chests, breathing sharply and coughing blood on the grass beneath them.

Cleo hurries towards Scott but Martyn is quicker and his sword shots up in the air, stopping right under Cleo's chin. The blade cuts her skin open, a twin drop of blood running down Martyn's neck.

"Don't even think about it."

The flames reflect in his eyes and anger burns deep in them, more than she has ever seen.

"Or? You can't hurt me. Not without hurting yourself."

"I still have a trick up my sleeve."

With a fluid movement, Martyn's hand disappears in his pocket, to reveal a few seconds later a golden apple. Its shape is distorted by the dancing light and the heat, like a mirage in the desert.

"It still won't save you if you kill me."

"Kill you?" With a scoff, Martyn lets the forbidden fruit slide back in his pocket. "That would be quite bad, wouldn't it?"

He kicks Scott again, in his stomach now, and even though this time he doesn't let out a single sound, Cleo can clearly hear Pearl whimpering. She cleanches her jaw, glaring at Martyn and at his pleased grin.

"They're both nearly dead," he says, his joy almost hysterical. "One last blow and they're done. And then we'll be winners."

Martyn slightly lowers his sword but doesn't lose his defensive stance. "I know you want this, Cleo. I know you were going to turn on Scott at the end, because that's what I would've done to win. As much as we hate each other, we are one and the same." He raises his hand, showing his pinky where the end of the red string is tightly knotted. "We're soulmates."

Cleo's gaze meets Scott's. His eyes are barely open but there's no surprise in them, just acceptance. In the end, one of them was always meant to die, deep down they knew it from the moment they decided to stay together.

"You're right." Cleo nods, moving his eyes back into Martyn's. "We're soulmates." She offers him her hand, glancing at the sword for a second before crossing his gaze once again. "Let's end this together."

With an even more pleased grin, Martyn hands the sword to Cleo without a second thought. She carefully wraps her fingers around the handle, feeling the weight of the short sword.

"You're suddenly incredibly trusting."

"I mean, we're a step away from victory. You'd be crazy to throw it away."

"You're right."

Cleo gives one last look at Scott, his face painted with splashes of blood and dirt. He sustains her eyes, ready to go in all his pride. She flashes him a quick smile.

"Things is, Martyn..."

He doesn't have time to turn back to her. When his eyes fall onto her face, Cleo has already pushed the sword through his chest, right where his heart is.

"...I've never really been sane."

As Martyn stumbles back, taking the sword out of his chest, an identical wound forms on Cleo's chest.

Blood spills on the ground and she falls to her knees. The heat is suddenly less scorching, the flames less bright. Even the pain hurts less.

All is blurred, like she's watching these last few instant from the outside of a bubble. She hears someone screaming her name, again and again, but it's more like someone calling her from a dream.

And then, at last!, Martyn's heartbeat stops. Just a second before hers. And the quiet in her chest feels heavenly.

[sea-and-storm]

FFXIVWrite 2022 Prompt #5: Cutting Corners (Ghoa)

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[TW] Beware for there are dark and depressing vibes ahead. Sexual assault, drug and death mentions.

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As Ghoa stared out into the harbor towards the Navigator’s Pride, the ship upon which Master Sarasvati had so graciously booked her passage to Eorzea, her brow furrowed and her lips set into a deep frown of consternation.

Travel usually didn’t evoke such a deep feeling of negativity within her. Restless as she was, any opportunity to go forth and discover new horizons that she had only ever imagined had sparked within the ever-wandering Mankhad delightful anticipation and wonder. Even when she had decided to flee Kugane, despite the rotten circumstances that had pushed her towards it, the thought of arriving in Thavnair and being able to begin anew had given her not only excitement, but hope.

Staring at the ship that would now bare her across the sea, however, she felt no excitement at the new beginning to come. She certainly felt no hope that things would be different there.

Sarasvati’s scathing words to her the evening prior as she had retrieved her from the gaol had still not ceased their reverberation within her skull ever since their poisonous uttering. It had been one thing for the mentor she had so deeply admired and respected to express her deep disappointment in her wayward pupil. But a certain sentence kept playing on repeat in her mind, over and over.

“I was the one who created the monster that was nearly their undoing!”

Ghoa's stomach churned once again with the complicated feeling it evoked within her, sick nearly rising up the back of her throat in answer. Instinctively, she wanted to rail against that accusation. She wasn’t a monster;  she was a victim of a string of horrid circumstances that had led her to such a state of desperation. She wanted to do better, to be better. She could be. She would be..

But another voice whispered in the back of her mind, filling her with doubt. 

‘What if you truly are the monster she claims you to be, Ghoa?’ it hissed, primed to pounce upon her weakness as a hungering baras would stalk its prey. ‘Maybe that is why the gods cast you aside.. They saw how rotten Their child’s heart truly was, long before she herself did. They sent you to the Kharlu because their cruelty was what you deserved. They sent you to the Mifune family because their hearts were as black as yours. They took Ino from you because you didn't deserve her love, because you're incapable of loving anyone but yourself.'

Her eyes squeezed shut against the words and her stomach revolted against the thought. Unable to hold it back any longer, Ghoa crumpled over the side of the railing, retching into the waters below as any protest she might have against that voice of insidious doubt died within her then. 

Because they were right, and the realization of the truth they rang had suddenly and violently turned the world she had thought she knew upside down with sickening clarity. 

It wasn't from victimhood her penchant for cutting corners and going errant when things became too much had been birthed into life. It was because her heart was black as the storm clouds that had heralded her arrival into this world. And looking back on it now, she saw all the signs so clearly and wondered how it had taken her this long to see them for what they were.

When the Kharlu had selected her at the Choosing, Ghoa had beseeched Elder Unegen to put an end to it. The duty-bound but clearly distraught Elder Stormcaller had refused, and so the young apprentice udgan had cursed her for it even when she knew that for Unegen to do so would endanger, if not spell the end of the Shuurga.

Living amongst her captors, she had looked into the eyes of Bayanbataar's myriad children and smiled all the while praying with every onze of her being that their father would not only die, but suffer for his crimes against her. She had even contemplated bringing that very fate to bear against him with poison no few times as his hands wandered uninvited over her body. It wasn't for his innocent childrens' sake that she had not acted upon it, but the fear of swift and deadly reprisal against her for daring to harm the Kharlu's beloved Khan.

When finally she had escaped their grasp, Ghoa hadn't allowed herself any worry of bringing the wrath of her Kharlu pursuers down upon those who had harbored her during her escape, like the kindly Kahkol whom had nursed her back to health. Without a doubt in her mind, Saran and Muunokhoi would have fought them to protect the weakened Xaela had they come calling for her. But Ghoa would not have done the same for them.

Perhaps the most egregiously obvious sign was her time in Kugane spent thieving, deceiving, and concocting drugs which ruined just as many lives as they ended. Worse still, Ghoa had paid back the very woman who had saved her from the wolves of Hingashi tearing her apart with an infidelity so blatant that it had ultimately led to her dying for a love that the Mankhad was clearly incapable of reciprocating in earnest.

And then she had become so good at her own black-hearted ways they she had even deceived herself into thinking she was capable of change and of doing better when she had fled here to Radz-at-Han for a new start.

As Ghoa stared down into the dark, murky waters lapping at the dock below, her heart raced and her chest heaved and her eyes burned with tears she stubbornly forbade from falling where any passersby might witness them.. Because the worst realization of them all had broken over her like an angry, crashing wave.

All the pain she had felt and the suffering she had endured.. It was because she had tried for so long to be something, someone that she was clearly never meant to be:  a person of pure heart and intention, a force of good in this godsforsaken world. Moreover, a person who deserved peace and happiness. 

But now Ghoa saw the truth. She was owed nothing. She deserved nothing. So if she was intent on wresting anything good out of this wicked existence of hers, she would have to do so with claw and fang bared as she climbed upon others' backs to seize it as her own. 

Master Sarasvati had been wrong about her, Ghoa thought with sardonic bitterness, but not about her assessment of her. She was a monster, just as the Hannish woman had accused.

But not one of her mentor's making.

[lilian-adamson]

East of Eden; Lil Solo 

TIMING: Around the time of  For My Song Has No Beginning LOCATION: The garden outside of Lil’s house SUMMARY: Suddenly, Lil feels the spark of faith, both the good and the bad. Lil decides figuring out the status of her soul is a burden for another day.  CONTENT WARNINGS: PARENTAL DEATH TW  Religion tied to Catholicism talk. Damnation and Salvation

Lil was tending to her garden, trying to keep busy as much as possible, her headphones playing music as she tended to the violets. It was a quiet day, something she wasn't mainly used to as of late. Still, the garden had needed tending, and she needed a chance to grab air and to feel alone. 

A moment of peace for herself. 

Suddenly it felt like something flooded her mind; as she went to grab another weed, a sudden breath caught in her throat. 

Her deal. She remembered the blood on her hand - like Peter, she denied God promising herself to a demon. Instead, she gave up on God - She abandoned Him. Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani? - Had she not forsaken Him. 

Like a brick, her faith came back into her stomach as she sat fully down, looking at the cut on her hand and, for a moment shaking. 

She remembered soft hymnals and the scent of incense filling the Church - the light through the stained glass looking like a promise for salvation. The quietness of compilation as she thought about the Latin she said and how the Priest said their souls were strengthened by the Word. The way she would pray that God would strengthen Her soul - make her better - She remembered her Aunt June winking at her as she lit a candle - a light for the wayward soul, she would say quietly, knowing that not everyone had a person to light a candle. The way her Mother would softly pray to the Mother of God to protect her children clutching a rosary when she thought they were asleep. 

The way God always seemed to abandon her at her moment of need, no matter how good she tried to be. How no matter what she did, her soul was never strong enough. How weak she felt saying the words. The twist in her gut about the idea of sin, knowing that she was never good enough. Her anger in the pew and how she should have to hold all of this. Her shoulders aching under a pressure that shouldn't have been hers to carry. Lil was only a human - and He was supposed to keep her safe but let her go into the lion's den repeatedly. No matter how many candles she lit, she had so many wayward spirits to help move along.  How she kept praying that her family was in Heaven and safe, and wouldn’t pop back up here. How she would pray and scream, wanting an answer. Why wasn't she strong enough - why was this all so hard - 

With a gasp, the complicated relationship Lil had with God came back to her. The good and the bad. She wondered if this meant that the Demon had been conquered. She wanted to ask who had helped because she couldn't get one of the Holy men to come. They kept ignoring her no matter how many times she called. They hadn't granted her salvation, either out of malice or ignorance. She'd been abandoned, just like the Demon said. 

She felt something bitter in her throat as she thought about what could have happened. She wanted to laugh and cry. Either this was a sign that God loved her or was indifferent to her fate. Either way, she wasn't sure she wanted to care, but part of her did. Part of her wanted to know she'd done the right thing. 

Still, She got out of that room because she had been smart enough not to fight a high-level demon and instead made a bargain on a faith that had always been equal parts of love and hate. Faith and Heresy. It wasn't something Lil had wanted to give up; she'd feared holding out her eternal soul to a demon - but in the end, she was still here. She was still alive, and she could still help others. She wondered if thinking like that meant she was damned or if God would forgive her for what she had done.

Standing up, she wiped her hand across her forehead, thinking about salvation and damnation and knowing that every gamble with a demon meant that there was a chance for either. Maybe her crisis should have lasted longer, but she idly looked at the trees and calmed herself. 

 After all, she wasn't sure if right now was the point to care about her undying soul when she had another moment in the sun. Maybe right now, she should find her necklace in her little yellow beetle car and put it in the house next to her Aunt's rosary. 

Maybe it would all hit her later, but right now, she was alive, and that had to be enough. 

[writemekpop]

New Rules | Lay Zhang

Pairing: Lay Zhang x Reader

Summary: Vicious, strict and sexy... your dance instructor Lay is hiding a secret.

Genre: Suggestive, Enemies to Lovers 

Word Count: 1.4k

Gif: @yixing-zhang​​

“Again! And for god’s sake, try and look like you mean it!” 

Your dance instructor Lay’s voice rings through the sweaty studio. Everyone else in the academy went home hours back. Your class struggles on into the night. 

Sweat drips down the flexed muscles of Lay’s neck, disappearing into his coal black tracksuit. His ochre eyes, rough and silky all at once, hide under a low bucket hat. 

You know his full, forbidden lips better than your own name. 

“Hey, Y/n! Stop slacking. You’re still lagging on the turns.”

Your heart races, but not from the exercise. 

Your muscles are crying out for respite, but you turn again and again. It’s useless. The harder you try, the weaker you seem to get. After fifteen minutes, you’re the only one in the class who can’t do it. 

“Y/n, get up. Stop that.” Lay’s voice is like thunder. You hate how delicious your name sounds in his mouth. 

You stop spinning, and stagger to the wall. 

“I know you think you’re working hard, but you’re not. You are the worst in the class, and unless you get your act together very soon, you won’t be in it much longer.”

You don’t dare to look up. A lump stretches your throat, and you beg for the tears to hold.

“Are you serious about being a dancer?” 

“Y-yes,” you whisper. 

“Well, at this rate, you won’t make it. You hear me? You’ll walk, head hanging, out of these doors, scrape a place in a second-rate college, and spend the rest of your life watching your classmates on Inkigayo.”

His words are shards of glass, slicing you into ribbons. You know Lay’s watching you, scanning for any signs of weakness. His eyes send heat waves rippling off your skin. 

“That’s all. Class dismissed.” Lay turns away, and everyone files silently out. 

You choke down a sob. 

----

That night, you return to the studio. Lay’s words throb in your ears, egging you on. 

As you spin around and around, your turns get sloppier and wilder. Your eyes prickle, but you keep pushing yourself, keep forcing your limbs to move. 

Suddenly, your ankle collapses under you. A red spike shoots up your leg, and you land hard on the floorboards. 

You silence your cry. 

Tears streak down your face, and you swipe them away with a sleeve. You try to pull yourself to the wall, but it’s so painful that your vision sparks white.  

As you wrap your arms around your body, you let a sole whimper escape your lips. 

That was your biggest mistake. 

Because all of a sudden, you hear footsteps approaching the door. Cursing, you pull yourself up to standing on a ballet barre, trying not to yelp from the pain. 

It’s Lay. For the first time ever, his raven-black dance uniform is gone, replaced with an open white shirt and jeans. His carved cream chest is so distracting, you almost forget that he hates you. 

“What are you still doing here, Y/n? Class ended three hours ago. Get to bed!” Your lips start to quiver. The pain is bad enough. You don’t need his contempt to make it worse. 

“Yes sir, I’m just packing up.” You try to step towards your bag, but fire rips up your leg. A squeak escapes your lips. 

“Wait, are you hurt?” 

All of a sudden, the distance between you vanishes. Strong arms are lifting you into a chair before you have the chance to protest, heat rolling off Lay’s skin and onto yours. 

Your cheek is pressed against smooth muscle. The nakedness of it sends shivers through you. “You’ve sprained your ankle! Sit right there.”

Once you’re seated, Lay fetches a roll of white gauze and kneels in front of you. The thumping of your heart turns silence into cacophony. Free from its hat, you notice Lay’s hair for the first time, dishevelled curls of ebony. 

You realise what’s changed. He looks… human.  

“Why are you helping me? Y-you hate me.” The question leaps from your lips, uncalled for. 

“I don’t hate you,” Lay murmurs, hands gently wrapping your ankle with gauze. His tenderness leaves you breathless. “I’m just harsh on you because…” 

Lay’s hands drop to the ground, and he leans on them like he might collapse. You might collapse.

“Can I be honest with you?” Oaky eyes flick up to meet yours. You just nod, afraid to speak in case he changes his mind. 

“I haven’t been… teaching long, and-“ He sighs. “I’m worried that if I’m not… strict, no one will take me seriously.” He looks up, and for the first time ever, he’s wearing away at his lip. 

“I’m not funny, or charming… or someone you can like. I’m just someone you can fear. So that’s why I’m mean to you.” 

“There.” Lay looks to the side, flashing you a wry smile. “It’s out. God, I feel like a child to say this, but- could you keep this to yourself?” 

Shivers ripple down your body. You swear to keep his secret. 

Lay grins, and deep dimples spring up in his smooth cheeks. You can’t believe you didn’t know they were there. “I can’t believe you thought I hated you, Y/n! It’s the opposite…you’ve got what it takes. And don’t let an idiot like me tell you don’t.”

Flutters burst in your stomach. Lay kneeling, you sitting, you sink into a breathless silence. You cling to his serious gaze, trying to peer into the man beneath the thick chocolate lashes. 

Then, he lifts his hand to wipe away a dry tear, and you narrowly avoid the urge to kiss his hand. Your body throbs with your pulse. 

“You were crying.” Your conversation has broken down into fragments, swirling in the silent sea of the unsaid. 

You don’t answer him, eyes glued to Lay’s slightly parted lips. 

You lean in closer, and he doesn’t move away. This is the moment you’ve been dreaming of. Your honey-gaze slips to his mouth. Then, you press your lips against his, and they’re warm and oh-so-soft and- 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Lay springs back, clamping his hand to his mouth as if it isn’t his.  

“I-I- uh..” The back of your neck burns, and your heart pounds faster than ever. “I thought you…uh-“ Your stomach twists into a tight ball, sinking like a weight inside you. 

Lay’s blank expression is like a punch to the throat. You squint at him through screwed eyes, praying for a quick exit. 

Then, a frown breaks through the fog on Lay’s face. He cocks his head to the side, sizing you up. “What were you thinking?”

Your shoulders drop; you can’t be bothered to make up a lie. Taking a deep breath, you decide to go for the truth. 

“I know you see me as yourself as my instructor, and me as your student. But I-I see you as a man… and me as a woman. Is that so wrong?”

There’s a silence so sharp it could break glass. 

The shadow of a smile lifts Lay’s lip as he speaks. “That’s not wrong.”

And then, he leans forward once more, and you feel like you’re in a slow-motion movie. You watch Lay’s tongue flick over his lips, leaving them plump and glistening. 

This time, he’s the one whose midnight eyes trail down to your mouth, but slowly, as if he’s tasting your skin with his eyes. When his firm hand grasps your thigh, you feel him shaking. 

That gives you the confidence to close the gap between you. You pull Lay’s head towards you, and kiss him on the mouth. It’s a searching kiss. A kiss that needs to be returned. 

He kisses you back. Softly. Safely. Then impatiently. 

His fingers trail up the fabric of your T-shirt. The cold mirror pushes up against your back. You gasp at his taste. You can hear him gasping too. 

You imagine how you feel to him, tear-salted. Your wayward hand feels cream muscle you’d only dreamt of feeling. 

The fumble, the awkwardness of learning something unknown… that only makes it sweeter.

When you pull back, you realise you now know Lay intimately, but at the same time, you barely know him at all. 

Lay makes as if to speak, but you stop him with a finger. 

Sometimes, the best things can’t be expressed in words.  

[ulalumewitch]

A Song of Shadows and Light

Short Story inspired by “Day 6: Book Predictions” by @gwynrielweek - my prediction is that Gwynriel is end game and they are mates. This takes place an undetermined amount of time into the future after ACOSF.

Author Note/Warning: Brief mentions of past abuse. If you find these ideas triggering, please skip. I hope I addressed them with the care and sensitivity they deserve.

word count: 3,279

theme: a bit of angst, feels

please note: light adult language used.

*******

Azriel’s shadow’s did not speak to him. It remained his biggest secret. They did not whisper in his ear. They did not shout, nor did they cry, nor did moan.

His shadows sang.

He always thought people would assume the truth given the name, but they never did. Others sometimes asked, ‘What do they say? What do they sound like? Do they speak to you often? Do they speak in riddles?’ But never did they ask, ‘Do they sing?’

The first time Azriel heard their song had been while staring at young hands wrapped in bandages as he sat in the cold, damp hell of darkness. The inky black he’d learned to survive in had been no life at all but the sort of torture no creature should endure. Especially not a child.

Azriel had always been intelligent. His mind worked in patterns and puzzles. When he’d been allowed to begin an education beyond the fundamentals of reading and writing - when Rhys’ utter saint of a mother took him under a literal wing - he seemed to understand everything taught to him the moment the instruction passed her, or any teacher’s, lips. Initially, Azriel thought it a gift.

Until he realized the curse of it. He never forgot anything he read or heard, and he never forgot a face. His memory remained woefully accurate. While it made him an excellent spy, Azriel used to pray to the Mother to take his memory away, to take his ability to remember the finest minute details away. Or at the very least the bad memories away…

There were seven cracks in the stone on the floor where he used to sleep, where the damp seemed a little less chilling. Twenty stones around his lightless cell. He learned them all by feeling, touching, counting. Games to keep his mind from wondering if perhaps he’d died. If, perhaps, the Mother forgot about him …

Azriel turned his face up at the sky and let the rain fall softly against his face. His wings twitched slightly at the first contact. Warm, summer rain. Refreshing. Revitalizing. The burgeoning storm ushered in cool air and finally broke the suffocatingly hot, humid weather that had plagued Velaris the last week.

He took a deep breath. And another.

The memory of the first song his shadows sang to him was not an unpleasant one. Perhaps one of the only memories from that place that didn’t belong to a nightmare. They did not sing of freedom or of hope. They sang of light. They saved him.

Every once in a while they would sing of that light. The light of stars against darkness, the light of dawn breaking after another battle won, the light of eyes sparkling in love. They wouldn’t sing of it often, but they usually sang when he needed it most.

Or whenever Gwyneth entered the room. They sang of light around her the most. Their song became loudest when she was near him and it always complimented her words, as if providing a symphony to accompany the voice that filled his dreams with rest. Real rest. Those few precious nights they fell asleep side by side doing research in the library had been the most peaceful and restful nights of his entire existence.

Azriel had been a fool. For all of his abilities to ferret out the secrets of others, to become those shadows to learn what words were whispered in the dark, he’d lost the ability to see past his own shortcomings.

He’d searched for the love he’d missed as a child his entire life. Azriel desperately wanted it for his own, to heal those old wounds and to finally become the creature he always thought he could be.

Instead, he’d lived in delusion after delusion. First, the Truth Telling Warrior Queen, and then the Lady of Flowers and Sun.

It wasn’t their fault, nor was it totally his. He didn’t realize how wrong he’d been until the creature the Mother and Cauldron had paired him with left.

Azriel couldn’t blame Gwyneth for leaving. It was the right move for her. The fact that she healed, that she worked so damned hard to be able to start a new life went beyond admirable. And she’d did it on her own. True, she had her Valkyrie sisters, himself and Cass as her mentors, and the Priestesses … and it was because of that support system that Gwyn was able to save herself from the dark and to follow her own dreams and her own path, whole and healed and independent.

And he would never stop her from being herself. Even if it ripped his heart to shreds to see her go. Even if he fought every day not to winnow to that sanctuary on the other side of the Night Court as she and the others began helping others heal from their own nightmares.

He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen in love with her. Hell, he didn’t even know he’d been in love with her until she left without saying goodbye. Until he found that godsdamned note pinned to his door, rolled up with a teal ribbon around it.

Again, words he wished he could forget burned into his memory …

Do not let the water break you, Shadowsinger. Do not be scared of the warmth light can bring either. Let it illuminate you, every part of you, because you are a creature deserving of every happiness, Azriel, and only you can stop you from finding it. I pray, one day, you will be able to leave your fear behind you. ~G.B.

Azriel lost her because he was afraid. The thing he’d chased his entire life alluded him because he’d finally found it and was too damned cowardly to admit it to himself. To admit that the teal-eyed Priestess Valkyrie Carynthian was in fact the love of his godsdamned life.

And she’d left and he refused to be selfish and to do anything that might potentially ruin the happiness she fought for and won. If anyone deserved living in the light of happiness and peace, it was Gwyn.

Azriel closed his eyes, the rain beginning to fall a little harder. A low rumble of thunder in the distance that belonged to nature and not his High Lord, rolled through his bones. He welcomed it.

“I’m sorry I was a fool,” Azriel said out loud.

The rain fell harder, drowning out his words. But as he said them, a small weight lifted as his shadows swirled around him, keeping some of the drops off of his skin. Their touch soft and reassuring.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way.”

Lightning flashed. Another crack of thunder.

‘She sings for joy and hope, her voice like a snow white dove,’ his shadows lilted, singing in his ear.

Azriel smiled through his tears as they mixed in with rain. She was happy then, she was exactly where she needed to be.

“I love you, Gwyneth,” he shouted to the storm.

Lightning and thunder and rain and his shadows sang melodies to mix with the symphony of the storm as the entire weight of the godsdamned world seemed to be lifted from him entirely. The truth and freedom of it so cathartic he let out a laugh and sob and -

A phantom pull to his middle had the Illyrian warrior stumbling forward, his hands braced and caught himself on the red wall of the training circle atop the House of Wind.

Another tug near his sternum … right over his heart …

Azriel turned as his shadows’ melody, wordless and sweet, crescendoed. A rush of breath passed through his lips as he found wide teal eyes staring at him.

He couldn’t move. For the first time in his life, Azriel forgot everything. If anyone asked him his name he likely wouldn’t remember.

All that he knew was that the beautiful creature walking towards him was no mirage. She stopped in front of him. Her beautiful copper hair somehow still shining through the dark and in the rain as it plastered to her head.

Something sparked in his chest. And Azriel, for the first time in his life, knew true happiness.

********

Gwyneth’s heart pounded as she ran through the house. It closed doors as she approached rooms as if telling her to keep going, the Shadowsinger would not be there. She had dreamed of Azriel every night since she’d been gone.

His hazel eyes, his cheekbones, his lips - those lips that she’d stare at and would forget to actually listen to what he was saying. And she’d have to ask him to repeat whatever it was and he would always quirk a smile - always the left side of his mouth - and then do as she requested. Like he knew.

But when she admitted to feeling something more than friendship. When she finally worked up the courage to broach the topic, thinking that maybe he wouldn’t because he didn’t want to push her, he gave the worst response possible.

Silence. Nothing. Not a single sound had passed those lips she’d come to love.

So, she’d left. She would have stayed. Would have carried on her work in Velaris because it was just as fulfilling as the work she now did on the other side of the Night Court. But she wouldn’t torture herself being around the Shadowsinger any longer. She’d taken his silence as a sign from the Mother that it was time for her to fly away from the nest that allowed her to grow and heal, and to live on her own.

She still had Emerie and Nesta for support as they were winnowed in a couple of times a week to help with training. The priestesses and faeries she had started to work with and train she already knew would be friends or at the very least amiable students and colleagues. Her new endeavor was exciting and scary and thrilling and all the things that she always imagined life could be.

The new compound that she, Nesta, and Emerie had dreamed up had been funded by the High Lord and High Lady, having agreed that more sanctuaries like the library should be available to others. It turned out more beautiful than she could have imagined. The Home for Wayward Stars included a temple, training centers, stables, medical building, and library. All to offer services as well as to train faeries in whatever they’d like to learn.

The compound had been built along the sea, nestled in a previously untouched basin surrounded by mountains, not unlike Velaris itself. The High Lord of Day, along with Rhysand, warded it to ensure it remained a safe haven for those seeking shelter. It was also guarded by new members of the Valkyrie so that all who sought sanctuary could begin healing in peace.

The High Lord and High Lady had been beyond kind, and even built her a small apartment that had a balcony that overlooked the sea, the waves crashing right below her and faced east. Every morning the light greeted her along with the sounds of the sea and it was perfect.

Except it really wasn’t perfect because when she woke up from her dreams of Azriel she would be alone in bed. And it infuriated her.

And so, Gwyneth decided to do something about it. The silence of his response ate away at her. She wanted a real answer. She wanted to know if he felt the same or if he didn’t. Even if the answer meant heartbreak she needed it. For closure.

But as she ascended the stairs to the training circle atop the house, her heart began to pound in her chest, and she knew he was up there. When she reached the top step she heard his voice and closed her eyes. Hearing it in her dreams was far different than the real thing.

“I’m sorry I was a fool.”

Was he talking to someone she couldn’t see?

But as she went to step out onto the roof, shadows swarmed her. Cool yet comforting, they swirled around her and gently pushed her back. She furrowed her brow but stayed put.

Gwyn loved Azriel’s shadows. When they’d researched together they’d always provide light touches to any knots in her neck and shoulders as she read, or would offer a cool breeze atop the house when training at night. Azriel always seemed to fret they would scare her but she loved them. Just like she loved him. And she just didn’t understand why -

‘Priestess of Light and Sea and Song, wait, it will not be long.’

Gwyneth’s mouth opened as she stared at the swirling shadows around her. Did they … did they just sing to her to stay put?

But Azriel’s raised voice stopped her thoughts.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way.”

She began shaking. Oh gods, what if he’d found someone else? What if she’d read him all wrong. What if he really was just a supportive friend and she had been so desperate -

“I love you, Gwyneth!”

Gwyn clamped a hand over her mouth just in time to muffle the sound of a small cry born from pure relief and joy. Her hand flew to her chest as her heart pulsed in a quick beat. She furrowed her brow and looked down. No, it wasn’t her heart, but very near it. Something around her heart.

‘We sing for our Master and thee, Princess of Light and Song and Sea, we sing for the mates of darkness and light and sky and sea.’

She stepped out onto the roof, the shadows retreating slightly but remained close to her. Out of pure magical instinct Gwyneth reached deep down into that place near her heart. The place that sparked alive whenever Azriel was near her or whenever she wished he was near her. She grabbed a hold of that place and tugged.

Gwyneth watched in equal parts wonder and amusement as the renowned Carynthian warrior stumble forward in response. He whirled and she couldn’t stop herself as she did it again.

Hazel eyes locked on hers and she knew all of the trepidation she’d felt had been for nought. He loved her. He only needed to go on his own journey to find it. And Gwyneth understood that the dreams she’d had must have been Mother sent to bring her back because Azriel was finally ready to accept the destiny that had been written for them in the stars long ago.

Azriel raised a wing out over her head to shield her from the rain. His shadows continued to swirl around them both.

“I love you too, Azriel.”

“Gwyn,” he breathed out, “What - how -“

She smiled as he sputtered slightly. Gwyn reached forward and laced her fingers through his. Her thumbs lightly running over the ridges of some of the raised bits of scars. Ridges and lines that she’d memorized during their moments alone together.

“I dreamt of you,” she whispered, “And I had to come see you. The house led me here and then your Shadows sang for me to wait while you shouted into the rain. Do you always bother storms with your confessions?”

Azriel’s mouth dropped open. His hands began to shake slightly in hers.

“They sang to you?”

Gwyneth nodded and smiled, “Would you like to venture a guess why?”

She watched, fascinated, as his shadows swirled around his ears. His eyes shuttered slightly and then began to glisten in the dark.

“Is it too soon to talk about a mating ceremony?” Azriel finally asked.

Gwyneth laughed, as tears of pure relief and joy stung her eyes. She ripped her hands from his and threw her arms around his neck. And kissed him.

Azriel’s mouth slanted over hers immediately. The kiss soft but heated as one hand dove into her hair and the other held her waist tightly to him. With the first tentative touch of his tongue to hers, fire lit her veins. She tipped her head back slightly and opened further for him.

His cedar and mist scent wrapped around her as surely as his shadows did, keeping them hidden. Gwyn held on to him, suddenly worried that maybe she dreamt again. That maybe this was nothing but dreaming.

But in that very moment of doubt Azriel pulled away from her. He ran his nose long hers and brushed his lips over hers in a way that made her consider how his lips would feel on her skin.

“This isn’t a dream,” he whispered, “And I love you and I’m sorry.”

She smiled and brought a hand up to cup his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed as she ran a thumb along his cheek bone.

“I love you, Azriel. But for your penance I must demand a couple of things for our future mating ceremony.”

His eyes opened and his lips quirked up. The left side of his mouth. Always the left side of the mouth. Her heart leapt in her chest as warmth spread through her.

“And what’s that Berdara?”

She pressed the front of her body to his, allowing her curves to mold to the hardness of him, to the cut of muscles honed over centuries of being a warrior. Her own warrior called to him, ready to take on anyone who would dare to hurt him. The instinct to protect, she mused, and they hadn’t even officially done anything. Not yet anyway. Hopefully not much longer.

“That we have our ceremony by the sea, our feet touching water and land. That we have our ceremony at dusk as day and night hedge on each other. So that sky and sea and dark and light surround us. So for that sacred moment it will seem like we teeter on the edge of the universe and its us. Just us. And that you will do your duties and live your life and I will do the same and we will carve out a life just for us by forging those parts of us together to make a whole. So that we’re both stronger.”

Azriel leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. He brushed his lips over hers again before placing a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth. His lips lingered and then slowly pressed kisses to her cheek and jaw line and then … then he kissed the sensitive spot below her ear, warm and pleasant and her knees buckled.

His lips curved into a smile against her skin and she wanted to scream at him to stop - to not stop - to do it again but more.

Azriel moved his mouth to press a kiss to the pulse at her throat, and her toes curled in her boots. All of her breathing techniques forgotten as she struggled to remember how to draw breath into her lungs.

With his blessed lips still against her skin, nuzzling her, he replied, “As you wish, Princess of Light and Song and Sea. It’s a good thing I’ll be able to winnow to you every night. Tell me Rhys and Feyre made your apartment big enough for someone with wings.”

“Our apartment. And yes. Now, kiss me again, Shadowsinger,” she smiled, “And this time. Don’t stop.”

Azriel flashed a grin and before Gwyn could form another thought his lips met hers. And she fell. No matter where she landed, and no matter where her journey led her from here, she knew that she would be living that journey with the Shadowsinger, her mate, beside her.

So they fell together as his shadows sang to them a song of darkness and light, sky and sea, hope and love.

*****************

hope you enjoyed! i love all possible ships and these two give me the feels.

[verobatto]

Destiel Chronicles

Vol. CXXIV

It was a love story from the very beginning.

"I Love--"

(15×09)

Hello my friends! We are here again in Purgatory of Love 2.0 and the ILY that did was, but writers wanted us to think it was hahahahaa. *I hate you Dabb*.

This is a summary of my meta from episode 15x09 with some new addition.

You can find all my metas from this episode in the following links: X, X, X and X.

The Break is Huge

I'm just gonna point how bad things are between Dean and Castiel.

And I want to bring back here one scene I didn't put in the previous volume...

Gifset credit @jellydeans

CASTIEL: No idea. He was very distraught.

DEAN: Yeah, but what exactly did he say?

CASTIEL: "Leave. Get out. I want you dead". We didn't bond.

Castiel uses this opportunity to remind Dean his own hard words to him the day he left. And Dean's face is priceless, that swallow showing he knows exactly what he said to Castiel. But, as always, he can't just use his words to ask for forgiveness.

Things are not okay... are worse than ever.

Coming back to episode 9, at the beginning, things are still bad.

Gifset credit @starlightcastiel

Their fights are getting wilder, Castiel is plenty hones with his own frustration and anger against Dean, and it shows. He's just tired. Dean can't believe Castiel is calling him like that just because Castiel doesn't use that words with him. This was written to show us how bad things are between them.

And they kept fighting and fighting, and Dean trying to avoid Castiel when they arrive to Purgatory...

DEAN: (...)Okay. Let's split up.

CAS: What?

DEAN: You go that way. I'll go this way. We'll meet back at the Rift, alright? We'll cover more ground. We'll better our odds.

CAS: Yeah. We'll also improve our odds of getting lost or killed. Come on.

We can see here again, how tired Castiel is about Dean's childish behavior to not be alone with Castiel and not face him as an adult in an adult conversation. Just avoid the huge elephant. Right?

If we make an analysis about these two situations, we can conclude:

The important thing here, is that Castiel is the one thinking like a strategist, taking war decision, focused on the mission. Like the soldier he is, and Dean was so unfocused, that Cas had to take the command. The first time is when he made Dean decline his plan to rescue Sam and go to Purgatory for that blossom, and the second time was when they just arrived to Purgatory, Dean wanted to go separately, and Cas shoved that idea off. And after that, he said LET'S GO, so, Commander Castiel had given an order!!!! And Dean followed it!

Dean seemed to be uncomfortable by Castiel's side, that's why he proposed him to go separated, and that's why he named Benny. He needed a third one to avoid Castiel.

Another hard conversation is the one before they went into the trap.

CAS: Well, this place will bring that out in you. Guilt. It was my fault the Leviathan got out. It was my fault we were here the first time. I carry that guilt every day.

DEAN: I know you're sorry, Cas. About Bel, about Mom.

CAS: I was talking about Jack. I already apologized to you. You just refused to hear it.

DEAN: Sorry I brought it up. Maybe if you didn't just up and leave us.

CAS: You didn't give me a choice. You couldn't forgive me. And you couldn't move on. You were too angry. I left, but you didn't stop me.

Cas was honest again... The hard quote he threw Dean, after trying to show him he was sorry because of Jack, and he already had said I'm sorry to Dean, but he didn't want to listen, Dean couldn't move on. The hard quote came after Dean played his card saying Cas left, blaming him for leaving... The hard quote from Cas was... "I LEFT, BUT YOU DIDN'T STOP ME." This was like a bomb my friends!!! Dean remained speechless again!!!!

It's as if Cas was saying... 'You wanted me to leave. That's why you didn't stop me.'

Purgatory not only brings guilt, but also, purity of heart. It's about facing your deep and repressed feelings. And that's why it had to be here where Dean had to apologize and recognize his love for the angel... even when he didn't say ILY.

Love is in the Air

The Prayer

Dean lost Castiel again. And he is literally, DESPERATE. He doesn't know what to do, because he has been walking and looking for him, but Castiel is not there.

Finally, Dean succumbs on his knees, and prays to Castiel...

DEAN: Cas? Cas, I hope you can hear me... that wherever you are, it's not too late. I should've stopped you. You're my best friend, but I just let you go. 'Cause it was easier than admitting I was wrong.

I – Ohh. I don't know why I get so angry. I just know – I know that it's – i-it's just always been there. And when things go bad, it just – it comes out. And I can't -- I can't stop it. No matter how – [Sniffles] how bad I want to, I just can't stop it. And – And I – I forgive you. Of course I forgive you. I'm sorry it took me so long – [Sniffles] I'm sorry it took me till now to say it. Cas, I'm – I'm so sorry. Man, I hope you can hear me.

Gif credit @starlightcastiel

The prayer exposed Dean's deep misery as a human, Dean talked about this toxic behavior, he know he acts like that, hurting people by his side, throwing his own guilt and fears against the ones he loves. He began the prayer with the last honest quote Cas told him... I SHOULD STOP YOU. When Cas left. Dean should stop him, why? BECAUSE YOU'RE MY BEST FRIEND. I will stop in this quote... Dean is talking about him, he is not saying YOU ARE OUR BEST FRIEND, he is saying MY. That's a huge step, and also it is important to understand he is not saying YOU ARE LIKE A BROTHER, he is not putting Castiel in that position, as he did in episode 11x23, using the words BEST FRIEND, is a huge step for Dean.

He recognized he was angry, and he threw his crap to Cas, who had always been there.

Then he took the I'm sorry Castiel had said to him, several times, and he answered OF COURSE I FORGIVE YOU. Because how couldn't he? How couldn't he forgive Castiel? That's a huge quote there too, he is saying, no matter what Cas does or says, Dean will always forgive him, you do that just with people you love, deeply.

Then, he repeats I'm sorry a lot of times, with tears running on his face, that's heartbreaking, and that's too sincere. The huge fact is... He's kneeled down while he is asking for Castiel's forgiveness.

After this scene, we had the big Destiel reunion. They way Castiel says "You made it" to Dean and Dean confused gaze always got me. Because it's talking about the way Dean was able to find Castiel, and that was because they share a profound bond. That manifestation of their profound bond, gave me the idea about how Dean coul rescue Castiel from the Empty.

Gifset credit @agusvedder

When Cas was talking how he escaped and got the blossom, Dean made this face... This is a face of someone about to jump to the pull. Anxiety, heart eyes, and tryin to encourage himself to do it. Do what? A love confession.

Dean was about to confess his love for Castiel here, I'm pretty sure right now, this was a symbolism to show the C*W won't allow this. That's why, before the last episode was aired, in the prologue in which they're showed a lot of mixed scenes and the cast was interviewed, they showed us the prayer again... because they wanted us to see DEAN SAID HE LOVED CASTIEL HERE, HE JUST DIDN'T SAY IT WITH WORD, BUT IN HIS MIND, IN HIS PRAYER. But that was not enough to us and to Dean. Because Dean needed to express his feelings and Castiel needed to hear he loved him.

That's why all the vomits, and gagging and spitting in this season, foreshadowing this moment. And it ends with Dean swallowing his words, again.

He was about to say it...

Here... What was Dean about to say? I'm sorry again??? I don't think so, he had let that very clear in his prayer, and he knows Cas heard him, because he always hears his prayers... Then? What was he about to say?? Adding the previous face we already analyzed... First the jumping into the pull face, going through some heart eyes session, now is time... For the love confession... But.. Cas avoided it...

Castiel had to avoid it because HAPPINESS, something he can't feel, yet.

Perfectly settled to hide the fact that C*W and some writers and producers didn't want Destiel to happen, right?

Cas thought Dean wanted to say I'm sorry again? No. I truly believe Cas knows what was Dean about to say.. because look...

Dean swallowed the I LOVE YOU for Castiel. He swallowed his words. Because THEY SILENCED HIM.

So, everything is solved. Castiel heard Dean's prayer in which writers want us to think he said it in the prayer. In his mind. And Castiel heard him.

But Dean couldn't close his character I Love Journey. And Castiel couldn't hear him say it back.

To Conclude:

The Destiel reunion was a beautiful hug, heart eyes, anxiety, butterflies in their stomachs, but it couldn't give Dean's character what they deserved: to express their feelings through his words.

But even so, They love each other so much, they always find each other.

Hope you like this meta, see you in the next one.

Tagging @magnificent-winged-beast @emblue-sparks @weird-dorky-little-d @michyribeiro @whyjm @legendary-destiel @a-bit-of-influence @thatwitchydestielfan @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @lykanyouko @evvvissticante @savannadarkbaby @dea-stiel @poorreputation @bre95611 @thewolfathedoor @charlottemanchmal @neii3n @deathswaywardson @followyourenergy @dean-is-bi-till-i-die @hekatelilith-blog @avidbkwrm @anarchiana @dickpuncher365 @vampyrosa @authorsararayne @mybonsai1976 @love-neve-dies @dustythewind @wayward-winchester67 @angelwithashotgunandtrenchcoat @trashblackrainbow @deeutdutdutdoh @destiel-shipper-11 @larrem88 @charmedbycastiel @ran-savant @little-crazy-misha-minion @samoosetheshipper

@shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @mishtho @dancingtuesdaymorning @nerditoutwithbooks @mikennacac73 @justmeand-myinsight @idontwantpeopletoknowmyname @teddybeardoctor @pepevons @helevetica @dizzypinwheel @horsez2 @qanelyytha

@destielle @spnsmile @shippsblog @robot-feels @superlock-in-the-tardis @superduckbatrebel @belacoded @madronasky @anon-non2 @cea1996 @lisafu02 @asphodelesauvage @deancasgirl777

If you want to be added or removed from this list, just let me know.

If you wanna red the previous metas from this season, here you have the links:

Vol. CXXI, CXXII, CXXIII.

Buenos Aires August 1st 2021 1:10 PM

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

Swordtember - 3. Insect-Like

”The third was a personal favourite of mine, actually. Known only as The Pestilence.”

The boy was dead. He had been for weeks, but he still walked alongside his clueless father, and longed for his absent mother, just as he did in life. The child, who was once the jovial spark that his father needed in their wayward travels, was now nothing more than a weight. He walked only when his father urged him forward, and muttered his words of appreciation to the few that helped them, only because his father made him. The boy was sick often throughout his life. Crying and screaming from the unexplainable dull pain that wormed its way through him, and drenching half of his limited clothes in thrown up blood. His father could do nothing but pray. Praying to the gods that never listened, and for the people on the streets to see them. In time, he prayed to to anything that would listen. A tiny centipede lived within the boy’s pocket. He kept it a secret from his father for a reason he never understood, but he found comfort in the secrecy. A friend only for him. He never fell ill again. The centipede was still with him. The once small creature that definitely should have died from the years that had passed, only grew with age. The privacy of his pocket soon became hiding itself around his arm, to then wrapping itself around his waist, much like a belt.  His father died not long before the boy became a man. An illness much like the one all those years ago, the one they still couldn’t afford treatment for. Still just as unexplainable. An unknown terror that he couldn’t punish.  He took his first life a few weeks later: a doctor. Then, a nurse. Despite being a man at this point, he was still weak. Just as weak as he was when he was a boy. He gripped the rear-legs of his one and only friend with his pitiful strength, holding aloft the backend of the massive centipede who was busy lashing at a dying form. A physician. Once satisfied, the centipede curled in on itself, as if flexing.  It wouldn’t bring his father back, he knew that well after the first two, and it didn’t even make him feel better. He didn’t enjoy killing. But, his companion did. So that’s what they did.  

“Plagues followed the pair closely, each corpse a breeding ground. A favourite, but I found no joy in facilitating the act. But it is what was done. The flogged boy; patient zero for The Pestilence.”

[ruensroad]

Kissing Snowflakes

I’m glad I’m not the only RenCheng/QiCheng fan <3

Part one here.

In Lan Qiren’s office, in a place of honor above his desk, was a small fountain. Ornately crafted from jade and painstakingly repaired with gold, it stood as a testament to many things: Lan Qiren’s affections for Jiang Fengmian, the long standing respect between their sects, the destruction and rebuilding of the Jiang and, in many ways, Jiang Cheng’s own affections given right back.

He hadn’t had to give it back. It had been a wedding gift from Lan Qiren to his parents, and Jiang Fengmian had cherished it. Even broken jade had been valuable to the Wens, who’d stored it away in their treasure trove. Jiang Cheng had taken it back with the rest of his home. It was a part of Lotus Pier as much as he was. Had been there even longer than he had been. 

But he’d repaired it and given it back. Had seen the way Lan Qiren’s eyes had shown with unspoken tears and a thousand words. Jiang Cheng had pledged himself as the new Jiang Sect leader before him, pledged his loyalty to the Lan clan, and that enduring friendship carried over by generations before. He knew it’d been the right move and the softness that had captured Lan Qiren, the sorrow and gratitude, was forever seared in Jiang Cheng’s mind.

He hadn’t known it at the time, but that was the beginning of all his problems.

The fountain was there each time they met for tea and go, sitting on the shelf always polished to perfection. Even if Lan Qiren were the kind  of man to allow dust to collect, Jiang Cheng was certain it would be the only artifact up there utterly spotless. Lan Qiren was a meticulous man, clean and tidy, a study of restraint, and yet Jiang Cheng would argue that the fountain seemed almost over polished, too clean. He didn’t have the heart to ask why.

Because, in truth, he was scared of the answer.

Scared, and overthinking. Gusu was cold always, but in winter it was like walking into a sheet of ice. Very beautiful ice, to be sure, but still. Fuck. 

Jiang Cheng shivered as he walked the veranda around the guest house he’d been given to use. It was large and spacious, with a wonderful heater and soft bed - a match made in heaven for someone that had a demanding five year old to put to bed. Jin Ling had fallen asleep in a cocoon of blankets on a daybed near the fire and Jiang Cheng’s sharp hearing could still hear his childish snores. The night was calm and silent, with fluffy flakes of falling snow dotting the night like stars. Given the stars were covered with clouds, it gave the effect of stardust, and he breathed in the peace that thought brought him.

Jin Ling’s snore cut out as the boy shifted, and Jiang Cheng tensed, waiting to be called in to fight nightmares, but the boy simply fussed in his blankets for a moment, then his tiny noises started up again. Jiang Chen breathed out with him, the gentlest, most secret of smiles on his lips, and he resumed his patrol around the rooms, taking in the snow and the silence of the night.

He was aware of Lan Qiren before Lan Qiren realized he’d seen him, given the elder still cleared his throat to announce himself. Jiang Cheng was surprised to see him awake, given there was a rule about that, and off the beaten path under a persimmon tree behind the guest house, his hair unadorned and loosely tied, and there was certainly a rule about that too. One Jiang Cheng’s own lack of finery and his simple braid had broken.

“Old Master,” he greeted, sending one last look towards the rooms before stepping down from the veranda. It was strange, approaching the man like this, like it was a secret meeting and not just two men awake too late meeting off chance. Perhaps it was because Lan Qiren, for once, was not harsh in his ornate robes, every line of him perfect and in place. His robes were fine and the fur soft, but it was, without a doubt, the least put together he’d ever seen Lan Qiren, and he’d known the man on the battlefield.

Jiang Cheng was far less dressed, in a mere few layers for sleeping, but with a single spark of Zidian, his core ignited with fire and electricity to warm him, every breath he took glittering with misted qi. Lan Qiren stared at him a long moment, and he wondered if, perhaps, the man’s teacher senses were tingling, that somehow he knew Jiang Cheng had been breaking rules and had come to lecture him. The thought was more amusing than anything and he felt himself soften, especially when Lan Qiren didn’t bother with a bow of greeting. 

Somewhere in all their meetings, they’d lost that stiff formality and titles had warmed into fond jokes. Jiang Cheng could say he didn’t have many by way of true friends, but he counted Lan Qiren amongst the ones he did have. There was a warmth in him that grew each time they were together, and it was worryingly insistent now seeing the snowflakes dotting the older man’s hair.

“Sect Leader.” There was something wry in the way Lan Qiren said it, voice low and proper. He held up a persimmon like it wasn’t breaking two other rules to do so and Jiang Cheng took it gladly.

“So, what brings Old Master out on this fine day?” Jiang Cheng asked, as close to teasing as he ever got, and bit into the fruit. It was partially frozen, which added a delightful texture and coolness to the bite he took. He closed his eyes a moment to savor how it tasted, then refocused on the man, who was looking at him with that same, almost bewildered sort of fondness in his eyes. “With the sun so bright.”

The moon was nearly full, which added to the joke. It was bright enough, even with the fog of snow, to light up Lan Qiren clearly, even if it was more of a blur, like the way light played through tears. It made him almost ethereal in the way Lan Qiren never was, and Jiang Cheng found himself staring at the way the moonlight gleamed on his forehead ribbon, shiny with melted snow.

There were snowflakes on the man’s lashes, he realized, and felt his heart skip. Worrying, that.

“I was about to ask Sect Leader Jiang the same,” Lan Qiren said, huffing in his usual way and reaching up for another persimmon. He was a tall, lean man, taller than Jiang Cheng, but the persimmons were higher. With a flick of his wrist, one fell neatly into his palm and Jiang Cheng’s breath caught. 

Lan Qiren had long, slender fingers and they wrapped around the fruit with ease. His thumb moved a slow circle on the frosted, waxy surface. Jiang Cheng’s mind whirled with each thoughtful revolution back to the too polished fountain with its too polished golden cracks, and looked down at his bitten persimmon with heat in his neck.

Overthinking, for sure. He wanted to kick himself. Of all the people to feel warm for, Lan Qiren had never even been on the list. And now here he was, feeling like a caught schoolboy with a crush. He had to concentrate hard from clenching his fist around the fruit and ruining it. He bit into it instead.

“Thinking too much, and I do like snow, for all I complain about the cold. What’s your excuse?” Jiang Cheng told him easily and fell into step with him at the barest tilt of Lan Qiren’s head. He was led down a faint path between the trees where the snow was more like a blur now, simplifying the world into shapes and colors. White, black, purple. Persimmon orange and red. 

He had to step closer to Lan Qiren to see him clearly and felt their sleeves brush. Lan Qiren paused in the snow and Jiang Cheng matched him, watching him through the veil of white.

“Thinking too much,” Lan Qiren echoed him, and Jiang Cheng was certain there was a smile on the man’s face that wasn’t just a trick of shadows and snow. “I enjoy the snow as well, including the cold. Gege and I spent many wayward nights like this stealing fruit.”

The fondness in the man’s voice did things to Jiang Cheng’s heart he had no right to feel, or so he told himself. He took a final bite of the persimmon and let the leafy top fall to the ground. In the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of orange touch Lan Qiren’s lips and wondered of impossible things. 

He reached for another persimmon to district himself and reached out with his core to Jin Ling, feeling the soothing ease of the boy’s body in sleep. It made him brave, as only a child’s love could, and he found himself smiling.

The persimmon twisted free in his fingers and he considered it, as well as Lan Qiren’s words. To his dismay, the thought of a tiny Lan Qiren running amok and breaking rules only furthered the warmth in his heart, and as he took a bite of his persimmon, he prayed the feelings would flee, lest they kill him.

“Old Teacher admits to rule breaking?” he asked, amused, and to his surprise he was scoffed at, coupled with the barest bump of an elbow against his own. 

“And no one will believe you,” Lan Qiren said to that, smug, and of course he had the right of it. Jiang Cheng couldn’t help but laugh.

It was a low chuckle, the best he could do, but still it got him a chuckle in return. Once more his heart wished for impossible things and once more he smashed the hope into obedient silence. It was not for him to want more than what he already cherished with Lan Qiren, so he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

But it was there, in each fallen flake in the man’s hair, the kiss of fruit sliding against lips, the warmth and trust between them that spoke of respect and everything Jiang Cheng had fought to have in the world. Who was he to want more?

Loving Lan Qiren was like kissing snowflakes. Romantic in ideal, but impossible in practice. He was not nearly worthy enough to try. It would be too strange, too ruinous to what they had, and Jiang Cheng had ruined enough in his life. He wasn’t about to throw away such a good thing.

Even if it killed him, to keep even this was worth it. It had to be.