#The immensity of the void presses down

[suparhythm]

From Oblivion to OBLIVION, Part II (Hope in the Abyss)

The immensity of the void presses down, a weightless weight. OBLIVION, once a stagnant darkness, now writhes with the phantoms of regret.Their forms, twisted from past missteps, echo the storm within. But amidst the chaos, a flicker catches the eye.Not a monstrous lunge, but a hesitant wisp, a tendril of something unknown.It dances at the periphery, a hesitant ember in the endless night.…

[logansbaby]

Reckless Behavior - Logan Howlett

thinking very feral thoughts about worst!logan and that fucking suit…

18+ content below, immensely short (just a little under 1k words), fem!reader, this is self indulgent im just a slut

˚｡⋆⟡♡⟡⋆｡˚

THE FEELING of cool metal dances across the expanse of Logan’s back, the steel counter pressing deeper with each passing moment.

The itch of pain only serves to further intensify the lust coursing through his body as he fucks his cock deep inside your mouth.

He’s got one hand on your chin, thumb pulling at your plush lips, the skin stretched completely as you move your pretty face up and down. The other hand fists your hair in a tight makeshift ponytail, the tingles of pain swirling amongst the skin of your scalp, and a pathetic little whine is muffled around the base of him when he yanks the strands harder.

Logan’s not sure how this even happened, but he’d be a fool to question the logistics of it all, especially when he’s got the prettiest girl he’s ever seen wrapped around him, sucking him down greedily.

All he knows is that the minute Wade left the abandoned diner, something about finding a car or whatever the fuck he’d been talking about, you all but jumped Logan.

“Logan…” your breathy, sweet voice brings him back from the depths of his mind, eyes glassy as you stare up at him. “Tastes so, so good.”

“Fuck, baby.” He groans because the sight of you makes his tip bubble with desire. Spit connects him to your swollen, used lips and hums keep slipping from you, like you’re doing this for your pleasure. “So needy and desperate for me, hmm? Such a little slut that you can’t help but drop to your knees the minute we’re alone?”

A full body shiver racks through you at his deep grunt, at his filthy words. You’re so fucking horny; your pussy is aching and clenching around nothing, slick seeping from your hole to your thighs, all because you’re that gone for the mean, grumpy man above you.

“Yes— yes. Please use me, Logan. Please.”

It’s your whimpering words that have his hips thrusting his cock back into your mouth. He grunts loud at the familiar feel of your warm, wet mouth suckling on him.

Its so, so good that everything slips away from him— his past, his failures, the void— it’s all gone as hot, searing desire fills him completely, a promise of ecstasy nudging his lower stomach.

Pride swirls in your chest at the knowledge that it’s you bringing Logan to the brink of pleasure. The minute you had landed on top of him ( and that delicious tight, yellow suit) as you were tossed in the void, you ached to have his cock fuck your throat raw.

You’re mentally patting yourself on the back— maybe dreams do come true!

“Shit, your mouth feels too good.” Logan huffs, hips unrelenting, the brown curls dusting his pubic bone brush your nose with every plunge, He’s staring at you now, in awe of how fucking beautiful you look, mouth stuffed full of him.

You moan around him, drool spilling from the sides of your mouth and onto the floor as your wet eyes meet his. You can tell he’s close and your mouth practically salivates at the idea of his come coating your tastebuds.

Swiftly, your hands tug at his suit bottoms, yanking them down further until his muscular, hairy thighs are on display. Then, with a swirl of your tongue to his slit, you drag your nails down the tops of his thighs, sharp and deep enough that a couple droplets of red follow, trailing down after your hands.

And that sends Logan soaring; the mix of pain and immense bliss turns his head fuzzy. Deep groans echo around the diner and your gag is sudden as his hands press your face all the way down, until your mouth is around his base. You’re unable to do anything but take what he gives you; his come is hot and searing as he spurts in your mouth. And you could cry with joy because there’s so much that white pools around your lips and dribbles on his pubic bone, down his thighs.

When his hold eases up, you pull off with a gasp, come and spit all over your mouth and chin and fuck, Logan shivers as his sensitive cock twitches.

You cough a couple times before lowering back down, sweetly sucking on his red, swollen tip to collect every last drop of the salty substance.

Past you was completely rational in craving his spend; the taste of Logan is addictive. Now that you’ve had him, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to do anything when you’d rather be split open on his cock and your mouth full of his fingers.

“Fuck, baby. Give me a second,” he laughs a little, because even though he’s incredibly overwhelmed with the after effects of his orgasm, he thinks it’s cute that you’re still tonguing at his cock, sucking and licking his tip.

“Just cleaning you up.” You grin, face overtaken with mischief and lust. You only release him when he tugs at your hair, the pain sending jolts of pleasure to your neglected, puffy clit.

Logan curses before he pulls you up off your knees and upright until you’re standing against his chest, faces dangerously close as the air is a touch more intimate than before.

It’s then, with the sheen of saliva glistening your lips, he realizes he might want to eat you alive.

“Let me taste you, baby. Fuck— can smell how much you want my mouth on your pretty pussy.”

“Please—“ you beg, pitifully. You’d take whatever he was willing to offer.

And just as is Logan lifting you up and on the counter, the loud bang! of the door startles you both.

“Well, well, well! Hooking up without me? I’m offended… and also extremely turned on. Don’t mind me. Please continue, I love to watch.”

The red-masked man watches as an embarrassment coats your face and annoyance covers Logan’s.

“Wade!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You drop your head on Logan’s chest and sigh.

Perhaps getting the best head of your life would have to wait, much to your dismay.

˚｡⋆⟡♡⟡⋆｡˚

[pretzel-box]

Sebastian saving the reader from the Puddles of Void-Mass during a solo run male reader please🙏

Suffocated

Words: 1,2k

Status: Proof-read

Tags: Mention of pain (near death experience), male reader faintly crushing on sebastian at the end

It was probably your fifth run at this point, rushing through door after door while carrying the heavy diving gear on your back, which significantly slowed you down. The weight of the gear felt almost unbearable, each step a reminder of the immense pressure bearing down on you from the depths of the ocean you were stuck in. This time, they sent you down on your own, making the job infinitely more difficult since it was just you and your senses inside the creepy underwater facility, a place that had been on an almost everlasting lockdown for reasons you were too afraid to fully explore.

The silence down here was oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and the occasional creak of the facility's aging structure. The corridors seemed to stretch on forever, each one more labyrinthine and foreboding than the last. And you could swear, if an angler didn't get you somewhere in between, then a wall dweller might just tackle you from behind, leading to a painful death. You'd heard stories about them from secret intel, but it was hard to believe at first. Yet, in the eerie quiet of the underwater base, even the wildest stories and rumors seemed to hold a kernel of truth.

It was around floor 48 when the lights in the minimalist office hallway started to flicker for a moment. It was the signal you dreaded, the one that meant you needed to find the nearest locker and hide without risking another stressful panic attack in the dark. Your heartbeat quickened, a frantic drum in your chest, and you could already feel the familiar cold sweat on your palms as you scanned the hallway for a hiding spot.

Then, from somewhere close, too close, you could already hear the ear-piercing scream from the other room. It was a sound unlike any other, unnatural and filled with a kind of agony that made your blood run cold. It sent a shiver straight down your spine, freezing you in place for a split second, before survival instincts kicked in. You hurriedly squeezed your large body into a nearby locker, the cold metal walls pressing in on you as you pulled the door shut with trembling hands.

Your breath caught in your throat as you tried to steady yourself, only to notice, too late, that something was already inside. Black tentacles, slick and cold, had wrapped themselves around your limbs and torso. They pinned you painfully against themself and the steel interior, the tight space making it impossible to struggle or even scream. The tentacles were strong, far stronger than you, and they pulled you deeper into the locker, squeezing your chest until it was hard to breathe.

The realization hit you like a punch to the guts. This wasn't just some malfunctioning piece of equipment. The locker wasn't safe. The puddle of void mass inside had been waiting for you, and now it had you exactly where it wanted. The scream from the other room echoed in your ears, but now it was distant. The real terror was here, in the dark, cramped confines of the locker, with those cold, unyielding tendrils slowly crushing the life out of you.

You thrashed against the tentacles, but each movement only seemed to make them tighten their grip. Pain shot through your body as they dug into your skin, and the locker seemed to grow even smaller, the walls closing in as your vision began to blur. Panic clawed at your mind, the darkness pressing in from all sides, but there was no escape, no hope of breaking free.

Your last thought, as the world around you faded to black, was that you should never have come down here alone.

Then, through the suffocating grip of the tentacles and the haze of near-unconsciousness, you heard the faint sound of locker doors being smashed open. The noise echoed in the small, confined space, jarring you back to a sharp awareness of your surroundings. Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, two large, claw-like hands grabbed you forcefully by the shoulders. The tentacles loosened their grip just enough for you to be yanked free from their constricting hold.

You were pulled into a weirdly cold yet oddly comfortable chest, the frigid surface somehow soothing the aching, bruised skin beneath your diving suit. Your lungs, starved for air, filled themselves again with precious oxygen, the sudden rush of it making your head spin.

As your vision cleared and your heart slowed its frantic pace, you found yourself standing face to face with your rescuer: the sly sea-serpent merchant himself. His eyes, slitted and glowing with the familiar fluorescent eerie light, bore into yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. His scales, dark and shimmering like the depths of the ocean, reflected the dim light of the hallway, casting strange patterns on the walls around you.

He was massive, his presence filling the space with an overwhelming sense of power and control. The coldness of his chest, where you were still pressed against, seeped into your bones, yet it was not an uncomfortable cold.

"You're lucky I found you in time, my friend" he murmured, his voice a low, resonant hiss that reverberated through your entire being. His breath, cool and tinged with the scent of brine, brushed against your face as he leaned closer, his sharp, serpent-like features coming into clearer view. "That thing would've crushed you like a clam if I'd been just a moment later."

You managed a shaky nod, still too stunned to speak. The shock of being pulled from the brink of death left you weak and disoriented, but the merchants presence, as fearsome as it was, also brought a strange sense of relief. You were alive, and for now, safe though you couldn't shake the feeling that safety was a relative term when it came to Sebastian standing before you.

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied your expression. There was a knowing gleam in his gaze, as if he could read every thought running through your mind. "Don't look so surprised," he said with a sly grin, revealing sharp, gleaming teeth. "You didn't think you'd make it through this place on your own, did you? Not without a little... assistance."

His words, laced with a mix of amusement and something darker, sent another shiver down your spine. You knew of him, of course it was clear that he would demand a fitting payment.

And now, standing in his grasp, you couldn't help but wonder: What price would you have to pay for your life?

Your Adam's apple bobbed as you swallowed hard, the motion a clear sign of your anxiety. Yet, despite the fear that still gripped you, a strange sense of calm began to settle in your chest. Sebastians cold, calculating eyes watched your every move, but something deep within you, said, against all logic, you would be safe with him, payment or not.

It was an inexplicable feeling, this sudden trust. His presence didn't carry the malice you feared from the usual monsters in this place. Instead, there was a peculiar sense of assurance, as if the danger you felt moments before had been snuffed out simply by his arrival. The way his hands, though clawed and fearsome, held you now with a surprising gentleness only reinforced that instinct.

You relaxed slightly, your tense muscles beginning to loosen as you drew in a slow, steadying breath. Maybe it was the way he had saved you, with such effortless strength, or the quiet confidence in his demeanor that made you believe against all reason that you were in good hands.

[aventurineswife]

𝟎𝟎 — 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

The world was screaming.

A soundless roar reverberated through the air, vibrating deep in the marrow of the earth itself. Fires bloomed across the horizon like wilting flowers, their smoke clawing at a sky split by jagged streaks of blue and gold light. The once-bustling city lay in shambles, its towering spires buckling under the weight of something unseen but immense, as though the heavens themselves were folding inward.

And then, silence.

You woke up on cold, fractured ground, your cheek pressed against shards of crystalized ash. A sickly warmth pulsed through the air, but it wasn’t the heat that pulled you upright—it was a voice.

It wasn’t a voice, not in the traditional sense. It wasn’t sound. It was a presence, vast and all-encompassing, brushing against the edges of your mind like the echo of a dream you couldn’t quite remember.

"𝐖𝐚𝐤𝐞."

You gasped as the word—or thought—slammed into your consciousness. Your body moved instinctively, scrambling to your knees, though every muscle protested.

The city—or what was left of it—stretched out before you, a desolate wasteland. Shadows writhed where no light should have reached. In the distance, a cluster of people ran toward a barely functioning evac station, their screams swallowed by the chaos. A Stellaron, massive and pulsating, loomed like a malignant star over the ruins.

Your chest tightened. You knew what this was. Everyone did. Stellaron outbreaks were whispered about in myths and horror stories, a cosmic plague that left no survivors. And now, one had come to your home.

But how were you still alive?

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞."

The voice—or thought, or thing—intruded again, cold and steady.

“Who’s there?” you rasped, your voice breaking on the question. You weren’t sure whom you were asking.

No answer came, but the pressure in your mind didn’t fade. Instead, it grew, wrapping around your thoughts like a vice. Images flickered unbidden behind your eyes—a spiraling void, a distant train cutting through infinite stars, and fragments of something shattered, scattered across the cosmos.

You clutched your head, doubling over. “Stop—stop it!”

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞."

The command was undeniable, a weight that bore down on your every thought. Your legs obeyed before you had time to resist, carrying you forward into the wreckage. You staggered, eyes darting to the ground for stability, but the fragments of crystal that lined the earth pulsed faintly as you passed, like they were responding to your presence.

You didn’t know where you were going or why, only that you couldn’t stop. A part of you wanted to scream—to cry out for help—but deep down, some instinct whispered that no one would hear you.

The distant whine of engines pierced the air, and a shadow fell over you. When you looked up, a colossal shape descended from the sky—a train. No, not just a train. It glimmered with an otherworldly light, sleek and impossibly vast.

The voice returned, this time softer, almost amused.

"𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞. 𝐌𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐲, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬."

And as you stepped toward the light, the fragments beneath your feet glowed brighter. For a brief moment, you could swear you saw something—no, someone—standing in the smoke ahead of you.

They reached out a hand, and the world dissolved into darkness.

[Navigation]

[ddeonghwa-s]

a moment between infinity .ᐟ.ᐟ

reuniting with your soulmate in the space between one life and the next.

꒰୨୧꒱— jeon wonwoo x reader

꒰୨୧꒱— wc is approx. 2.5k.

꒰୨୧꒱— genre : themes of love, romance; angst

꒰୨୧꒱— tropes : reincarnation, reuniting after life, soulmates

꒰୨୧꒱— cw : themes of life and death, discussion of physical separation, missing life events due to death, lives cut short.

꒰୨୧꒱— tw : for discussion of dying young/living life unfilled

꒰୨୧꒱— notes : thank you lexi @heechwe for beta reading! this sounds depressing but i swear there's tons of love in there!

you see wonwoo as soon as you step out from beneath the shade of a tree you don’t remember walking under. the sun, for a fleeting moment, is overly bright. it pierces your eyes with its light, horribly brilliant and blinding. 

you don’t want to look away from wonwoo; don’t want to close your eyes for even a second. 

the pain you feel from the sunlight is immense, and before you can comprehend the desire, the most rudimentary of all wants, so much so that it’s a need, you are blinking your eyes against the cruelty of the sun. 

he’s still there when you open them. 

(he wasn’t the last time you blinked at him.)

(a moment of stillness, of a deep breath taken before plunging into freezing waters; of the last gasp for clean air before being consumed by flame; of a desperate choke for life as death swings its decisive sword.)

(you remember this.)

(and yet you don’t.)

(it’s weird, you think between the pauses of forever, between one breath and the next, how everything and nothing exists so closely intertwined.)

wonwoo smiles. it isn’t that blinding smile of pure exhilaration you so distinctly remember the twelfth time as the two of you looked down from the bow of the ocean liner, waving down at the citizens of south hampton that had come to bid the ship farewell. instead it was his soft, slowly-growing smile that took you back to the second time, to that little ger on the eurasian steppe, holding your first ever son. 

wonwoo opens his arms. 

naturally you go into them. 

the world is made up of pairs, you know, the wisdom of nothing and everything, of finity and infinity, surrounding you. north and south; up and down; sky and earth; you and wonwoo. two things, concepts, beings so closely intertwined that to force one from the other is to break the thin threads of the cosmos. 

and so, like the sky embracing the earth, you go into wonwoo’s arms. 

he’s wearing the outfit you saw him last. his auburn corduroy shirt jacket smells of gasoline still (for him the last sixty years were a mere handful of hours; for you, a lifetime. and so the scent of death still sticks to him as if no time had passed at all, despite.) and when he lifts his arms to wrap them around you, to envelope you into his body, you can see the turquoise scrunchie he had kept on his wrist for you peak out from his sleeve. 

“i’m sorry,” he says. his voice is as deep as you remember. wonwoo presses his nose into your hair. you burrow your face into him, seeking out this natural scent, trying to bypass all the smells of death. “you said we didn’t need more tape, that it’d be fine.”

“i said we didn’t need tape,” you agreed. there had been moments you felt such overwhelming anger towards wonwoo for going despite you arguing otherwise. this, between nowhere and everywhere, was void of such feelings. instead you pressed your nose deeper and deeper, hands grabbing at his shirt. 

“i wanted to make sure we could finish wrapping presents before your mother arrived,” wonwoo said. “i wanted everything to be perfect.”

they found a ring on him, after; a simple silver band and diamond. 

“i know.” 

you shifted. 

wonwoo sighs into your hair. “i’m sorry. i wish – i have a thousand wishes. a thousand wishes for a thousand lifetimes. would you ever forgive me?”

you hum. you think of a land impossibly far, of a lifetime where you sobbed as wonwoo explained he had to leave, had to fight; how easy it was for you to resume that rage once he returned from the war, missing an arm and a chunk of his ear but still breathing and smiling. 

(sometimes he didn’t return.)

(sometimes you didn’t return.)

(those times, you knew, were seldomly seen. your universes, your forevers, were large, ever-expanding tapestries sewn by the threads of your lives. more often than not, nearly always, the threads revealed a beautiful picture of life and love and contentment; of a small forever trapped within a shared lifetime.)

(seldomly did the threads show another picture.)

(you think back to that ocean liner. to how cold it was; to how he disappeared for a heavier jacket and never returned, to how you slipped and fell and were submerged in a cold unlike any other –) 

“i forgive you each and every time,” you mumble into his shir.t. “just as you do me. i don’t think we’d have as many lifetimes together if we didn’t at least like one another.”

“ew,” he says, voice still gentle despite the teasing sentiment of his words, “you like me?”

as if you hadn’t fallin in love with wonwoo for fifteen generations in a row; as if your soul hadn’t sought his; as if you didn’t press yourself into his arms with every breath between lives, trying to memorize his scent and soul before the both of you take the plunge into the next life. 

“you have to stay with me next time,” you say. you try to keep your voice from cracking; it doesn’t work. you’ve shed a million tears for a million lifetimes – fifteen, to be exact, but math isn’t the sort of thing one worries about in places like this, places where everything of the past exists and nothing of the future; where you bear the weight of fifteen lifetimes on your shoulders knowing none of it will matter. 

“you can’t leave me,” you cry into his shirt. you can feel his chest heave underneath you, can feel the earth and not-earth shift beneath the two of you as wonwoo wraps you tighter in his arms. “you can’t leave me this time. not to fight a war that isn’t yours; to get a jacket; to pick up tape. you can’t leave me alone. i can’t handle another lifetime without you.”

wonwoo’s sob is the quiet, heart-wrenching of one that bubbles out despite all attempts to quell it. you can feel his body lurch against you from the force of it. his weeping is ugly, the sounds of his gasps in your ear loud and wholy unpleasant. 

the two of you cry against one another, clutching at one another. you’ve lived more lives together than apart, have memorized the wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes the older he gets, have learned the breathing patterns of his sleep. 

but still – 

the thought of parting is one you never bear. perhaps if you were a stronger soul it would be easier; perhaps if your soul loved his less it would be easier. 

you think back to the past sixty years. and then you think of your lives from the far past. only a few had forced either of you to live without the other, but the pain of them drowns out the happiness of any other. happiness, you have learned, is a golden thing that only seems to truly glow when the moment has long past, when you look back and think ah, that was an evening well spent. 

pain, on the other hand, is brilliant and loud and sharp. it demands its victim to focus on it. and so despite the lives you and wonwoo have spent beside one another, growing to old, shriveled ages in contentment, the pain of loneliness, of the heartbreak of knowing you would lie without the other half of your small universe, of living without your moon or sk or true north, of the other half of your pair that made up the galaxies and cosmos; of knowing you would never be whole. 

that is why the two of you cry. 

“i won’t leave you,” wonwoo promises. neither of you mention how the promise is empty. he cannot and will not remember any word said in this infinite space, during this small and endless moment between infinity. 

he won’t remember the press of your body against his. he won’t remember how you’re crying against him, how he vows to you, himself, and the universe he won’t leave you stranded in a lifetime again. 

(you remember the first lifetime. you remember the tall grasses of your village, of how you and wonwoo would duck down into them to press full-mouthed kisses to one another’s skin, ignorant and naive and happy in your first life. 

you force yourself not to remember how it felt when your uncle agreed to your marriage to a village that would take nearly a year for you to travel to. how it felt to know that despite the fact your love for wonwoo was greater than any force in the cosmos the two of you still answered to those on earth.

you had promised yourself you would never leave him again. that your second lifetime and all the ones after it would be spent at his side and no one else’s.

you promise yourself this once more. 

the universe says nothing in reply.)

wonwoo leans back, sniffling. his nose is red. he raises his hands up to your face, shaking. when wonwoo kisses you it’s wet and there’s spit and snot, but you lean into it as if it were the sealing kiss of a wedding.

“tell me what you loved,” he begs. “you loved after me. tell me.”

you nod. heartbreak lasts forever, and so does love. love is not something that begins and ends with one person; it is everlasting and multifaceted, existing in the smallest, most inconsequential of things. 

“jungkookie got me a puppy,” you say, voice still wet from crying. “i told him it was too much, that i didn’t have the energy for it. he said that was what i needed.”

wonwoo grinned at the mention of his brother. he leaned forward, tucking his forehead into your neck. “what was it’s name?”

“it was a mutt,” you say, “but i remembered how much you love that movie, the fox and the hound. so i named it copper.

“it was black,” you carry on, grinning at wonwoo’s chuckles that he presses into your skin. “jungkookie said it was a lab-shepherd mix. i couldn’t tell the difference.”

“copper the black pup,” wonwoo says. “what else?”

the sun is gentle in its caresses against your flesh, the breeze sweet in its dance. you and wonwoo settle against grass, curling into one another. you can’t raise your voice too much due to the close proximity, and so each word is a tender thing. 

you tell wonwoo of the red forbidden palace jungkook’s son took you to see during a school trip and how, despite the fact you could hear cars honking, it felt as if you were transported hundreds of years into the past. 

you tell wonwoo about the little bookstore that opened up next to his father’s dentist shop. of the tall, towering bookcases; of the cats that lived within; how as soon as you stepped inside you were met with the smell of real wood. 

you tell wonwoo of a little stray kitten you found in your forties, of how you named it romeo for how clingy it was. 

(“i still say we should’ve forced that bastard to write in an acknowledgement that it was our story he was writing,” wonwoo says, tracing the curve of your cheek. “he gets far too much recognition for his genius as it is.”)

he laughs when you tell him about seeing warwick castle for the first time in this lifetime, about the feeling of having been there despite not remembering. he teases you for it with memories of your tenth lifetime, of running down stone halls with you. 

“we’ll go again,” he says. he presses his nose against yours. you grab his hand, lacing your fingers together. “we can get married there just like we did back then.”

you huff a laugh. “if it’s still there. you said that about persepolis.”

“how was i to know that damned macedonian prince would burn it to the ground,” wonwoo laughs. he grows somber, staring at you with deep brown eyes. “how much time do you think has passed?”

you shrug, thinking. time exists and it doesn’t. here, in this sunny pasture, it’s as if time doesn’t exist at all. that cannot be said for when you wake. 

either a year has passed or two hundred; this cannot be said for sure. 

you and wonwoo both were born within five years after the sinking of the titanic, of dying those horribly cold and wet deaths. you died, the two of you would later realize, thirty years before the destruction of persepolis and were reborn five hundred years later. 

and so that is how time flows. 

“well,” wonwoo says, “it’s not like it matters.”

“no?”

“as long as there’s still trees and air we’ll be okay.”

you gasp, having expected something horribly romantic. you’re not sure why you expected this. you gently shove his shoulder all the same, scolding wonwoo for his jest. 

later, though neither of you can say how much time later, you stare up at the sky. the clouds move. the sun keeps at the same position. 

“when do you think we’ll find one another?”

“you know we can’t decide that.”

“guess anyways,” you demand. 

wonwoo wiggles against the dirt. “you’ll move schools in high school,” he announces, “and i’ll be utterly bewitched by the new girl. she’ll be beautiful and sweet, and i won’t say anything at all.”

“that’s not a very good love story.”

“but then we’ll meet again,” he carries on, eyes tracing the fluffy curves of a cloud. “and i’ll be older and more confident. it’ll be at a college bar. you’ll still be beautiful, of course. and i’ll go up to you and say ‘hey, i knew you in high school.’ you’ll smile at me despite not quite remembering. then we’ll meet again and again, and our lives will become intertwined.”

you look at the blue infinity above you as if it could reveal anything. you wanted to know the secrets of it; how to live for forever with wonwoo, how to meet him earlier and spare no time loving one another. 

you want there to be a forever of this. of being by wonwoo’s side, of having him there beside you. you don’t know how many years you’ve spent without him in total; how many have been spent with him. whatever the answers are, you know it’s either too many or too few. 

there’s somewhere, you want to believe, where you and wonwoo can spend eternity side by side without separation; without life or death pulling you from each other’s side. there’s somewhere, you have to believe, where you can spend every happy moment with wonwoo. where you don’t have to spend this small infinity telling him about the little joys you’ve encountered in the years since he’s passed. 

you close your eyes. you can feel tears sting at the corners of them. the breeze muses your hair. all you want is to be with him, to have him at your side, to hold his hand every day and for the rest of the days. 

where your promises if i won’t leave you mean something, where they do more than just shift the air around you. 

you take a deep breath, filling your lungs with pure air. 

and then

[strwberryblast]

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐏 | Gojo x Fem!Reader

tw ; death and poorly written graphic scenes.

•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•••·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•••·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·••

Gojo cries out in frustration, his body slumped with exhaustion. For months, he’s been trying desperately to bring you back, but time and time again, he fails. He’s tried over 382 times, each in a desperate attempt to save you, his beloved wife, from the grasp of death. But no matter how many times he returns, Sukuna wins. He always wins. Every time he returns, you end up limp, lying in a puddle of your own blood, your eyes, once so full of life, now lifeless, reminding him of his failure.

The relentless cycle has begun to wear on him, fraying his once unshakeable resolve. Each time he rewinds, the pain of seeing you die anew is as fresh and unbearable as the first. The memories of your final moments haunt him with a visceral intensity—your eyes wide with fear and pain, the way your blood stained the ground, the chilling stillness of your once-vibrant form. He can’t escape the relentless torment of these images, and they compound with every failed attempt.

In this iteration of the loop, Gojo finds himself back in the dimly lit alley where it all happened. The aftermath of his battle with Sukuna lies scattered around him—debris, broken weapons, and the residue of chaotic energy. The alley is eerily silent, the air heavy with the lingering scent of smoke and blood. Gojo's breathing is ragged, his face streaked with tears and grime. He feels as though the weight of the entire universe has settled upon his shoulders, crushing him with its immense burden.

Desperation drives him to his knees beside your body, and he clutches his head in his hands, his sobs escaping in ragged gasps. He slams his fist against the cold, unyielding ground, the pain barely registering compared to the emotional anguish that consumes him. Each thud reverberates through his chest, mingling with the crushing weight of guilt and helplessness.

The memories of your last moments together replay in his mind with excruciating clarity. He remembers the warmth of your laughter, the sparkle in your eyes, and the way your presence made the world seem brighter. And now, all he’s left with are these fleeting, precious memories and the stark, painful reality of your absence.

“Why can’t I save you?” he cries out into the void, his voice cracking under the strain. “Why can’t I change this? I've tried everything—every strategy, every possible outcome. What am I missing? Why does it always end like this? What happened to me being the strongest? Why can't I be strong when it comes to saving you?”

The night sky above offers no answers. The stars, indifferent and distant, provide no solace. The silence of the alley is oppressive, a cruel reminder of his isolation. Gojo feels a profound sense of solitude, the weight of his endless failure pressing down on him like a leaden shroud. He's fought valiantly against Sukuna, explored every possible avenue, and yet the outcome remains the same.

Each attempt to save you has left him more weary and disheartened than the last. The cycle has become a cruel parody of hope, where each attempt to alter the past only reinforces his sense of futility. The weight of 382 failures bears down on him, each failure a knife twisting deeper into his heart.

But despite the overwhelming despair, a flicker of determination still burns within him. He knows that if he’s ever going to break free from this tragic loop, he must confront not only Sukuna but also the limitations of his own understanding and strength. He can’t accept that this is the end of his journey, that he’s doomed to watch you die forever.

With a heavy heart and a steely resolve, Gojo pushes himself to his feet. His body is bruised and battered, his spirit nearly broken, but his love for you drives him onward. He refuses to surrender to the despair that threatens to engulf him. He must find a new way, a hidden possibility he hasn’t yet uncovered.

As he steels himself for another attempt, Gojo casts one last glance at your lifeless form, his heart aching with every beat. He knows that each attempt brings him closer to the truth, but the cost of each failure is increasingly steep. He has no choice but to continue, driven by the hope that somewhere, somehow, there is a way to change the past and bring you back to life.

In the stillness of the night, Gojo’s resolve hardens. The battle is far from over, and he won’t give up until he’s uncovered the key to breaking this tragic cycle, no matter the personal cost. He embraces the pain and frustration, transforming it into a fierce determination to finally end the loop and save the woman he loves.

Attempt 383

Gojo's senses snap into focus as he emerges from the crushing void of the time loop. The familiar alleyway stretches out before him, marred by the shadows of countless failed attempts. You are there, alive and standing amidst the chaos, a sight that both invigorates and terrifies him. The briefest flicker of hope ignites within him, only to be immediately overshadowed by the crushing weight of past failures. His heart races with a mix of anticipation and dread.

He's been here 382 times before, each attempt marked by his desperate, relentless fight against Sukuna. Each time, he’s failed to save you. The memory of your lifeless body, so cold and still, haunts him. Every attempt ends with him unable to alter the tragic outcome. And now, as he sees you alive once again, he is driven by a fierce determination to make this attempt different.

With a mix of emotions within him, he has one thought on his mind: saving you.

Sukuna's menacing presence is not far behind. The malevolent aura fills the air as Gojo prepares for the inevitable confrontation. He's exhausted by every strategy, every maneuver, but this time he feels an unyielding resolve to make it work. The weight of every past failure drives him forward, fueling his determination to finally succeed.

The fight with Sukuna is fierce and chaotic. Gojo's moves are a blur of precision and power, his techniques executed with a desperate urgency. The alleyway becomes a battleground of light and darkness, a testament to Gojo's unrelenting will to protect you. He fights with a raw, unrestrained intensity, driven by the desperate need to save you from the fate that has befallen you so many times before.

Despite his best efforts, Sukuna’s power remains formidable. The battle stretches on, each clash of their abilities a testament to their respective strengths and weaknesses. Gojo's frustration mounts with every failed attempt to gain the upper hand, every moment where Sukuna seems to slip away from his grasp. The weight of past failures presses heavily on him, and the crushing realization that he may not succeed this time grips him with a cold, relentless hold.

As the fight reaches its peak, Gojo's focus is entirely on defeating Sukuna. His strategies are complex, his attacks relentless, but the familiar pang of inadequacy starts to set in. He can feel it slipping away—the success he’s so desperately fought for, the chance to save you. The battle is a chaotic dance of fury and despair, with Gojo’s hope wavering with every passing moment.

In a heart-wrenching moment of realization, Sukuna’s malevolent force overwhelms Gojo. The fight is brutal, and despite his best efforts, Gojo's strength begins to falter. He's driven to the brink of exhaustion, each blow from Sukuna a reminder of the futility of his struggle. The weight of his past failures and the fear of the inevitable final moment hang heavily over him.

Then it happens. A final, crushing blow from Sukuna sends Gojo reeling. The world around him blurs as he staggers, his body battered and weak. He turns desperately toward you, his heart shattering at the sight of your pained, bloody figure. The realization hits him with a devastating finality—he has failed again.

“No!” Gojo's cry is a raw, anguished scream that echoes through the alleyway. His voice cracks with the weight of his despair as he collapses to his knees, the once vivid hope now dimmed by the crushing reality of his repeated failures. He looks at you, his vision blurring with tears, and sees the inevitable outcome he’s tried so hard to prevent.

“Again! Again! I need to try again!” he cries, hitting his forehead against the concrete floor, tears pouring from his eyes and staining the alleyway. As he sits up, an overwhelming feeling of defeat swirls through him. “I need to try again!” he screams, sending himself back once more.

Attempt 384

In the alleyway once more, Gojo’s heart sinks as he sees you lying lifeless, a haunting scene he’s come to dread. Blood pools around you, staining your clothes and face with a terrified expression frozen in time. “Fuck! Again!” he cries out in frustration, tearing at the seams of reality as he restarts the cycle for yet another attempt.

Attempt 456

Gojo's hands tremble as he surveys the scene yet again. You lie on the ground, a haunting reminder of his endless struggle. Every attempt to change the outcome has ended in the same tragic result. “Why am I unable to fix this? Why can’t I save you?” he mutters, a deep sense of despair seeping into his voice. The crushing weight of failure drags him down as he restarts the cycle once more.

Attempt 689

Another attempt falls apart as Gojo watches helplessly. Your body is once again lifeless, blood staining the grimy alley. The look of terror on your face is etched into his memory, a constant reminder of his failures. He slams his fist against the wall, the frustration boiling over. “This can’t be happening again!” he shouts, his voice breaking as he plunges back into the cycle.

Attempt 812

He clenches his fist angrily as you fall limp once more, his eyes hollow, his body aching with exhaustion. “Why? Why? Why!” he screams, tears spilling out over his face and onto his cheeks. His body collapses onto the floor as he cries. “I need to try again. I can't give up on you,” he says to your limp body, blood seeping into his own clothing, as he restarts the cycle once again.

Attempt 902

Another desperate attempt to save you. He’s lost count of how long it’s been, but it doesn’t matter to him; you’re the only thing that matters to him. He needs to save you. He needs to. But it ends the same. You are once again sprawled in a pool of blood, the terror in your eyes as vivid as ever. Gojo's breath comes in ragged gasps as he looks at the destruction he cannot prevent. His voice cracks under the strain. “It’s always the same…” With a shuddering exhale, he restarts, each cycle a new level of anguish.

Attempt 1002

Gojo stands amidst the ruins of his thousandth attempt, staring at your bloodied, lifeless body. The hopelessness of his endless failures weighs heavily upon him. “I've done everything,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a broken whisper. Tears stream down his face as he forces himself to begin once more, the crushing reality of his despair almost too much to bear. This tiring cycle crushed his hopes, causing him to doubt more and more if anything will ever change.

Attempt 1003: The Final Attempt

Gojo steps into the alleyway for what feels like the millionth time. Each attempt has bled into the next, the cycle of failure, a relentless loop from which he cannot escape. This time, he feels a profound weariness settle deep within his bones. The sight of you, lifeless and bloodied, has become an unbearable ritual. The image has now tainted his memory of you, your once happy image becoming lost in the newfound, bloodied image of you.

The familiar scene unfolds before him. You’re lying in a pool of blood, your once vibrant eyes now dimmed with terror. The same pang of anguish strikes him as he kneels beside you. Every detail is the same: your clothes, stained and torn; your face, etched with the final, painful expression. His hands tremble as he reaches out, desperate to feel any sign of life.

“No…” he chokes out, his voice breaking. He desperately checks your pulse, but the lifelessness is a cruel reminder that nothing has changed. His heart pounds with a mix of fury and sorrow, the crushing weight of his repeated failures bearing down on him.

His body screams at him out of exhaustion, wanting nothing more than to just collapse. The relentless effort of fighting, failing, and trying again has worn him thin. His legs feel like lead, his arms heavy and unresponsive, each movement a painful reminder of his limits. The weight of his exhaustion is matched only by the weight of his despair, dragging him further into a pit of helplessness.

He tries to stand, but his legs betray him, collapsing beneath him. He doesn’t fight it though; he can’t save you, he’ll never be able to save you.

Sukuna’s laugh echoes through the alleyway. “Satoru Gojo? Surrendering? Do my eyes deceive me?” he taunts as he closes the space between them, Gojo too exhausted to even respond, his eyes refusing to leave you.

He can barely muster the strength to lift his head, his eyes meeting Sukuna’s with a final, hollow resolve. He looks back down at you, his lips moving slowly, struggling to form the words that have been on his mind through every failed attempt, every heartbreaking loop.

“I love you, [name],” he mutters, his voice cracking with a weak tone. Gojo's eyes flutter, the last vestiges of his strength waning as he braces himself for the end. The energy from Sukuna’s attack builds to an unbearable intensity, casting a stark, harsh light over the alleyway. Time seems to slow, each second stretching into an eternity as Gojo takes one last look at the scene of his failures and the memory of your smiling face.

Gojo opens his eyes, a serene warmth enveloping him as he lies in a field of vibrant flowers, the sun casting a gentle glow over his face. A smile tugs at his lips.

“So, this is the afterlife?” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. He frowns, remembering his last moments.

“No, it’s not,” you reply, your presence beside him snapping him out of his thoughts. Your fingers brush through his hair tenderly. Gojo's eyes widen in disbelief as tears begin to stream down his face. He sits up, staring at you, his voice trembling. “[N-name]?” he asks, as though you might vanish at any moment.

You nod, your smile tender. “You did good. Thank you for trying to save me.” Your words are soft and soothing, and Gojo’s tears flow more freely. You close the distance between you, wrapping him in a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry,” he croaks, a frown on his face, “I-I couldn’t save you, I failed.” His voice is muffled as he buries his head in your shoulder.

“No, you did good. Don’t forget that,” you say, holding his head against you. “You kept fighting just to save me, and that’s more than enough.” You say soothingly. He stays silent, his mind full of doubt, a crushing feeling of guilt overwhelming his sense of self.

“Do you want to go to the afterlife? I can take you,” you offer gently, your voice filled with warmth, noticing his distress.

Gojo buries his face in the crook of your neck, his voice muffled and trembling. “As long as you don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice cracking.

•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•••·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•••·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·••

please read request rules before requesting ! :)

back to masterlist

this is on my a03 and wattpad too

[wutheringcaterpillar]

"if i say i miss you, i know that you won't.”

Summary: Cillian looks back at all the mistakes he made in his marriage. Writing to a wife that never came home after he realized too late he was the reason she ran away. Will one last letter change everything?

Warnings: Resentment, mentions of divorce, marriage problems, yearning

Tapping his cracked finger tips against the cold wooden table, fit snuggly to the side of the wall of the kitchen just beside the window. Cillian warmed his hands, cusping them around the simmering cup of honey tea while he scanned the same script for the ninth time. The words and acts blurring together in a silhouette of scattered thoughts.

He tried to focus to the best of his ability but the autumn sun peered in through the sheer blinds, pulling his depressed, tired eyes away from the scripture. It was at that point in the season the leaves started to fall in their poetic state, scattering across the front lawn and dwindling over the cracked sidewalks.

"Hm.." He hummed to himself whimsically as he watched a young couple walking happily hand in hand together down the street, involuntarily caressing the golden band that fit snug to his finger for the past fifteen years.

It felt like just yesterday his wife was wrapped in his arms, stealing the warmth of his body, her hair flowing freely over his shoulder while their legs were intertwined between the cotton sheets. Her head tucked between his head and collarbone while her plush, delicate lips pressed against the veins of his neck.

She had the giggle that would make any sorrowful man smile gleefully, so infectious, so pure. He missed it immensely.

It had been nearly a year since he saw the woman that took his last name. Marriages were a funny thing, the divorce statistic rising increasingly fast with each passing day. He never dreamed that he would become a part of such a number, not ever.

Her scarves still lay on the hooks behind the door, her remnants of clothes and shoes still decorating the once shared flat, only reminding Cillian that he was living with a ghost of a person who was still living, just not with him anymore.

The media pressed on the topic repeatedly in nearly every interview he did, questioning what was really going in his marriage. Being the private, family man he was, he dismissed these questions immediately, only wanting to stick to questions regarding the projects he was currently working on.

They slowly began to fade away, much like his wife as time passed. Speculations ever so often here and there when he was spotted out walking Scout by himself, never having taken the wedding ring off.

Papers were never signed, but in a way the void in the house crept into his gut, often causing him to just sit in the car, staring at the fortress that was supposed to be his safe haven. The house no longer feeling like home as much as it was a reminder of how his lifestyle slowly pushed her away.

No one talked about how celebrities still had their battles and money was just but an object. Cillian would have thrown it all away for her if he knew it would end with his wife disappearing and never coming home, leaving him a simple letter of her decision to leave.

Gulping, he wiped at his dreary eyes as tears were bearing down against the waterline of his baby blue eyes, desperately seeking an escape from the bottled up emotions Cillian avoided for so needlessly long.

She was a writer, a damn great one in his eyes but their schedules never aligned and the first book signing she had he couldn't push back a date for an interview. He hadn't asked her how it went, merely promising he'd make it up, yet he never found the time to do so.

Their love life diminished at a rapid pace, the date nights not so frequent, while every conversation lead to arguments, inevitably leading to mental exhaustion and her needing space away, time to think.

Their careers didn't align, and neither were willing to put their lives on hold for one another. She had missed out on so many oppurtunities to publish anymore, even passing on a job to be a writer for the times. She hoped this would fix the problems in their relationship, not realizing until far too late how many phases of her aspirations she passed on because of him. She refused any longer to sit around and wait for Cillian to find the time for their marriage, for her. He honored and respected her for that but the days soon turned into weeks, leading to months, leading to Cillian living how he was now.

The picture frames stared back at him every day, making him feel like a fool for not making time for her, for never fighting harder for their marriage and disregarding her hopes and dreams. The flashbacks of all the intimate moments warmed his heart, the arguments and feuds eating at his bones like acid did to a surface.

Stumbling into his office, he opened the left hand drawer, pulling out a pen and paper, sitting down like he did every week before he began to write, hands trembling each time as he held the pen.

" My love,

I write this with letter to you with good graces in hopes of you coming home.

I understand I've poisoned our love, I was so careless with your kindness, your strength, and your selfless love.

To you I'm just a man, but to me you're all I am. I once said I could never imagine my life without you in it and that holds true to this day. I realize our marriage wasn't perfect, no marriage is. However, I refuse for us to be some statistic we always said we would beat.

I find myself losing who I am every day you are away. I'm still trying to convince myself you are coming home, though I wouldn't blame you if you didn't, if you resented me even after how long it's been. Still can hear the creaks of us dancing on the patio, can still see your subtle eyes gleaming in the orange of the sunlight.

I understand the pain and hurt I've done to not only us but to you. I don't know if you read these letters but I won't be a bother any longer..

I just need to say, I still wear this ring every day and our love will never come off of this finger. Not a day goes by where I don't think of you and not a day will go by where I am not madly still in love with you. I need you, I need us.

I just wish for a chance to prove to you, my love, that I can be, I will be a better husband to you than what I was in the past.

Regardless I wish all the best to you.

Kindest Regards,

Cillian"

Licking the slit of the envelope, Cillian debated on whether or not this would work, but he refused to give up hope that one day she would return.

Clasping the mailbox shut, he noticed the paps walking toward him and scuttled back inside.

The weeks passed agonizingly slow after he mailed the letter.

The fifth night of the third week Cillian was sat in the recliner, lamp glowing over the table at the same script making notes of what could be changed or what expressions and mannerisms he should expose in the scene when a glare of light flashed through the window.

He hadn't thought much of it and tried to ignore that skip of his heart and the empty hope that it could be his wife until the sound of a car door closing echoed outside the house.

Like a young boy in love, nervous for his first date he hurriedly ran to the window in a rush of anxious optimism, pulling the curtain open hastily. All hope diminishing from his body, heart breaking when he noticed it was just the new neighbor's car pulling into their driveway.

Something told him she was never coming home.

The following night his assistant was doing the final fit for his red carpet premiere for "Small Things Like These", brushing at Cillian's hair until she gave him the thumbs up that he was ready to go.

Before exiting the room she tugged at his arm gently, eyes beading with sincerity and utter care and concern when she asked,

"She still hasn't come home has she?" What was he supposed to do, lie? Clearly nothing has changed in his life, nor did he even mention you anymore. Still trying to navigate through life without you by his side. With a simple sigh, he scratched at his forehead, unable to find the words, nor want to have to admit aloud that he didn't know where his wife was or if she'd ever be coming back.

With a simple look of hopeless confusion, Cillian rested his eyes sighing and changing the subject respectfully, mentioning how she should grab one of his jackets since the weather was supposed to decline into a chilly wind later on in the night. Holding the door open for her to follow him out to the car, she dropped the subject, merely nodding at his comment and mumbling a sincere thank you.

He smiled for the cameras upon arriving, playing the role of a successful actor and not allowing the prying voices to get a reaction out of him when they made comments about her, his one love.

She never wrote back. He still held onto her belongings unable to bare with separating from them. Never daring to take the ring off of his finger even if she didn't wear hers anymore.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 37

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: wowee, it's snowing here a lot.

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

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Loki… Mr. Laufeyson doesn’t linger. As you lay in a sheen of foggy afterglow, he dresses and mutters to himself. You want to ask him to stay. To tell him it’s okay but you’re scared he might say no. So you prop yourself up on your elbows and watch him button his shirt.

“We both require a good night’s rest to contend with my family,” he says.

You nod and sit up, sliding your legs beneath the blankets. He looks up as you do and a line creases in his forehead. His worry makes you worry. You’re starting to get the feeling that something bad is looming.

“In the morning,” he avows before he turns away. “You will not emerge until I fetch you.”

“Yes, Loki,” you answer.

He stops at the doors and lowers his head, “here, behind these walls, I am Loki, beyond, Mr. Laufeyson. Understand, pet?”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you murmur.

He pulls open the door and steps out swiftly. The mechanism clicks into place and you fall back onto the pillows. You deflate beneath the downy duvet and close your eyes. He confuses you. One moment, he’s all over you, all-consuming and insatiable, the next he’s distant and icy to the touch. 

You hug the top of the blanket and cling to his lingering warmth. Your thighs tingle and your core plucks as you clench, thinking of how his fingers delved deep into you. Why couldn’t he stay? You could have done more. You think you’re ready to.

It’s never what you want. You will await his signal and as always, you will take his lead. That is better. His words ring in your head from that fateful day, ‘obey and serve my every need and you will have all you ever longed for.’

What do you long for? That question follows you into your subconscious. You sink into the void, the knot of anxiety bound around your chest. Visions of rich greenery and fluttering petals fill your head, birds winging and critters chirping all around. The magical garden is a shrine of rosy sunlight.

Your mind builds a paradise and all at once, it falls around you. Your eyes roll open as you float back to the surface. Your lashes stick together as you blink and groan. It’s early, too early. Dawn paints a violet hue across the room. You lift your head and search around. Something must have woken you but there’s nothing but shadows.

You drop your head back down and groan. You turn onto your side and curl up, tucking a hand under the pillow. You squeeze your eyes shut, reaching for the last dregs of drowsiness. Your head swirls as you feel yourself descending again. 

You’re brought back again. This time, you catch the noise. Your ears prick and you lift yourself to look over at the door, a gentle scuffing on the other side.

What’s happening? 

You squint, your vision dulled in the lowlight. You sit up and push back the blankets as you sidle to the end of the bed. You see a black spot beneath the doors, darker than the rest of the slatted shadow. It moves. There’s someone out there.

The bed creaks as you bend your legs over the edge. Who could it be? Mr. Laufeyson?

A tap on the wood makes you flinch. The handle wiggles but doesn’t press down. Your heart thumps in your chest. A whisper comes through, “pet…”

Your spine goes rigid. Pet? It must be Mr. Laufeyson, but why doesn’t he just let himself in? You don’t recall locking the door before you went to sleep. You get up and creep forward.

“Pet, let me in,” the whisper is sandy and low. Is it really him? Who else would it be?

You unzip your bag in the dark and pick out a nightgown from the bottom, jostling the rest of the clothes. You slip it over your head and rub your eyes. You shiver as the air is cooled in the darkness.

You near the door and grab the handle so it stills. There’s tension as you twist it. It releases and unlatches easily. The lock is not in place. You pull it open a crack and squeak at the large, looming silhouette on the other side.

“Ah, pet, you’re awake,” Thor rasps.

“What–” you gulp, “what are you doing?”

“You didn’t come say hello,” he drawls, “so, hello, pet.”

You blink at him and push on the door. He slaps his hand against it, the wood shaking between you. You know he’s much strong, you can’t close him out.

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing, I– I’m trying to sleep,” you eke out. If Laufeyson knew…

“You are funny, pet,” he chuckles.

“Please, go, I’ll see you in the morning–”

“But I am here now,” he jerks the door, just a little, just a statement: he can open it if he wants.

“Why?” 

“Why?” He huffs, “you haven’t very good manners, pet. My brother has trained you poorly–”

“Please leave me alone,” you beg, jittering. Just the mention of his brother has your heart in your throat. He said to avoid Thor but what do you do when he seeks you out.

‘To the right of your door…’ you pluck the words from your memory and shudder.

“I just want to talk,” he edges the door in another inch and you stumble back.

You spin and run to the wall, pounding on it with your fists. You must seem crazy but you don’t care. You hit it over and over, “Mr. Laufeyson! Mr. Laufeyson!”

You’re wrench back as a large hand frames the back of your neck. Thor turns you and claps his other hand over your mouth, hushing you. You whimper as you shrink in his shadow.

“What are you doing? I’ve only come to talk–”

You wriggle and put both your hands around his wrist. It’s so thick, neither hand can fit all the way around. You kick out as he keeps you pinned to the wall.

“Haven’t I been nice to you?” He growls, “so why do you treat me as a villain, little maid…” he leans in, “perhaps because your thoughts have corrupted me, hm? Naughty little maid.”

His voice lightens playfully as he tilts your head up. You squirm as your hand slides down his forearm. Your other swings out to hit his chest.

“What do you think I’d do? If I am so evil, what could I do?” He taunts as he pulls you from the wall. He drags you towards the bed, “what have you done, eh?” He says as he edges towards the bed, “you’ve already made a mess.”

He throws you back onto the rumpled duvet and you squeak. You push yourself up on your elbows and bring your heels onto the mattress. You push yourself back as he looms over you.

“Aren’t you supposed to take care of messes, little maid?” He bends and puts his hands on the bed, snarling through his teeth. He catches your ankle and pulls your leg straight, tugging you down to your back as you yipe. “Let’s make a mess–”

He grunts and suddenly staggers, releasing you as a dark blur crashes into him. He hits the night table and sends the lamp to the floor. He deflects Mr. Laufeyson as he charges again and they tangle each other up in their arms.

“You beast,” Laufeyson hisses, “get out!”

“Ah, brother, lovely to see you here,” Thor chuckles, “we were only just talking about you–”

“Shut up!” Laufeyson snaps, hooking his leg around his brothers. 

“Don’t be so… dramatic,” Thor heaves as they struggle, pulling back and forth as each tries to overturn the other, “I was only getting to know her–”

“Get out!” Laufeyson repeats, “or I will truly be dramatic. Let mother see the cretin you truly are–”

“Speak for yourself–”

“Get!” You throw out your foot and kick Thor’s shoulder, immediately regretting it as he barely reacts. You scurry back and hug your legs.

“Aye, little maid,” Thor sounds amused, “isn’t that cute?”

“Brother, I tell you one last time–”

Thor cracks his elbow into Laufeyson’s ribs. The slimmer man lets go with a wheeze but doesn’t falter long as he slides between the burly blond and the bed. He coughs out another warning, “go.”

“I’m going,” Thor says lightly, “you always were so serious, brother.”

He waves off Laufeyson and steps away, sending you a look through the rising dim. You cower and watch him stalk away. Mr. Laufeyson follows and swiftly shuts him out, turning the lock with a loud click.

You push yourself to the edge of the bed and lower yourself to the floor. You pick up the lamp and straighten the table. You flip the switch and the light radiates around you. You turn to Mr. Laufeyson as he holds his ribs and scowls, slumping back towards you.

“Are you alright?” You ask as you rush towards him, “Mr. Laufeyson…” you reach to touch him but think better of it, retracting your hands to fold your arms over your chest, “I… Thank you.”

He sniffs and sits on the side of the bed. He pushes back his dark hair and winces. You hover before him nervously, shaking like a hummingbird.

“You did well… calling for me,” he says quietly, “that was very good, pet.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Laufeyson, I thought it was you knocking. I didn’t mean to–”

“I said, you did well,” he interjects as he outstretches his arms, beckoning you closer. He touches your upper arms and draws you straight, “are you alright?”

You quiver and nod, “I think…”

“Good, good,” He pulls you closer and leans forward to kiss your forehead, “I will sleep here then. Just until the morning comes.”

✨

Mr. Laufeyson leaves as you dress for the day. He bids you to lock the door behind him. He’s been silent but not in his usual way. Pensive but not dour. You put on a poppy red blouse with a brown skirt. 

You ready out of habit, your mind still trapped in the night's events. First, Laufeyson and the wonderful way he made you feel. Then Thor and the horror he brought into your room. It almost feels like a bad dream.

You go to the door but don’t emerge. What if Thor is waiting? You shudder as you think of what he would’ve done if you hadn’t called for Mr. Laufeyson. If you hadn’t been heard.

The door shakes as a tap rattles you from your trance, “darling,” Frigga calls through, “are you awake?”

You inhale deeply, throat tight, and unlock the door. You pull it open and force a smile, “yes, I was just… about to come out.”

“Wonderful,” she trills, “we are having tea in the garden.”

“Oh?”

“Come,” she takes your hand, “after tea,” she drags you out as you pull the door closed with your other hand, “we will go into town and get a few things for the celebration. Flowers, as I said. And perhaps a new outfit.”

“Okay,” you agree meekly.

“Did you sleep well?” She asks as you get to the stairs, “you are quiet.”

“Fine,” you answer.

“Yes, I do find it difficult to sleep in new places,” she hums, “well, we only want you to feel at home so do let me know if I can do anything.”

You press your lips together and nod. Could you ask her to make Thor leave you alone? Or to make Mr. Laufeyson a little less stormy? No, but you suppose you could ask for some chamomile before bed.

She takes you through the grand foyer and into the next room, winding around to the elaborate dining room and the back entryway that opens onto an equally awe-inspiring veranda. The railings are wrapped in ivy and flowers, marble pots on plinths hold bunches of gardenia and the big square table at the center has four chairs on either side. Much too big for the meagre party at it.

As you approach, you see Mr. Laufeyson’s shoulders, straight and stiff as he grips the armrests. He glares across at Thor who smiles dopily at the sky. As you get closer, his eyes find you and you wilt down. Frigga draws you onward as Odin stands from the table to offer you the chair beside him.

“There she is,” he says, “come, sit.”

You obey, claiming the seat to his right as Frigga skirts around to take his right. Laufeyson sits along the side just to your own right and leans forward as you wiggle in the chair. He gives you a look and you bow your head slightly.

“What do you like? Milk? Sugar? Honey?” Odin offers as he pours a cup and places it on a saucer before you.

“Just milk,” you answer.

Thor puts his arm on the table as you feel him watching you. Laufeyson clears his throat but his brother doesn’t acknowledge him. You look down at the tea as it clouds with dairy.

“Isn’t this nice?” Thor booms, “I apologise, I was errant yesterday and hadn’t a moment to welcome you.”

You flinch and Laufeyson squeezes the armrest tighter, bristling visibly.

“Now,” Odin sits back, “boys, this is a special week for your mother. She’s working hard, you will not ruin this.”

“Wouldn’t dare think of it,” Thor puffs, “I was only being polite and welcoming the little maid.”

Little maid… the words make you recoil.

“Little maid?” Odin echoes, “don’t be so demeaning. She has a name or perhaps she should call you the big oaf.”

Thor tilts his head and snorts, peering between you and his father. “Forgive me, I thought that’s what she was.”

“Regardless, she is a person and a guest. You will remember your manners,” Odin reproaches.

“Yes, father,” Thor utters dryly and receives a sigh in return.

“Oh, let’s not spoil such a lovely day,” Frigga chimes, “isn’t it so nice to be all together ag–”

“Ugh, must the sun shine so goddamn bright,” the silty voice undergirds Frigga’s chirp. You look over as Hela struts in, a large pair of geometric sunglasses over her eyes, “remind me next time not to finish the bottle.”

“Hel,” Odin greets curtly as Frigga blinks in surprise.

“When did you arrive?” Frigga asks, “Hilde didn’t say.”

“I slept in my car,” Hela answers and struts to the table, sitting next to Laufeyson, “well, I woke up there, at least.”

“Oh my,” Frigga mutters.

“I got here early though,” Hela preens, “when’s that ever happened, mother? And all for Walpurgisnacht, though I guess Midsommar is some time off.”

“Yes, very timely,” Frigga agrees softly, “well, you can come along with us to town. You’ve always had a keen eye.”

“Oh, I may,” Hela smirks, “who is us?”

Frigga looks at you and you give a tiny wave. Hela grins and takes off her sunglasses, winking at you, “I almost didn’t notice the little mouse. Well, I think I shall join you.” She squints and shades her face before putting the glasses back in place, “tell me we have some breakfast wine.”

“Have some tea,” Odin insists, “and a bit of decency.”

[tojisun]

hyde hurts me so bad 😭😭😭

idk if this sounds weird but aww thank u lol!! idk i just like the angst and i also like writing about them too because we know the start and the ending of hwwl, and filling up the in-between is so fun! everything is a canon event in the au if i worked hard enough. that said—

there was once a time when ghost came to you.

even remembering it now makes your heart throb like it is bruised; like it is welting the way your skin blotches and turns all tender, aching, and ever so vulnerable to more pain. the memory is old, almost like it never happened, and you wonder if maybe you truly had just dreamt of it all.

if you had been so desperate for a chance and for love that you've conjured him up in your dreams; but he was just as angry then, and immensely cold to you, and you know that it was not a jump in your memory. it had happened.

why it did, you do not know, but it had.

the reality was that ghost came to you, teeth chattering and bones aching underneath the stretch of his scarred skin, and asked for a companion. the reality was that the question didn't really spill from his lips, instead what filled you up was the smell of hard liquor and the vitriol in his murmurs.

it's an aphrodisiac, he'd said. some mishap at what should have been a low-level mission of assist and delivery occurred, leaving no one unscathed. ghost had been the commanding officer; the rest of his squad were occupied by other smaller missions; you understand what that meant—johnny was not there to help.

why me? you almost asked but you took him to your quarters instead because you know a mission when you see one. and this was not something new. it needn’t be more—it was nothing more. you knew that, so you wondered why you still trembled while you peeled your shirt off your body.

he hadn't watched you while you shucked your clothes off, and you'd tried your best to look away too when it was his turn but ghost was—is—beautiful. scars and anger and everything. he was a marvel to see, his tan skin flushed a pretty pink that made you hungry, saliva gathering under your tongue because you just wanted to take a bite. a taste of ghost as he was, all yours even if it was just for a moment.

and for a cruel second, you wished that johnny wouldn't return.

you pushed the thought away just as quickly, your eyes ducking down with a quiet hiccup. shame filled you up, coiling within the webbing of your veins because how dare you think of that? how dare you—

(he was the one good thing in this fucked up relationship; the only one who ever cared. johnny was a good friend before all of these—he had loved you honestly despite the ragged yawning of his darkness; his memories haunt him still, but even then, he had taken you in with the warmest of smiles so why would you—how could you?)

the spiral of your thoughts were halted when ghost pulled you to your bed with his face rubbed off any expression. you tried studying him; tried finding the reason behind this, but he met your questioning gaze with a darkened look. heavy and weighted. he was walling himself again; pushing you away.

your skin pressed against his own, but you had never felt farther from him.

oh, you thought as he wedged himself between your thighs. this isn’t—this has no meaning to him.

your moans tumbled out with your tears, clumping your lashes together until all you were was a shaking mess on the bed, breaths hitching with every ripple of his muscles. ghost had not asked; had not wiped them away. he wasn’t—

he wasn’t even looking at you; his eyes were screwed shut, and his teeth dug into his lips to muffle the quiet grunts rumbling from the base of his throat. it was humiliating to see him blatantly use you this way and you wondered if he was thinking of johnny as he drove his cock in you; if he was reminiscing their moments, hushed and shared and intimate and void of you.

the spray of his cum made you mewl, and ghost paused to catch his breath. he didn’t pull out, his cock still hard even with his orgasm, and you pressed the back of your palms to stop the tears because you knew then that it would be a long and loveless night.

[theroyalhouseofwindenburg]

A Realm Divided

In the months following Margaery’s passing, the winds of change swept through the realm. A ship from Tartosa arrived, sent to retrieve Empress Mary and Princess Augusta and bring them back to their homeland. As the day of departure drew near, the quay of Windenburg Harbor became a hub of activity, with crowds of people gathering to bid farewell. Servants bustled about, preparing the cargo for the voyage, while the air was thick with a mix of melancholy and anticipation.

Augusta, poised on the brink of departure, offered a soft smile, her eyes reflecting a hint of nostalgia. “Windenburg will always be a part of me. But my path leads elsewhere now,” she said, her voice laced with both resolve and a touch of sadness.

King Edward, his gaze burdened with concern, responded, “I worry about what lies ahead. This kingdom, this land, is ever on the brink of something unexpected.”

Augusta met his eyes, her tone gentle but firm. “You’ve always been cautious, Edward. It’s why you’re a good king. But remember, you can’t control everything. Sometimes, you have to let the tide carry you where it will.”

Edward nodded thoughtfully, the weight of her words sinking in. “I know. It’s just that with you gone, it feels like one more anchor is being lifted. Mary… she will need you in Tartosa. But I’ll miss having you near.”

Augusta reached out, her voice filled with affection. “And I will miss you, brother. But you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Windenburg is in good hands.”

As the final words hung in the air, King Edward and Augusta embraced, the weight of their shared past and uncertain futures pressing close. Edward felt a pang of longing, but he was comforted by the warmth of his sister’s presence.

“We’ll meet again one day, won’t we?” Edward whispered, his voice tinged with both hope and reluctance.

Augusta smiled against his shoulder, holding him just a bit tighter. “Of course we will,” she replied softly, her words a quiet promise. “Nothing will keep us apart for long.”

In that moment, the world outside their embrace faded away, leaving only the solace they found in each other’s presence. As Augusta held her brother close, her smile lingered, a small yet unwavering beacon of the bond they would always share, no matter the distance.

Edward, Cordelia, and Prince Alvin stood on the beach, watching as the ship bearing Augusta and Mary slipped further from the shore. The vessel’s departure was more than just a farewell; it was a stark reminder of Edward’s pressing need to marry. With Augusta and Mary departing for Tartosa and Margaery now resting under Westsimster Abbey, his household had shrunk dramatically. The emptiness of the beach mirrored the hollow space left in his life, and Edward's thoughts turned grimly to the future. The necessity of finding a new companion to fill the void left by those he had lost weighed heavily on his mind.

As the years moved forward, Windenburg flourished under King Edward’s reign. The kingdom enjoyed a rare period of peace and prosperity, bolstered by strong alliances with Tartosa and Bagley. Edward’s reign saw a golden age of construction and growth. The city's skyline, once sparse, now boasted a profusion of buildings, homes, and churches, thanks to the kingdom’s immense wealth. Taxes were lowered, bringing contentment to the populace, who reveled in the stability and progress of their land.

The alliance with Bagley was fortified by mutual interests, and when Bagley Castle burned down in 1353, Edward generously supported the construction of Bagley Hall. The new royal residence was a marvel of architecture, surpassing its predecessor in grandeur and functionality. Within its walls, King Edward and King Henry of Bagley sealed their alliance with a treaty, their handshake marking the pact with both ceremony and finality.

Yet, as prosperity reigned throughout most of Windenburg, shadows loomed over Britechester Castle. In the spring of 1356, the death of Benedict, Duke of Britechester, cast a pall over the court. Princess Jane, now widowed for the second time, mourned her loss while preparing to face a new chapter. As the Chaplain’s prayers echoed through the halls, Benedict and Jane’s eldest son Richard, at just sixteen, grappled with the daunting responsibilities of his new title. The weight of leadership fell heavily on his young shoulders.

In the wake of Benedict’s death, Princess Jane and her youngest son, Robert, were conveyed to Windenburg Castle. Jane, enveloped in mourning black, felt as if the hand of fate was unrelenting in its cruelty. Her return to court was marked by a deep sense of foreboding Not long after, the court welcomed the Arnold family, returning after years of controversy surrounding Lady Dorthea’s death. Her younger brother, Philip, was bestowed the title of Count of Westfield in a grand public ceremony. Amid the festivities, Edward’s gaze was drawn to Adelaide, Philip’s eighteen year old granddaughter. Her striking beauty and spirited demeanor captivated him instantly.

As summer unfolded, Edward and Adelaide’s connection deepened. Their days were spent exploring the lush gardens of Windenburg Castle and riding horseback along moonlit shores. Their bond grew as they discovered shared passions and a profound emotional connection. For Edward, Adelaide became a beacon of joy and light, a match to his own soul in a world that had seen its share of darkness.

However, tranquility was soon shattered by turmoil in Bagley. In 1358, Lord Roderic Henford, once a trusted advisor to King Henry, ignited a rebellion against his sovereign. The insurrection, swift and brutal, caught Henry’s forces off guard, plunging the realm into chaos. Henford’s army executed surprise attacks on key positions, leaving widespread devastation in their wake.

Bagley's countryside became a relentless battleground, with Henford’s forces encircling the land and laying siege with ferocious determination. The once thriving kingdom was thrown into a state of upheaval, as Henford’s rebellion not only threatened the stability of Bagley but also jeopardized the broader alliances that had ensured peace for Windenburg. The conflict raged on, with heavy casualties on both sides, and the outcome teetered precariously.

At Windenburg Castle, King Edward convened an urgent council to address the crisis. King Henry sat beside him, visibly at a loss and burdened by the weight of his faltering kingdom. Edward, his brow furrowed with concern, offered his counsel, "You must fortify your defenses and seek out potential allies who can shift the balance of power. Strength and unity are your greatest weapons now."

Despite his attempts to provide guidance and support, Edward's words seemed to barely touch the depth of Henry's despair. The rebellion underscored how quickly peace could unravel, casting a long shadow over their hard-won stability. As the council session continued, Henry's silence became a palpable presence in the room, his eyes distant and lost in the weight of the crisis.

As the discussion wound down, Edward glanced at Henry, hoping for some sign of resolution or hope. Instead, he was met with the sight of him staring blankly at the council table, his grief so profound that it seemed to drown out any possibility of immediate action. The weight of their shared predicament pressed heavily on both of them.

[lokisgoodgirl]

Loki Headcanon Question of the Day for you: what is his #1 go-to, no-denying-it-will-always-make-his-pants-disappear-everytime-it's-brought-up kink? It can be as broad or specific as you'd think, but show your math (aka why?).

Bonus points if you answer for every version of Loki in the MCU.

I mean, I know MY theory...

But I want to hear yours!

Right, friend - bet when you asked this weeks ago you didn't think this would come from it. LCM and I have...I'm not exaggerating been talking about this for like a day and a half. Without further ado - Loki's evolving, revolving door of sexual perversions and kinks throughout the MCU.

Thor 1 – King Kink - by @lokischambermaid

Loki is driven absolutely wild by one kink – when you bow to him and call him “Your Royal Highness” and, specifically… King. You treat him with the respect and reverence of a King while being in complete servitude to him – consensually lowering yourself and elevating him. The types of phrases that drive him absolutely feral with desire: • “Would my King wish for his feet to be cleaned?” • “Is there anything I can do for Your Majesty, undeserving though I am?” • “My King looks especially regal this evening. I am surely unworthy to be in the presence of the Sovereign.” Reasoning: Loki is the second in line to the throne and the thought of holding immense power arouses him like nothing else. Growing up in his brother’s shadow, he wants nothing more than to be admired, desired, revered and feared. (note: This is prior to him discovering his true lineage

Avengers Loki - Symphorophiliais and Piquerism by @lokisgoodgirl

Fresh from the void, Loki is all kinds of fucked-up. His old faithful regal praise kink is diminished, replaced by something far darker. He finds a strength and thrill from creating disasters and the sexual gratification from it; a consequence both of Thanos' influence and his mental state. Beneath the leather and gold, his cock is thick at the smell of destruction and the choking smoke of war that he brings in his wake. There is a concerning emergence of piquerism - penetrating the skin of others with sharp objects in a form of sexually sadistic control. When he turns his followers with the mind stone, it’s all he can do not to push that little bit further. And yes, he’s hard as fuck while he does it. Most likely to say:

“How quaint. Only a thin line of delicate flesh to yield beneath the press of my blade. How far, I wonder, can I bend you...before you break?"

“This I swear; that I will fuck you as the world burns beneath our feet. As the sky cracks open and rains fire and death to your mewling cries. Your world is mine. You are mine. And I will destroy you both.”

Thor The Dark World – Public Humiliation - by @lokischambermaid

Loki has an interesting relationship with his crimes on Midgard – he’s equally smug and ashamed. Smug because he wielded enough power to deeply concern and frighten the entire realm from civilians to governments, causing Midgard to mobilise a unit of six exceptional beings to take him down. And he’s also ashamed on a deep, visceral level for the person he has become and the hatred he feels for himself and his actions, and of course his true lineage. Because of this, Loki gets off on receiving public humiliation for his misdeeds. This kink doesn’t necessary require a partner – but rest assured he was hard beneath his leathers whilst he was cuffed by the wrists, ankles and neck, as ten guards led him into a the Great Hall like an animal. His heart pounded in his chest and he smirked as he was verbally ridiculed for the atrocities. A fantasy scenario he would repeat with partners in the future, once he claimed the throne after faking his death on Svartalfheim.

Ragnarok Loki - Stag & Vixen Kink - by @lokisgoodgirl

By Ragnarok, Loki has integrated his facets of sexuality into one persona. More confident in his ability to straddle both the vulnerable and dominant sides of his personality, he's discovered the thrill of being a ‘Stag’ – (not be confused with a cuckold) and finds sexual gratification in encouraging his female partner to have sex with other men/women. Loki has re-asserted his dominance by Ragnarok, and his confidence in the balance of his personality. He wants to share his partners. He knows they will always return to him, and him alone. Most likely to say:

“I think my vixen is getting a little complacent with her access to this cock of mine. Tonight, let’s get you fucked by a lesser man to the best of his meagre ability, shall we?”

“The only thing better than touching myself, knowing that you are thinking of me while I watch you get pounded by him, darling...is the knowledge that I do it so much better. And the look in your eyes that tells me you know it, too.”

So....what do you think? Agree? Disagree? Further thoughts? 😂 @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @gigglingtigger @mochie85 @superficialdomina @simplyholl @alexakeyloveloki @lunarnights95 @mischief2sarawr @thedistractedagglomeration @joyful-enchantress @lovelysizzlingbluebird @muddyorbsblr @holdmytesseract @fictive-sl0th @lunarnights95 @coldnique @kikster606 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 +++ :)

[mistyresolve]

| Talking To The Void - Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (Edited)

Word count - 2k

Summary - While Simon is away on missions, it’s hard on everyone. Especially his significant other. So he’s discovered a loophole, the only issue is that it has its downfalls. 

Warning/Tags - mentions of the dirty, 

A/N - this is something short to introduce my version of Simon “Ghost” Riley. i like the idea that both Simon Riley and Ghost in a sense are the same person with the same goals and values but he has defined separation between the two.

Masterlist  ❤︎  Tag List Form

It no longer came as a shock when you didn’t hear from Simon for weeks on end when he was away on missions. You understood the reasoning behind the strict no contact rule; gave him grace because the cards were never in his hands. With him having to fly under the radar, and lower still, he had to vanish from the living world. You being a part of the living world involved vanishing from you too. Sometimes it was the fact that he just never had the time or means to make a phone call. Even still, the normalcy of it never quelled the anxiety and fear that plagued you—it followed you around like a predator stalking its prey. It lurked in the shadows and breathed down your neck when your back was turned. It followed you into your dreams, forcing you to awake in a panic and drenched in sweat. 

You had absolute, unequivocal faith in him to come back to you. He always did. But the silence that replaced his presence was always filled with overthinking and rumination. 

You tried your best to distract yourself. Sometimes with work of your own, staying later than the janitors, and when you drove home the streets and highways were desolate. You also spent a considerable amount of time at your parents' place, eating your mothers home cooked meals while you chatted about the new family gossip. You used to stay the weekend at her house because coming back home to an empty house was sometimes too much. A chilling reminder of what you were trying to forget. The nights that you did spend in your bed you slept in his clothes and on his side of the bed. Anything to get a little closer to him. Anything to trick yourself into thinking he was still there.  

You never held it against Simon though. It took you the first five missions he was ordered onto to finally come to terms with the unusual lifestyle. Each time he returned he brought with him an immense amount of guilt. A guilt that ran so deep even you couldn’t soothe. He did everything he could on his end to find alternative ways to support you through his absence. When he found out about the occasional sleepovers at your parent's house, he brought you to an SPCA to adopt whatever animal of your choosing. Something to bring warmth and life into the home in his stead. Simon wasn’t the least bit surprised when you picked the sassy tabby cat with one eye named Ginger Spice. 

The other alternative was phone calls. Always from a burner phone. Always an unknown number. Always silent on the other end. 

Every time your phone rang and you picked it up, there was always a deflation when a phone number or name was attached to it. 

That wasn’t the case this time. You fumbled and shook as you slid your finger across the screen to answer the call. Hesitating before you open your mouth, the word scared it would be returned, “Hello?” you closed your eyes, hoping, praying, pleading, that the caller didn’t reply. 

When you were met with nothing, heard nothing, the half sob half sigh of relief that you let out was heartbreaking. Even Simon on the other end of the line had to lean his head against the wall for support, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I miss you,” the words are laced with grief and torment, “I miss you so much it hurts.”

Ginger Spice who was previously lounging on the divan across from you perked up at the sound of your teary voice. He let out a curious trill as he leapt off the seat, pranced to your spot on the couch, and jumped into your lap; making a few laps back and forth before settling in between your legs. The tabby cat was providing the support that Simon was striving for. Simon silently thanked the cat.  

“Ginger came to say ‘Hi’,” You laughed through the tears, your vision momentarily going blurry. You wiped furiously at your eyes. You didn’t want to waste this stolen time on crying. 

The first time he made one of these calls and you had hung up on him not realizing who it was. When he returned, he very bashfully confessed to you that it was him. You had given him endless apologies, absolutely mortified. He had laughed and pressed kisses into your hair, telling you it was okay and he expected that that would be the most probable outcome. 

You didn’t know how long you had with him before the line would be severed and you’d be left wondering. Your fingers were kept busy by tracing the pattern on Ginger Spices markings, who immediately erupted with purrs in response. 

“I don’t know if you hear him, but he’s purring,” you relayed, a soft smile dancing on your mouth. 

Simon could, very faintly, and only when you spoke. The sound floated in the background of your words. A smile of his own formed under the mask. The moment was shared from thousands and thousands of miles away, and yet in the same room. 

“He misses you too,” and the cat did, you would occasionally find him curled in the sheet on Simon's side of the bed. Other times he was sitting on the bench next to the door, waiting for his dad to enter, “Sometimes he takes it out on me. Which, by the way, I don’t deserve, and you’ll have to make up for that when you get back” also a true statement. Ginger Spice had developed a horrible habit of ignoring you and giving you blatant attitude. Just this morning when you filled his food bowl he meowed at you until you sat at the island and drank your tea. All because Simon would get up at buttcrack dawn, feed the cat, and drink tea while he read over reports and documents while he waited for you to start to wake up so he could climb back into the sheets and be there when you open your eyes. 

“And that brings me to the next point of discussion. Your mother-in-law wants you to help move the couch in the basement to the garage so she can sell it. Dad wants to turn it into some sort of lounge, den, bar, thingy,” you waved your hand in dismissal despite the fact that he couldn’t see the action. 

He might not have been able to see, but if he closed his eyes and listened, he could imagine you. Knowing your mannerisms and idiosyncrasies as if they were his own. Every moment he spent with you he filed away and studied. A talent that also came in handy when it came to those lonely nights away from you. Visualizing his hand was yours. Smaller and softer. Gentle and caring. A fact that he had no qualms telling you about, or explaining to you in great detail. And he was very good at explaining, and it usually led you to enact his visualizations. All so he can “confirm his creativity was close to the real thing”. He is very tongue-in-cheek about it too.  

“She wants me to help her paint and redecorate. But I’m having a hard time thinking up a theme so you’ll have to help me out,” and he would, he was good at helping you organize your thoughts and ideas. He enjoyed any task that was thrown at him, taking them head-on and with fervent no matter how pointless it was. He claimed it kept him limber. He liked being needed and valued. He especially liked it when you praised his ideas. 

He listened contently as you talked to him about everything you could. What you had for lunch, the book you recently finished, the hairball you had to clean up, the “bitch two offices down”. He would have to bite the inside of his cheek and focus on controlling and steadying his breaths to keep from laughing. He loved how your voice dropped to a whisper when you got to the nitty gritty of the gossip. As if you were sitting at the back of a coffee shop with him, and talking about people as they sat right in front of you. He’d never admit it, but he lived for the drama. Thrived off it. But only if it came from you.

You filled him in on the drama, removing names and identifiers in the rare case that someone was listening in. The same reason you wouldn’t say his name or call sign. The same reason he couldn’t talk.

He never voiced it to you for the fear that if he spoke it out loud it would come true, but the possibility of something happening to you because he got too comfortable in his anonymity, scared the shit out of him. An issue he never had to deal with before you. He always kept his identity close to his chest but his seriousness about it only increased by a tenth-fold when you crept into his life. It was not only his life on the line but yours too now. He was doing everything he could to protect you. To make sure you remained an enigma to his enemies. To which he had a lot of. A lot of them would have no issues using you to get to him, and all of them would kill for that kind of opportunity. He also wanted to give you some ounce of normality when he returned, and he didn’t have to conceal his identity. Where he could take you out, and show you off without the fear that someone will recognize him. His only regret was that he could only give that to you for half the time.

He sometimes wished he could burn the world just so he could get some peace with you. He wished he could put you in a jar and carry you with him everywhere he went. That’s all they were though, wishes and selfish daydreams. 

Right now, he was sitting in the stairwell of an apartment building. He and Price were monitoring a target, building a routine for them. They were stationed on the roof of said apartment with snipers. He had switched off the main shift with Price about six hours ago. He spent those six hours getting sleep and food, before making the phone call. A phone call Price had no idea he was making. A phone call to someone, not even Price knew existed. He would rejoin Price after the call to help with comms and to give him some company. Lord knew Simon knew staring into a scope at someone watch TV and order room service for a 12 hour shift was deathly boring. Not that he’d ever complain. It allowed him time to sit with his thoughts. He would probably do a couple of rounds around the area too. Secure their exits and entrances. 

You loosed a sigh, suddenly sad again, “I’ve kept you longer than I should have.”

He looked at the timer on the phone screen: 1:23:09. 

It hadn’t felt that long. And it sure as hell didn’t feel long enough.  

“Come home to me soon, please,” the earnestness in your voice was palpable. He could almost taste it on his tongue. The twisted heart in his chest felt like it dropped a couple of inches, and a zip of pain shot down his arm.  

“I love you,” you whispered so sweetly he thought he’d get a sugar high from it. That or the blood was leaving his brain and travelling south. You left enough time after you said it that if he could respond he would have enough time. Then reluctantly hung up. 

He tapped the phone in the palm of his hand, pulling his mind back into his body. Switching back to Ghost he rolled his shoulders, shaking off any remaining unwanted thoughts and feelings. 

He dismantled the phone, removing the battery, the sim, the camera, the screen. Everything. He would toss the individual parts in different locations as he did his patrols. He’d be damn thorough. The sim card he would burn. He would destroy any evidence and connection to Simon Riley. 

Masterlist  ❤︎

[mrsdesade]

1 character x 10 songs x 10 headcanons

Loki (MCU)

Songs that I think they might be perfect for our fav God of Mischief because today is Tom's birthday! 🌿 I also leave the LOKI PLAYLIST I've created for him!

The End of the World - Celldweller

If I do, will I be exiled?

I can't base my actions on whether I'm loved or reviled.

Hard to pretend that I'm ok when my heart is breaking. […]

Sold on a dream of a future serene,

Then why does this feel like the end of the world?

Hopes in a dream are not what they seem,

And now it feels like the end of the world.

hc: The whole song has his vibes, the melody, the aesthetic, the words, the tone with which they are pronounced. Heartbreaking and full of hope. I can clearly hear the "The sun will shine on us again, I promise." quotes from it.

—————————

2. Fill the Void - Lily-Rose Depp & The Weeknd

Be my voice and I choose you to fill the void. […]

I choose you to fill my void.

I choose you to tell me, you to tell me,

I choose you to fill my void.

I speak my voice and I choose you to fill the void,

Tell me why, tell me why do I feel so free when I'm dead?

hc: Being chosen by him is already an immense honor and privilege, even more so If he considers you the missing piece to fill the eternal void in his chest. This duet is so strangely romantic.

—————————

3. The Apparition - Sleep Token

Why are you never real? Whenever you appear,

You leave me with that grace, I am trembling with fear.

But I know that you will disappear […]

Well, I believe that somewhere in the past,

Something was between you and I my dear,

And it remains with me to this day.

hc: Something has separated you two, and your memories have been erased (TVA vibes) but the feeling you have is so deep that crosses space and time, and although there is only dust remaining, you are always pulled in each other's direction.

—————————

4. GODDESS - Written by Wolves

You're like a goddess in disguise, I'm drowning slowly in your eyes

It's like you kill me by design, you're all I desire. […]

I'll do anything for you, my temptress, even if I'm innocent.

Kill to watch you undress,

Feel your body close pressed up, against mine

Heart beats, in time.

Feel your chest rise, you're all I desire.

hc: This song is pure devotion, he would do anything for you, you are his light, you're the only force that moves his actions and feelings.

—————————

5. Interlinked - Lonely Lies & GOLDKID$

hc: There are no lyrics, just music, but the romantic synth and the electronic base give this melody the right vibes to be the soundtrack to a film/series about Loki and his love interest. (hope to be me honestly)

—————————

6. Funeral Derangements - Ice Nine Kills

I'll see you on the other side.

But I'd kill to bring you back tonight,

Don't give up, don't let go,

I'll make this right. […]

They say that time heals all, but I won't heed the call.

Buried in misery.

Spare me the eulogy.

hc: Aggressive and desperate, in this version of the story, he lost you because of Thanos and he will do anything to bring you back to life, even challenging primordial forces such as Death itself.

—————————

7. Starlight - STARSET

Stardust, in you and in me.

Fuse us, into unity.

We're coupled, born from the universe.

The void is calling, don't fear.

It's ok, I promise. […]

Whenever stars go down and galaxies ignite.

I'll think of you each time they wash me in their light.

And I'll fall in love with you again, I will find you. […]

Don't leave me lost here forever,

I need your starlight and pull me through,

Bring me back to you.

hc: You are the one who loved the God of Stories, and this song is his dedication to you, his eternal love is engraved in these words.

—————————

8. Broken - Falling in Reverse

We are the broken, hoping for a change of heart.

We are the chosen, praying for a shooting star.

And even if the sky comes crashing down,

Even if the world was ending now,

We are the broken, but don't cry for me.

hc: Ouch, bad ending for you, there is nothing left to save, the Apocalypse will erase everything, and you two are embraced seeing the Sun fall on the Earth. He will hold you close until the last moment, until the true end.

—————————

9. VILLAIN - Neoni

Won't make amends, 'cause you did this, yeah

I'm the monster you invented. […]

All the king's horses and all the king's men.

Couldn't undo all the damage I did.

You call me mad but I make perfect sense.

If I can't be your hero, I'll be your villain.

hc: There's not much to say, If your romance happened during 2012, you would have a cruel God loving you, Avengers Loki has definitely his reasons and his charm.

—————————

10. KNIVES - Neoni

No heroes, no villains.

No sympathy, just venom. […]

No heroes, no villains.

Just do it for the thrill and,

Sharpen up your knives.

If you wanna make it through the night.

You better remember that you,

Can never trust nobody.

hc: Let's end with a bit of spice, I couldn't not mention this song, I would definitely associate knife kink to him. Can't change my mind.

That's all for now! Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to suggest more characters, when I'm done with my comfort characters I'll be delighted to please you with music about yours 🤍

[sarcasm-and-cynicism]

to watch you, to shield you, or kill on demand

Solas/Mythal (one-sided), Solas/Felassan

Unrequited Love, Hurt/No Comfort, Memories, Regret, Trauma, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse

Summary:

Benevolence has gone where Wisdom cannot follow.

He watches with growing trepidation as his oldest companion uses the blood of Titans to mold a body for herself.

Wisdom has seen life in its myriad forms. They are all beautiful and awe-inspiring.

This feels different.

It feels wrong.

Wisdom tells her so. Benevolence does not listen.

Can’t she sense the Titan’s fear? Doesn’t she care?

Benevolence becomes Mythal, self-fashioned. She still visits Wisdom, seeking advice that she proceeds to ignore.

She is changed.

Wisdom loves her still.

Read on AO3 or below the cut:

The world is beautiful.

He is a wisp, a bit of magic made manifest.

There are others here and they drift across the sky in playful loops, occasionally dipping down to gaze upon anything that catches their attention.

Immense stone beings cross the horizon, shaping the ground upon which they walk. Mountains and valleys are left in their wake. 

He drifts closer, breaking off from the group. The giant pays him no mind, but it is no matter. He is content to observe, to learn. 

Little stone children scurry through the newly-formed land, refining its shape, encouraging waters to flow.

He hovers above them. One looks up. Then they all do. After a moment, they return to their shaping.

There is a kind of wisdom in the way the children mold the landscape that draws him in.

He observes. He is content.

》◇《

They call him Wisdom.

He travels the lands, seeking out knowledge, holding it close until someone asks. Then he showers his collected gifts on the asker.

He is sought by humans and fellow spirits alike for these gifts. To aid those who seek knowledge for its own sake is his greatest pride.

There is one spirit in particular who has become a regular: Benevolence. She is kind and finds similar fulfillment in the bestowment of gifts. Together, they help those around them to better themselves and their lives. 

Benevolence is not as interested in collecting knowledge as Wisdom is. At least, not the same kind. Benevolence seeks the heart; Wisdom prefers the mind. It is a good thing. They complement one another.

Wisdom did not know how lonely he was until Benevolence; until she filled a void that the other spirits could not.

Wisdom would follow Benevolence anywhere.

《◇》

Benevolence has gone where Wisdom cannot follow.

He watches with growing trepidation as his oldest companion uses the blood of Titans to mold a body for herself.

Wisdom has seen life in its myriad forms. They are all beautiful and awe-inspiring.

This feels different.

It feels wrong.

Wisdom tells her so. Benevolence does not listen. 

Can’t she sense the Titan’s fear? Doesn’t she care?

Benevolence becomes Mythal, self-fashioned. She still visits Wisdom, seeking advice that she proceeds to ignore.

She is changed. 

Wisdom loves her still.

》◇《

“You have so long observed the world. Why not consider joining it?” Mythal coaxes.

“But I have no desire to live as humans,” he replies. 

Mythal knows this. Why does she continue to ask? 

“I have the Fade,” Wisdom continues. “Besides, this talk of taking on a solid form… I think you underestimate the danger.”

Mythal gives him a skeptical look.

“When you took the glowing stone to build your body,” Wisdom presses, “did the ground not shake?”

“The lyrium gives us the strength we had when we were of the Fade,” Mythal argues. “We are the best of physical and spirit.”

She walks closer, reaching out with one of her solid appendages to touch Wisdom’s tendrils. It is an odd, discordant feeling, but still reminiscent of Benevolence. Wisdom aches for the restoration of that connection.

“I need your wisdom,” Mythal pleads, “to withstand the louder voices that would go too far, like Elgar’nan. I need you.”

I need you. 

The words echo in his mind, latching onto something deep within and tugging. 

“This is madness,” he warns. “You must know that.” Then, sighing in resignation, already knowing which way the wind blows, he says, “I will always follow where you go.”

《◇》

He follows Mythal, a step behind, fresh vallaslin on his face. She says it will keep him safe.

Mythal turns with a soft smile, steps forward, and runs a finger along Wisdom’s jaw. 

His body reacts with an involuntary shiver, followed by a rush of blood that fills his cheeks and ears. It is a confusing and frightening thing, every time this new body responds. Nobody has taken the time to explain, either, why it does so.

“Look at you,” Mythal says. “What a beautiful form you have taken. I commend you on your work.”

“Thank you,” he replies softly, wondering what was wrong with his previous form. Was he not beautiful before?

Mythal smiles benevolently and says, “I name you Solas, as a reminder. You should be proud of what we have accomplished, what we will continue to accomplish. Stand tall at my side, lethallin.”

“Yes, Mythal.”

From the doorway, Elgar’nan beckons and Mythal leaves, taking his hand as they sweep from the room.

Solas, newly named, pads out to the gardens, finds an isolated corner, and curls up. 

When Mythal bid him come, she failed to mention the turmoil of emotions that accompany a physical form. It is… overwhelming. 

He casts his gaze upward, where wisps dance across the sky. They pay no mind to the body below, for they no longer recognize Wisdom.

》◇《

They are at war. They were at war long before he took physical form.

The Titans are furious. Their anger knows no end. The stone beings send their children in droves to slaughter elvhen. Droves of elvhen are sent in return to fall upon the stone.

And for what? So they can continue to make bodies from stolen blood, bodies that are then thrown to the war?

He begs Mythal to see reason. Nothing good will come of this. Why do they need more spirits to take physical form? 

Mythal listens to his concerns, acknowledges them, and changes nothing. 

Instead, he finds himself appointed general of her armies. Elgar’nan makes some remark about the pet getting an unearned boon. Solas ignores him.

Now it is his duty to send elvhen to their deaths. He hates it. He longs for the days when Wisdom and Benevolence would roam the land in peace… longs to return to the Fade. He does not like this world at all (not anymore).

But here is where Mythal remains, so here is where he will stay. 

Solas uses his wisdom to wage war; changes himself to suit her needs.

Centuries pass. The conflict escalates.

He is surrounded by the broken bodies of elves, as far as the eye can see. The bloated corpses give off a stench unlike anything he’s experienced before. 

He falls to his knees, retching.

This… this is horrific. 

One single word keeps running circles through his head: Preventable.

Mythal comes to stand beside him, hem of her robes soaked in blood.

“We must put an end to this,” she states. “Too many lives have been lost.”

And at whose command?

He squashes the thought. He is the one who sent these elves to battle, after all.

“Rise, Solas,” Mythal commands and he obeys, pulling himself together piece by wretched piece. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes, Mythal.”

Using knowledge from millenia past, originally collected for its own sake, he forges a dagger of pure lyrium at Mythal’s request. 

“Have you created what we need?” she asks.

He presents it to her and her eyes take on a wild light.

“With this,” he tells her, “the proper ritual will sunder every Titan from its spirit.”

Mythal takes the dagger, turning it over in her hands.

“But you must know,” he adds, trying one more time to get her to see reason, “those severed dreams will certainly be driven mad, a disembodied blight of pain and anger. It is… awful, what we’re doing.”

Mythal nods, agreeing as she always does, and then says, “And the only way to end this war.”

Something deep within him fizzles and dies.

So be it. He’s come this far. 

《◇》

Another night, another hedonistic revelry. 

Solas remembers his first time at one of these parties, how overwhelmed he felt by all the sights and sounds. He was still so new to physical sensation then and people kept touching him. He had eventually fled to the gardens, hiding amongst the coiling greenery and finding comfort in damp soil beneath his soles. 

Over the years, he grew accustomed to the sensory overload, got used to the touching. Even became enthralled by it, for a time. Now he finds it all tedious. He would much rather be curled up by a fire, reading poetry or the latest installment in his favorite series. Mythal insists on his attendance, though, and so here he is.

Just as he has begun to resign himself to a dull and pointless night, he notices something. There’s someone new here tonight. Solas moves closer, studying the stranger from afar.

He’s quite beautiful (and seems aware of this fact, based on the way he conducts himself). He charms his way through the crowd, leaving moon-eyed fools in his wake, never lingering with any of them for too long.

Though he finds all of that amusing, it is not what draws his eye. There is something different about the way the man holds himself, the way he watches the room with sharp, intelligent eyes. Solas finds himself intrigued. 

Their eyes lock and Solas flushes to the tips of his ears at getting caught staring. He looks away, berating himself. He is typically much more subtle than this.

A throat clears and he glances up to find the man standing before him. Solas, face still hot, blinks up at him rather stupidly.

“Is this seat taken?” the man asks, pointing to the spot beside Solas.

He wants something. They always do.

Solas shakes his head and the other elf sits down. He hurries to compose himself, plastering a smirk on his face. He will hear the man out, at least, before sending him away.

“I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance yet,” Solas greets smoothly, draping an arm over the back of the settee.

The man grins, settling in and studying Solas with vibrant purple eyes. “No, I don’t believe you have. I’m Felassan.”

“Your face is a breath of fresh air this evening, Felassan,” Solas says charmingly, leaning in. “My name is Solas.”

Felassan throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, not to worry,” he replies with rather too much amusement. “I know who you are. Everyone does.”

“Ah, I see my reputation precedes me.”

“That it does!” the other man exclaims. “Though I doubt you’d find said reputation very flattering.”

How intriguing, Solas thinks, surprised and delighted by this man’s boldness.

“Try me,” he challenges with a lopsided smile.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Felassan replies, shaking his head. “They call you Mythal’s lapdog, say you follow her around, sniffing for scraps she will never deign to throw your way.”

Solas barks out a surprised and genuine laugh. “You are certainly not afraid to speak your mind, are you?”

Felassan tuts, shaking his head with mock sadness. “A personal flaw of mine, I’m afraid.”

“I find it quite refreshing, actually,” he tells the man honestly. “Most people would try to curry favor with me.”

“And what is it you think I’d want from you?” Felassan asks with wicked amusement, leaning in.

Solas arches an eyebrow. “You do not seek power? Influence?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m doing just fine on my own.”

A little thrill runs through him. It’s been so long since there was anyone who didn’t want something from him…

“What about company?” Solas finds himself saying, eyeing the man with poorly-hidden nervousness.

Felassan studies him for a long moment. Solas tries not to fidget.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” he finally replies, smile softening at the edges.

“I have a room here…”

“Lead on.”

Though Solas propositioned Felassan with the intent of having sex that night, they get distracted with conversation. He discovers that the other elf loves to argue. Never one to back down from a challenge, Solas engages him in debate. 

They stay up until the sunrise, just talking.

Felassan, sprawled lazily across one of the couches, glances out the window at the coming dawn.

“Solas,” he says softly. “Can I tell you a secret?” 

Solas raises an eyebrow and leans back in his chair. “Please do.”

“I was not invited to that party,” Felassan confesses, his violet eyes sparkling with mirth. “I snuck in.”

Solas grins and the other elf returns the smile.

“I’m glad I did,” he continues.

“So am I,” Solas replies sincerely.

》◇《

It is just after dark when he and Felassan flee Mythal’s lands.

“I’m with you, Solas,” the other elf says when he tells him of his plans.

He is grateful for his friend’s loyalty. Solas does not want to think of how terrible this would be if he was alone.

This plan has been a long time in the making, so they have a location to retreat to. It is a heavily protected pocket of the Fade he has been shaping for years. With petty amusement, he fashions the main structure to look like one of Elgar’nan’s temples. Let the tyrant stew in that one.

Felassan takes to calling it the Lighthouse, says it will be a beacon to all who seek freedom.

Their plans are simple, at first. They start on the fringes, aiding those less likely to be noticed until their numbers are bolstered enough to get bold. 

Years pass. More elves and spirits join them by the day. Solas puts his tactical knowledge, honed by centuries of war, to use for a more righteous cause. He puts Felassan in charge of their covert agents. They begin to infiltrate the lands of every Evanuris. By the time they figure out what is happening, it will be too late.

Solas develops a method to remove vallaslin, wanting to ensure the freedom of those they save. When he tells his friend, Felassan grins and calls him brilliant.

“You’ll have to remove your own first,” the other man tells him. “You’re going to be the face of this little rebellion, Solas.”

Though part of him already knew, he still asks, “Why me?”

Felassan gives him an exasperated look. “Who else would it be?”

“Of the two of us, you are certainly the prettier one,” Solas jokes.

“Oh, I know,” Felassan preens, then his expression turns serious. “But I’m nobody, Solas. And before you say anything, that’s a good thing! It allows me to infiltrate spaces I would not otherwise be able to. You, though? You were Mythal’s second-in-command. That means something.”

Solas thinks over Felassan’s words and sees the wisdom in them. Thus, when his spell is ready, he attempts it on himself first. Rather clumsily, in fact. It burns, and he takes a small chunk of flesh out of his forehead in the process. When he heals it, there is still a scar.

His subsequent attempts are much smoother. The bare-faced elves thank him profusely, pledging themselves to the cause. He takes pride in the achievement. 

The Evanuris start calling him Fen’Harel. Felassan laughs when one of their agents first reports on the development, teasing Solas about the upgrade from ‘lapdog.’

Though he is trepidatious at first, Solas eventually leans into the moniker. If Dread Wolf is the name they fear, then let it shake their stolen bones.

As his rebellion continues, he learns to do what he must in order to win. He shuts down any errant thoughts that say differently.

《◇》

Mythal emerges from the shadows and he gasps quietly. It has been so long since he last saw her. He has missed his friend terribly…

“I was not certain you would come,” Solas admits.

Mythal curls her lip. “You were the one who walked away,” she replies, with no small amount of venom. “I never turn my back when my friend needs me.”

Her words lash against him, reopening old wounds. He pushes past the hurt. There are more important things to discuss.

“The Evanuris seek the magic of the blight,” he informs her. 

“Impossible,” Mythal scoffs. “The blight is safely sealed away forever.”

“Though I wish I could believe you,” he sighs sadly, “I have sensed the breaking of the wards.”

She softens slightly, laying a hand on his arm. He shivers beneath her touch.

“I will investigate your claims. If they forget the danger of the blight, I will endeavor to remind them.”

Solas takes a step toward her, laying his hand over hers. If he asks, maybe this time…

“What if, instead, you left the Evanuris and remained with me?” he asks softly, hesitantly. “Do you not wish for freedom from this struggle?”

He has built a place just for her, at the Lighthouse. Poured his heart into it. If she would come with him, he could show it to her and she would not want to return to them. 

“Be at peace, love,” Mythal says, breaking his heart all over again as she pulls away from him. “I will stop them.”

“As you must,” he whispers, letting his hand fall back to his side. “The blight is our mistake.”

She walks away.

The next time he sees her, she lies face up in a congealed pool of her own blood, the lyrium dagger protruding from her chest.

He weeps over her for hours, then does what he must to lay her body to rest.

When he returns to the Lighthouse, Felassan attempts to offer comfort. It is the last thing Solas wants right now, so he sends him away.

The Evanuris must be stopped.

Solas throws himself into planning, holing himself up in his office for days on end. Felassan tries to draw him out. Solas ignores him.

When his plans are ready, he enacts them alone.

The Evanuris mock him, even after he successfully tricks them, even as his magic wraps around them.

“You dare to try to cage us,” Ghilan’nain sneers. “Jealous of our growing power!”

“You will pay the final price for this betrayal!” Elgar’nan threatens. 

“We warned you not to use the blight,” Solas tells them. “For this, and for Mythal, I sentence you to sleep in exile ever after.”

He weaves his magic in and around them, anchoring each of them to it.

“Your own lives will form the Veil that keeps the horror you unleashed at bay!”

They all fight him, but to no avail. Still, it takes every last bit of his strength to finish the ritual. He strains with the effort, blackness encroaching on the corners of his vision.

At the last second, his control slips, the Veil expanding beyond its intended borders, and he cries out as the darkness pulls him under.

[spacevixenmusic]

Unfairly Maligned Games, Vol. 3

Games I loved that got low scores, review bombed, or have some other weird negative stigma attached to them that I think is unfairly earned.

NOTE: I don't believe in giving games a number score or a letter grade. Maybe I'm just bad at criticism or very easy to please, whatever.

Indivisible [2019]

Mostly only known as the "from the makers of Skullgirls" game, Indivisible is another prime example of a game that was crowdfunded as one thing but turned into another, and gets a bad rap for its association with the ever-present controversiality of Skullgirls' creators. That said, I still think - as always - that it's crucial to view a game for what it is, not what it isn't. And what it IS is an extremely engaging mish-mash of genres and endearing characters, oozing with style and appeal, that fills a very particular void left behind by some of the most classic RPGs of a bygone era.

At its core, Indivisible is a 2D Metroidvania/RPG hybrid with an unusual battle system that plays similarly to an old PSX game series called Valkyrie Profile. During combat, each character's gauge will fill up, allowing them to take action(s). Your four party members are each assigned to one of the four face buttons on a controller (e.g. A, B, X, Y), and pressing that button will - in real-time - execute an attack on the enemy. Using it in combination the D-Pad allows for several different types of attack. All party members' attacks can overlap simultaneously, allowing you to string together combos to really rack up the damage, or juggle enemies to prevent counterattacks and break their defenses. The Metroidvania and platforming portion comprises the rest of the game, with a heavy focus on using those same action skills to scale massive environments, solve platforming puzzles, and dodge spikes. Typical Metroidvania stuff.

Story-wise, in our modern world of RPGs that is dominated almost exclusively by Japanese and Scandinavian narratives, Indivisible is breath of fresh air that focuses heavily on South and East Asian mythology and themes. Heavy inspiration is taken from the cultures of India, Tibet, Mongolia, and the South Pacific. This is reflected not only in the characters and their various ethnicities, but in the game's approach to spirituality, reincarnation, second chances, and being a teenager hellbent on destroying god. Our main protagonist Ajna is a teenager studying martial arts who isn't quite as in touch with her spirituality as her mentor would like her to be. When war strikes the land and burns her home to the ground, she gets pissed and sets out on a quest for retribution, discovering in the process that she actually does possess certain godlike powers of destruction, and also that she can absorb certain people into her head, which is just a cute way of lampshading having a Party System.

I've seen Reviewers and big Opinion-Havers on the internet criticize the game's writing for having a bull-headed protagonist who boldly rushes into confrontation, unleashing her wanton destruction without first considering the catastrophic consequences for civilians. It's almost like they've forgotten what being a teenager and making poor choices is like. But I say fuck 'em. I say we need MORE stories about uninformed teenagers with immense godlike powers and no sense of nuance making rash decisions and fucking up royally. That alone is crucial to understanding the rest of the game's themes about atonement, reincarnation, and understanding why you believe what you believe in. That's what Indivisible is all about. In many ways, I feel like Ajna shares a common story arc with Korra from the Avatar series, and it's very cool to see how she learns to deal with the damage she's caused and what insight that gives her when facing down the Big Bad.

Of course, what is a good story without characters to flesh it out? The characters in this game are absolutely charming and multifaceted, coming from a wide array of different cultures and personalities, many of which are vastly underrepresented in not only RPGs but video games in general. Personal favorites include, but are not limited to, big booba water mom Thorani (based on a buddhist deity of the same name), Leilani the Hawaiian sharknado (spins around in a cyclone attack using a leiomano, a Hawaiian shark-tooth sword), lesbian pirate mom Baozhai (based on the famous Chinese pirate Ching Shih), and of course, local nihilistic swamp witch Razmi (a loose mishmash of Korean and Persian Zoroastrian shamans). The full cast of characters is enormous (well over 20 playable ones alone), and each one comes with a unique moveset and playstyle that not only keeps gameplay interesting, but matches their personality and the role they play in the story.

But if there's one thing I truly want to focus on when I gush about this game, it's this. Indivisible has one thing over most other games of its genre, something that modern RPGs in particular suffer heavily from a severe lack of, and that's its strong commitment to multiculturalism. Indivisible made a clear decision to not only feature characters from around the globe, but to blend their cultures together in interesting and exciting ways that don't diminish or water them down. Every character is allowed to shine in their own way without diluting what makes them stand out in the first place, which is why you can have a game that features a gunblade-wielding cowboy, a Namibian songstress, an armless Chinese dancer, a Kamen Rider knock-off, and a Mongolian archer who people keep mistaking for Pearl from Steven Universe. This sort of melting-pot cultural stew used to be common in classic anime and 90s RPGs, but kind of fell out of fashion with the rise of gacha waifu games and Elder Scrolls derivatives. Now more than ever, I feel like Indivisible is exactly the sort of injection the gaming world needs to rekindle those flames of pure imagination that the old classic era brought us.

All that said, one of the biggest reasons Indivisible will always have a dark mark next to its name is of course due to the fact that its lead designer (the studio head) was involved in a sexual harassment case that resulted in everyone on the team either quitting or being laid off, and the rights to the work and characters getting lost in the shuffle. Additionally, the game was still finished and released as intended, but did not feature any of the guest star characters that were promised during crowdfunding, most of whom were indie darlings of the time (Shovel Knight, Hyper Light Drifter, and Super Time Force to name a few). Naturally, this has left a sour taste in many folks' mouths, so it is somewhat understandable why the game would have a negative stigma attached. There are also a few bizarre and possibly off-putting cameos hidden among the NPCs (a few outdated meme references and Zone-tan, of all people), but these are entirely skippable and serve only as background extras.

Sour grapes aside though, I wholeheartedly recommend Indivisible for anyone looking for a fresh take on action RPGs. The neat hybridization of Metroidvania and real-time RPG with fighting game mechanics gives it a very unique identity, and if the compelling spirituality of the story doesn't grab you, the charm of the characters absolutely will. It certainly took me for a ride. My only word of caution is to follow the game's own suggestion and get good at Blocking in combat as early as you can!

[skyholly]

The best kept secret

Summary: What if Moiraine had a baby daughter she and Siuan were forced to leave to Anvaere to raise as her own?

moiraine/siuan

Chapter 1 here!

Chapter 2 here!

Chapter 3 here!

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

Chapter 4. Moiraine

Moiraine watched the scene unfold with a sense of helplessness she hadn't felt in years. Rand’s departure left the room shrouded in a tense, eerie silence, broken only by Guinevere’s muffled sobs. Moiraine’s heart ached for the young girl, yet her mind was racing with the implications of Rand running away, of him slipping through her fingers once again. I have no other choice now. She had to inform Siuan, she couldn’t keep her in the dark any longer. I can’t do this alone anymore. Moiraine wearily closed her eyes, as she put the palms of her hands on her forehead, feeling the weight of her own failures pressing down on her. 

She glanced at the young girl’s persistent tears falling through her cheeks, and couldn’t help but feel irritated. From what she had observed of the two youngsters, it was abundantly clear they had feelings for each other, making it reasonable that Guinevere would feel sad about his departure. And sadness, she could understand, but the girl's apparent immense anguish was beyond her comprehension. It’s just a silly crush. Why is she crying so much? She realised right there, it had been a mistake letting the child into her mission, she was far too young, volatile, and naive; Moiraine cursed herself, as once again feelings she should’ve kept aside had taken the better of her. She had been so eager to share something with her, to have a fraction of what Guinevere and Anvaere shared, that she’d let herself be foolishly dragged by it; she should’ve put an end to the girl’s involvement the second she confronted her about it. I won’t make such mistakes anymore.

 “Guinevere,” Moiraine said harshly, trying to keep her voice steady, “you must understand, there are far greater things at stake here.” 

Guinevere looked up towards her, her eyes wide with hurt. “I-I know aunt Moiraine, I-I myself can’t even explain—

“Just make sure to tell no one about this, about Rand, about what we’ve done, alright? I’ll find a solution. In the meantime, keep a low profile, return to your usual activities.” Moiraine felt a pang of guilt but pushed it aside, knowing she couldn’t afford to be soft now. She straightened her posture, turning her back on Guinevere, and headed towards her room. She had a letter to write. 

Moiraine crumpled yet another piece of paper in her hands, before bitterly throwing it into a bin beside her desk. It was the third time she’d done so, unable to find the right words for the letter.

“Dear Siuan,” she began writing on the fresh parchment, “something has happened to me. Something I should’ve told you a long time ago…” the quill hovered over the paper, ink pooling dangerously under its tip, as she put a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry, mustering enough courage to write the following words. It’d been six months since it happened, but putting into a letter that would eventually reach Siuan… it made it feel so real. So deficient. So irreparable. “I’ve been stilled.” 

Moiraine ruefully stared at the word in the paper, her teeth grinding in frustration. Stilled. She didn’t feel still. She felt void. Doomed. She felt as if something were being brutally ripped away from her everytime she tried reaching for the Source; her mind flooding with a torrent of morbid images of her gashing her fingers away from her body, as idle and useless as they had become. She felt like carving her eyes out every time she saw one of her sisters reaching for the One Power. She felt so maimed. She shook her head. Stilled doesn’t do it justice. Death would greet me with far kinder hands. 

Moiraine grabbed on a new piece of paper, and took a deep breath. She was about to start writing on it, when a soft knock on her door interrupted her. She sighed. First it had been Barthanes with that pointless monologue about sandwiches, what is it now? 

“Aunt Moiraine?” Guinevere asked, poking her head inside the room. “Am I interrupting you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Moiraine started explaining, turning around, but the girl had already walked into her room, with a box in her hands. The skin around her eyes was red, and her cheeks flushed, as if she had only just stopped crying. Why does it affect her so much? Hard as she might try, Moiraine couldn’t understand how a crush had the girl feeling so miserable. She was a smart, driven child, an Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah, carrying the weight of its ring on her finger, with far better prospects to look forward to than simply a man. Just pull yourself together. 

“Oh,” Guinevere muttered, freezing on the spot, her face contorting into an uncomfortable pout. 

Moiraine’s irritation softened at the sight of the child’s distress. “It’s alright,” she sighed, setting aside her quill, “what is it?”

“I- I just have a handful of things I wanted to give back to you,” Guinevere explained, hesitantly walking towards her, “some books and other things I’ve taken from your room,” she said, cheeks burning red in embarrassment, “and the little music box… anyway, I thought I ought to return them to you.”

Moiraine stared at the girl, her heart clutching at the thought of Guinevere searching for things in her room during her absence. Of her daughter trying to reach for her in some way, and felt a pang of both guilt and longing. You shouldn’t. She has Anvaere. She’s done a much better job as her mother than you could’ve ever done, she’s given her everything you would’ve never been able to. Moiraine hadn’t forgotten what happened the last time she’d let herself get too attached to the girl. The mission is all that matters. 

“You can leave it on the floor,” Moiraine said, turning around, focusing on the blank piece of paper in front of her. There was a heavy silence, and Moiraine could feel Guinevere’s hurt. She could practically hear the girl’s heart breaking. The guilt gnawed at her, but she kept her back to the girl, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts.

“Oh… alright,” Guinevere whispered, the sound of the box being softly placed on the floor echoing towards her, “I’ll leave you, then.” 

“Hm.” Moiraine hummed, fighting back tears. She heard the girl walk away and the door close behind her, only to hear it burst open mere seconds later.

Light give me strength, what does it take to have some peace and quiet in this house?

Moiraine turned around, a tired frown crossing her face at the sight of Anvaere rushing toward her. “Sister, I haven’t slept, I—”

“Sometimes I wonder how we all fell for it.” Anvaere exhaled, rage evident in her voice, a fizzing bottle about to explode. “My daughter… your daughter only wants to get close to you. My son worships you. As I worshipped you, as Father—

“Don’t.” Moiraine interrupted her, her mouth pursing into a thin line with the bitter taste of both anger and sadness at the mention of the man. She had too much on her plate already, thinking about him would only push her further into the ground, steering her away from the only thing that mattered: Rand. 

“He asked for you, you know.” Anvaere confessed, stubborn tears filling her eyes, each word a rusty knife embedding into Moiraine’s stomach. “He was dying, and I was there, holding his hand, and he just kept asking for you. We sent word to the White Tower. You knew that he was dying, and that the only thing he wanted was you. You knew. What was so important that you couldn’t come home and hold your own father’s hand while he left us? That you couldn’t raise your own daughter by yourself, and chose to ignore her all of her life? I know you never cared for me, but you loved him. You always loved him. And I thought Guinevere at the very least would keep you closer to home. What was so important, Moiraine?” Her little sister asked, voice full of anger, but her eyes frowned with curiosity, pleading for an answer, searching for something that would put her mind at ease. Yet another time her sister would become disappointed by her. 

The seemingly younger woman refused to give her an answer, choosing instead to lower her head and start writing on the fresh piece of parchment. 

Anvare took a deep breath, not stirring her gaze away from her sister. “I want you out of this house and out of this city, tomorrow.” She demanded. “You will hurt her, us, no more, Moiraine.” With a final punitive pat to the chair, her sister turned around to leave.

Moiraine was enraged. Not at her sister, not at anyone in particular, but she just felt so angry, so miserable, so overwhelmed and yet so void of any other emotion but anguish, and before she even realised she was standing up, threatening her sister with words she did not mean, words she would never put into motion. “I am the eldest sister.” She declared. “I am the Damodred heir, and this house is mine if I wanted it. You, your son, and your daughter are here by my good grace.”

Anvaere stood under the door’s frame, clutching on its handle. She looked at her as if she were a complete stranger, someone she used to know but could trust no more. “You got none of what made him good, Moiraine.” She replied, her voice soft but her lips laced with poison. “None of it. You are Mother, through and through.” 

Moiraine followed her sister's steps, angrily slamming the door close behind her. Breathing heavily, she leaned against the closed door, feeling the weight of her sister’s words crushing down on her. She knew Anvaere was right. She knew she had failed Guinevere, failed their father, failed herself. But the mission had always been more important. It had to be. Siuan’s face came to her mind. I’ve sacrificed everything for it. 

Returning to her desk, she picked up her quill once again, staring at the half-written letter to Siuan, ink blurring and smudging under the silent tears she had so hard tried to bury. I truly am sorry, Anvaere. She had become nothing but a creature bound by duty, after all. 

“Dearest Siuan,” she wrote on a fresh paper, her lips quivering but her handwriting steady, “something has happened to me…”

That night, as she was allowing herself a moment of quietude, Moiraine was startled by someone’s screeches. Guinevere. Moiraine jumped from her chair, her heart pounding in her chest so forcefully she was sure it would drop still any second, and followed the girl’s shrieks towards her room. She violently opened the door, her fingers automatically searching for something she couldn’t reach anymore, not being able to prevent a frustrated groan from leaving her lips, when she spotted the girl in her bed. Guinevere was sitting up, gasping for air, her hair and chest drenched in sweat. 

“Guinevere,” Moiraine asked, almost running towards her, anguish palpable in her voice, “Guinevere what is it? Is it Lanfear?” She asked, reaching for her, one of her hands gripping for dear life on the girl’s forearm, as the other caressed her face, thumb rubbing on her cheek. The girl’s skin was burning like a flame. 

“N-no,” Guinevere replied, shaking her head, struggling to catch her breath, “it’s just an old nightmare.”

“Are you sure?” Moiraine asked, cursing herself for not foreseeing it, for being so reckless. She’d dragged the child into her mess and now she was bound to it. “Are you sure Lanfear didn’t hurt—

“Guinevere?” A voice asked from behind. Moiraine didn’t need to turn around to know it was her sister. 

“Mother,” the young girl whimpered, eagerly extending her arms towards her. Anvaere rushed to her side, pushing Moiraine to the side in the process, and embraced her daughter between her arms. “Shh,” she soothed her, “shh, it’s alright, I’m here now,” she added, leaving a kiss on her forehead. “Light, Winnie, you're burning up!”

“It- it’s fine, it was just the nightmare.” Guinevere explained, her voice shaky. 

Moiraine stepped back, feeling a pang of jealousy and sadness. She wanted to be the one to comfort Guinevere, to hold her and reassure her that everything would be alright. But she couldn’t. She had given up that right long ago.

“Do you want some tea, Winnie? It will help calm your nerves,” Anvaere asked softly, brushing damp hair away from Guinevere’s forehead. Moiraine remained at the edge of the room, feeling like she was intruding on a moment that wasn’t hers to share.

“No, no,” her hand lazily brushed her off, “I just want to go back to sleep, if that’s alright.”

“Do you want me to stay here until you fall asleep?” Anvaere asked, in a sweet voice. 

“No, I… I’d really like to be left alone, please.” The child motioned towards her nightstand, as if to pull something towards her, but her hand found nothing but emptiness, eyes filling with tears. “Please.” She repeated. 

Anvaere hesitated, leaving one last kiss on the girl’s forehead. “Alright, dearest. Call if you need anything else.” Guinevere nodded, as she slowly reclined against the pulling, raising the covers up to her chin. 

The two women left the room, Anvaere shakily closing the door behind them. She stared at Moiraine, and opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something to her, but closed it again. Her little sister turned around to leave, but Moiraine stopped her. 

“Does this happen often?” She asked, quietly. 

Anvaere turned around, eyes hooding under concern. “Ever since she was a little girl.”

“Do you know what she dreams about?”

Anvaere shook her head. “She’s never wanted to share them with anyone. Torvin was the only one that got her to calm down. Him, and that music box of yours.” 

Moiraine hummed, nodding to herself as her sister returned to her chambers. Maybe there was something else to Guinevere’s silly crush on Rand. She let out a sob, just thinking about the girl being somehow intertwined by the Pattern to Rand, that was too big a task, too heavy a burden for a little girl. 

By the next morning, Moiraine had made sure that Guinevere's music box was back on her nightstand.

Moiraine opened her eyes in a frenzy, not having even realised she’d fallen asleep, haunted by images of Guinevere crying, of Barthanes’ hurt expression, of her sister looking at her with enough anger and resentment her heart ached at the mere reminder. Anvaere was right, she had behaved awfully. Towards her sister, her nephew, her daughter… not daughter, niece. That’s everything she’ll ever be to you. But the night before she had somehow managed to sit down and write that forsaken letter, and once Siuan was updated, she would know which steps to take, she would know how to continue. It was her opportunity to brush aside for a moment any thoughts about Rand, about the prophecy, and make things better, before the mission inevitably drove her away from home once again. 

Moiraine got up from bed, warm beams of sunshine dancing over her skin, and put on some fresh clothes, pulled her hair in a simple fashion, and stared into the mirror. Rest had suited her well: her eyes were no longer sunk in dark circles, her skin was brighter, her eyebrows rested easily on her forehead. She gave a reassuring nod to herself, and got out of her bedroom, letter in hand, looking for Jhonas. 

“Ah Jhonas,” she called for the older man, intercepting him in the hallway, “this letter needs to be delivered to Anaiya Sedai, of the Blue Ajah. She’ll get it where it needs to go.”

“Of course, milady.” The man dutifully nodded, as he carried on with his way. 

Moiraine started walking towards the dining room, following the soft voices echoing down the hall, smiling to herself. She’s so happy here. 

“Stop it, Barthanes!” Guinevere’s voice playfully scolded her brother. “I am not wearing that dress for your wedding.” 

“But you’d look darling in it,” he joked, “I believe there’s something about the extravagant ruffles and almost blinding shade of pink that’d really make the shade of your eyes pop off.” 

“You’re being silly,” Guinevere laughed, “let’s make a deal, I’ll only wear that if you wear a matching suit.” 

“Oh, you wouldn’t catch me dead wearing something like that.”

Guinevere exploded in giggles that died out the second Moiraine softly knocked on the door, letting herself into the room. The two kids, they really aren’t kids anymore Moiraine, abruptly went quiet, looking at her with a cautious expression. 

Barthanes, always the diplomatic one, stood up, to greet and invite their Aunt into the table, while Guinevere remained still in her place, refusing to look up towards her. Good. She’s still angry at me. That’d make things easier once I have to leave again.

“Barthanes, I owe you an apology,” she rushed to say, before her nephew had any chance of initiating fake pleasantries, “I owe you both an apology.” She added, directing her gaze towards the young girl, who shyly met her eyes. “The truth is I’ve been a terrible visitor, and a worse aunt. Guinevere I’m very grateful for your… help, these past evenings, and taking the trouble of gathering my things… truth is, they’re yours to keep now, I’d like for you to have them.” Guinevere pursed her lips into a soft, yet somehow strained smile. She’s as untruthful as Siuan. “And Barthanes I do remember your sandwiches were… and are very good.”

Barthanes reluctantly nodded at her, hurt evident in his eyes still. “I think you’ll make a wonderful king, Barthanes,” she further admitted, “kind and thoughtful. As you have always been towards your family, you’ve been a better older sibling to Guinevere than I’ve ever been to Anvaere. You’ll make a king to make our house proud.”

Barthanes smiled at her, genuinely this time, and he hesitantly walked towards her, opening his arms to embrace her. Moiraine awkwardly, yet surprisingly eagerly, returned his hug, something inside of her yearning for touch, for love. “Oh,” she couldn’t help but to whisper, overwhelmed by such a display of emotions. 

“The Amyrlin Seat is here, in Cairhien,” a voice said, as Anvaere entered the room, “with fourteen Aes Sedai, and she’s demanded an audience with you. With both of you.” She added, staring at Guinevere, worry spreading through the girl’s expression. 

Moiraine grimaced. Siuan was there, and it couldn’t have been because of her letter, which was most probably still on the servant’s hand. Lan.

*********

Author's note: I know this is such a short chapter, but I really wanted to get these events from Mo's perspective. I'm also aware she might come off as mean but I truly believe that's how she was feeling, I tried putting into words the hell she must have been going through. That doesn't excuse her being so awful, but hopefully it comes out as realistic. Next chapter is finally a Siuan poc, but it will also be short one, before continuing the story with the main pov, that is Guinevere's. I hope you enjoy this chapter! I appreciate all comments so much thank you.

Chapter 5 here!