#Their instincts are honed unnaturally

[the-gateway-to-madness]

Oh HECK yeah. I call this the Gravity Falls principle, just because GF is one of the best-known Slightly Off-Kilter towns (even though it's not even remotely close to the first or earliest example). Its Slightly Offness also goes both ways, slightly magical and slightly horrible, so it encapsulates this- vibe? trope? idk- super well. It's one of my favorite things in modern TV shows- when a town has the GF principle, when that weirdness has just always been built into the roots of the place, when the people there are part of the town and also the town has slowly leeched into the people. It's not portrayed as explicitly horror, really, but if you squint- or if you're an outsider who doesn't know how the locals live and adapt -the sense of normalcy that the human brain is designed to apply to anything it's used to, which the locals use to survive, will start to crumble.

I feel like Arcadia Oaks from Tales of Arcadia and Amity Park from Danny Phantom, if they existed in the same universe, would both be weird, but like, in opposite ends of the spectrum.

Like, Arcadia sits on top of a primordial hearthstone, the last one and also the biggest. Magic radiates throughout the town. Everyone who lives there is a little more in tune with nature. Everything and everyone is just a little too perfect. Everyone’s a little to pretty. They live a little too long. Their eyes sparkle with something more. Their streets are too clean and outsiders feel like they’re walking into a dream when they visit. It’s almost eerily enchanting.

Amity Park is on the opposite spectrum. Everything there is off. When comparing the two towns, people will notice a lot of similarities but they can’t quite put there finger on what makes Amity so off-putting. Everyone lives a little too long. Their eyes sparkle with something more. All of these qualities are shared between the two towns, but one is enchanting and the other is terrifying.

Either way, very few outsiders can stand to stay more than a few days.

[novaursa]

The Last Dragonslayer (The Lost Chapters)

- Summary: One last tale of the Dragon Queen and her Dragonslayer.

- Pairing: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. The conclusion of this story has been expanded by popular demand.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 000+

- Previous part: 2/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

Above the God's Eye

The wind howls above the God's Eye, where the skies churn with dark clouds. You can feel the heavy weight of your sword at your side, its hilt familiar in your grip, the legacy of your ancient order pulsing through the blade. Below you, the twisted expanse of Harrenhal rises, a testament to the folly of dragons and men. But your focus is not on the crumbled towers or the history beneath your feet. Your gaze locks onto the monstrous shadow circling in the distance—Vhagar. The largest, oldest dragon in all the Seven Kingdoms, her scales rippling like molten jade under the waning light.

Aemond Targaryen rides upon her back, his long silver hair streaming like a banner of defiance against the darkening sky. The patch over his eye gleams, a stark reminder of the hatred he harbors for you. You feel it as sharply as your own, a hatred forged in fire and blood. But there is something else beneath his fury—a fear he won’t admit, one that only you, of all people, can summon in him.

You stand tall on the back of your mount, the Banshee—a creature from the depths of the world, more beast than dragon, her long leathery wings blotting out the sun as she shrieks across the sky. It is a scream like no other, a sound that turns dragonfire cold, that sends a shiver of dread through creatures bred for conquest. Your Banshee is a nightmare made flesh, darker than the sky itself, larger than any dragon. Her glowing green eyes narrow with hunger, fangs bared in anticipation of the kill.

Aemond circles above you, tugging at Vhagar’s reins. His voice reaches you across the distance, carried on the wind like a taunt.

"Run while you still can, Y/N!" he bellows, his arrogance sharp. "You cannot hope to defeat the might of Vhagar. You will die like the rest of your kind—forgotten, a relic of Essos, your bones dust beneath dragon fire."

You say nothing in response, only urging the Banshee forward with the barest of commands. She roars, a chilling sound that cuts through the sky like a blade, and you feel the thrill of her power beneath you. A primal connection between rider and beast, honed through generations of bloodlines. Your people were not conquered by the Valyrians—they resisted, even as the Freehold rose in dominance. Dragons fell to your blades, your creatures hunted them to extinction in your homeland. The legacy lives through you, and today, it will be written in blood.

Vhagar turns, her massive wings unfurling as she prepares to attack. The ancient dragon’s roar echoes like a crack of thunder, but the Banshee is unphased. You’ve seen this dance before—dragons are always arrogant until they’re faced with something that terrifies them. Vhagar hesitates, her massive body trembling, but Aemond snarls and spurs her forward.

“Do it!” Aemond shouts. “Burn her alive!”

Vhagar releases a torrent of fire, but the Banshee dives beneath it with lethal speed, cutting through the air like a shadow. You’re already on the move, sword drawn, the ancient steel gleaming with deadly intent. The Banshee spins through the sky, her wings slashing at the air as she rises above Vhagar, letting loose another scream, one that rattles even your bones.

Vhagar falters. The sound is too much, too unnatural. She tries to retreat, her instincts urging her to flee, but Aemond yanks on her reins, refusing to give in to fear.

"Fight, you stupid beast!" Aemond’s voice is filled with desperation now, but you can see the fear in his remaining eye. He knows, even if he won’t admit it.

You push the Banshee into a dive, the wind screaming past you as you close the distance. Vhagar rears back, trying to snap at you with her massive jaws, but the Banshee is faster, more agile. She lashes out with her talons, sinking them deep into Vhagar's neck. Blood erupts from the wound, spraying the sky in a crimson mist. Vhagar roars in agony, thrashing wildly as she tries to shake the Banshee off.

Aemond’s curses are drowned out by the sound of his dragon’s suffering. He clings desperately to Vhagar’s saddle, struggling to maintain control as the Banshee rips into her flesh with relentless ferocity. Your sword flashes, and you bring it down in a deadly arc, slicing through the thick, leathery membrane of Vhagar’s wing. She howls, the injury throwing her off balance as she plummets toward the lake below.

But the Banshee is not done. She dives again, her jaws locking around Vhagar’s throat, and with a sickening crunch, she rips it open. Blood pours from the wound, a river of hot, steaming liquid that paints the sky red. Vhagar's struggles grow weaker, her mighty wings faltering as she begins to fall. But even as her life fades, the Banshee does not stop.

Her jaws clamp down on Vhagar’s still-beating heart, ripping it from the dragon’s chest. The wet, sickening sounds of flesh tearing and bones snapping fill the air as the Banshee devours it whole. You watch as she tears into the liver next, blood drenching the sky as she feasts on the dying dragon.

Aemond, thrown from the saddle by Vhagar’s final thrash, scrambles to his feet on a small outcrop of rock. His once-proud visage is now twisted in disbelief, covered in the blood of his dragon. He stares at you, fury and fear mixing in his violet eye.

"You—" he starts, but he doesn’t get to finish.

With one swift motion, the Banshee turns her gaze toward him. Her glowing eyes lock onto him, and she lets out a low, rumbling growl. You don’t need to give the command. She strikes like a predator who knows her prey, her jaws snapping around Aemond’s body. His scream is brief, cut off as the Banshee crushes him with a sickening crunch. Blood spills from her mouth as she devours him, piece by piece.

It’s over in moments.

The skies are quiet now, save for the distant echo of your Banshee’s final shriek as she consumes the last of Aemond’s body. You sit atop her back, your heart steady, your breathing calm. The blood of Targaryens, of dragons, stains the air, marking the end of one more chapter in this endless cycle of fire and blood.

You lean forward, resting a hand on the Banshee’s neck as she licks her blood-soaked jaws. "Let them remember this day," you whisper. "Let them remember what happens when dragons challenge those born to slay them."

The wind carries your words across the battlefield, to the ashes of a dragon that once ruled the skies, and to the man who thought himself invincible.

The Dragon Prince and the Dragonslayer

The courtyard of Dragonstone is alive with the distant sound of waves crashing against the rocky shore, the wind carrying the salty tang of the Narrow Sea. You stand in the center of the courtyard, sword in hand, its weight an old, familiar comfort. The sword is unlike any in Westeros—its hilt and blade adorned with intricate designs that speak of its Essosi origin. Passed down through generations of your family, it is a weapon forged not just for battle, but for the ancient art of swordplay, a style lost to time.

Luke stands before you, eyes wide and eager, his own sword gripped tightly in his hands. The boy has always had a fire in him, a determination that you recognize, but today there’s something more—a request that he’s hesitant to voice.

“Are you sure, Lucerys?” you ask, your voice calm but firm. “This isn’t something you learn overnight. It’s not like the training you’ve had.”

Luke’s jaw tightens, but there’s a spark of excitement in his violet eyes as he nods. “I’m sure, Y/N. I want to learn. I’ve seen you fight. It’s different. It’s... graceful but deadly. I want to be able to protect my family, to fight for my mother. Please, teach me.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. He’s young, still growing into himself, but there’s no mistaking the resolve in his voice. This is more than just curiosity—this is about loyalty, about becoming someone his family can depend on in times of war.

“Very well,” you say, stepping back and motioning for him to take his stance. “We’ll start with the basics. Forget what you’ve learned with the knights and their heavy blades. This style isn’t about brute force. It’s about precision, timing, and reading your opponent.”

Luke’s brow furrows as he shifts into the stance he’s been taught, but it’s rigid, his grip too tight on the hilt. You circle him, the soft clink of your sword against your thigh the only sound between you.

“Relax,” you say, tapping his shoulder lightly. “Your sword isn’t a hammer. Loosen your grip. Feel the flow of the blade, not the weight.”

Luke adjusts, trying to mimic your posture, but it’s awkward, his movements still tied to the way he’s been taught to fight. You stop in front of him, reaching out to gently correct his grip, your fingers wrapping around his wrist as you guide him into position.

“Think of it like a dance,” you instruct. “You move with your sword, not against it. Watch.”

You take a step back, lifting your own sword. With a fluid movement, you swing the blade in a graceful arc, slicing through the air with precision and speed. It’s a dance, each movement flowing into the next, your feet shifting lightly on the stone floor. Luke watches, mesmerized by the ease with which you wield your sword.

“See?” you say, coming to a stop, the sword resting lightly at your side. “You let the blade guide you. Don’t fight it. Let’s try again.”

Luke nods, determination etched on his face. He takes a deep breath, mimicking your movements as best as he can, but there’s still hesitation in his swings. You step in close again, showing him how to shift his weight, how to flow through the movements instead of forcing them.

“You’ll get there,” you assure him, seeing the frustration flicker in his eyes. “This isn’t about being perfect right away. It’s about learning how to adapt, how to use your opponent’s strength against them.”

For the next hour, you guide him through the basics, correcting his stance, showing him how to strike with precision rather than power. There’s sweat on his brow, but he doesn’t complain. He listens, he watches, and slowly, you begin to see the change. His movements become less stiff, more fluid. There’s a natural grace in him that surprises even you.

"Like that?" he asks, a hopeful glint in his eyes after a particularly well-executed swing.

You nod, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Better. You’re learning quickly. But remember, this isn’t just about the sword. It’s about the mind. You have to stay calm, even when the battle rages around you.”

Luke nods, his expression serious. “I’ll keep practicing. Thank you, Y/N.”

You sheath your sword and place a hand on his shoulder, giving him an approving look. “You have the heart for it, Luke. That’s what matters most. But don’t forget to take your time. Don’t rush what you’re not ready for.”

As you speak, the familiar sound of footsteps catches your attention, and you turn to see Rhaenyra approaching from the far end of the courtyard. She’s draped in black and red, her long silver hair billowing slightly in the wind. Her eyes fall on you first, and then on Luke, her expression softening as she watches the two of you together.

"Mother," Luke greets, sheathing his sword and offering her a small smile.

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingers on him for a moment before she turns to you, a faint smile playing on her lips. “I see you’ve been giving Lucerys lessons. Did he beg, or did you volunteer?”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “He asked, and I couldn’t say no. He’s determined. He wants to protect you.”

Rhaenyra moves closer, her gaze flicking between you and Luke. There’s pride in her eyes, but also a deep, unspoken worry. The war is heavy on her shoulders, and she knows what it means for her children. She steps closer to Luke, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

“You’ve made me proud, my son,” she says softly, her voice filled with warmth.

Luke looks up at her, the boyish smile returning to his face. “I’ll keep practicing, I promise.”

Rhaenyra kisses his forehead, then turns to you as Luke takes his leave, retreating to practice on his own. The courtyard feels quieter now, the air between you charged with a different kind of energy. Rhaenyra’s eyes meet yours, and there’s a softness there, a connection that has grown stronger with each passing day.

“You’re good with him,” she says, her voice quieter now, intimate. “He looks up to you.”

You step closer, close enough to feel the warmth of her body in the cool evening air. “He’s strong, Rhaenyra. He has your spirit.”

Her eyes search yours for a moment, and then, without hesitation, she closes the distance between you, her hand coming to rest on your arm, fingers trailing lightly over your skin. There’s a softness to her touch, but also a weight—a trust that goes beyond words.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “In this war, in this chaos… you’re my constant.”

You reach up, gently brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, your fingers lingering there, caressing the soft curve of her jaw. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promise, your voice firm but tender. “I’ll fight for you. Always.”

Her lips curl into a soft smile, and then, slowly, she leans in, pressing her forehead to yours. There’s a peace in this moment, a stillness in the midst of the storm that rages beyond these walls. You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of her, feeling the warmth of her so close.

“You are my heart,” she whispers, her breath warm against your skin. “And I am yours.”

You don’t need to say anything in response. The bond between you is deeper than words, forged in fire and blood, stronger than any sword. You stay like this for a moment longer, lost in each other, before she pulls back slightly, her hand still resting against your cheek.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she asks softly, a playful glint in her eye.

You smile, your fingers brushing over her hand as you nod. “I’ll be waiting.”

And with that, she turns, the lightness in her step a stark contrast to the heavy world that surrounds her. You watch her go, the warmth of her touch still lingering on your skin, knowing that no matter what battles lie ahead, no matter what enemies rise to face you—you will always stand by her side.

The Past Lives

The winds howl across the dark, jagged cliffs of Dragonstone, but you barely feel the cold. Standing at the edge of the precipice, the sky overhead is filled with swirling clouds, dark and tumultuous. Your eyes, however, are not on the present, not on the sea crashing below or the distant lights flickering from the castle behind you. No, your thoughts are far from this place, far from this time.

You have lived many lives. Far too many.

The weight of it presses down on you now, like an invisible chain that has grown heavier with every passing century. There was a time when you had felt invincible, when the bond between you and your Banshee was something you had reveled in. Immortality was not something you had feared—then, it had felt like freedom. The blood ritual that had sealed your fate had been your choice. You had chosen to bind yourself to your Banshee, chosen the power and the bond that came with it.

But time changes everything. You had no idea, back then, what it truly meant. You couldn’t have.

Your mind drifts to the ancient ruins of Valyria, now long turned to ash, but once an empire of impossible might. You were there when the Freehold ruled the skies, when dragons cast shadows over cities, and sorcerers shaped the world with fire and blood. Your people, the Dragonslayers, had been the last stand, the ones who resisted the dominion of dragons. You remember the battles fought in the sky, the screams of dragons as they fell to your blades and the primal terror they felt at the sound of a Banshee's scream. 

But your people are long gone now, consumed by the same fires that once forged them. You watched as the Doom swallowed Valyria, watched as your homeland crumbled under molten rock and fire. You fought, you survived, but the world you knew died that day. And with it, everyone you had once called kin.

Empires rose after that. You saw them all—the Free Cities, the Rhoynar, even the rise of Oldtown and the Reach. You fought in wars, watched as kings claimed thrones and lost them, as cities were built and then turned to rubble. And you never changed. The world around you shifted like the seasons, but you remained. Unaging, unyielding, bound to your Banshee, your soul entwined with hers.

At first, there had been others like you, remnants of your order who had survived the fall of Valyria. You remember them vividly, their faces, their voices, their laughter. You remember the brothers and sisters you had once fought beside, who had shared your bond. But even they could not withstand the toll of immortality. One by one, they had fallen—some to madness, some to the blade, and others to the slow decay of time. And you had been forced to watch it all.

You close your eyes, the weight of centuries pressing in on you. The names of those you loved haunt your thoughts. Faces flicker in your memory, faces of people long dead, faces you cannot forget. It is a terrible thing to love when you cannot die. To watch those you care for grow old, wither, and pass on while you remain. It is a curse as much as it is a blessing, this immortality.

A sigh escapes your lips, and you feel the presence of your Banshee nearby. Her glowing green eyes watch you from the shadows, her dark, leathery wings folded against her massive body. She is a part of you, and you of her. The bond between you runs deeper than blood, deeper than any love you have known. Yet even she cannot ease the pain of loss.

You think of the lovers you have had, the fleeting moments of happiness in an otherwise endless existence. There had been many over the centuries—strong, beautiful souls who had entered your life like flashes of light. But they were always temporary. Mortal. You had loved them fiercely, but they all left you in the end. Not by choice, but by the slow march of time. You remember holding their hands as their eyes dimmed, feeling the coldness creep into their skin as life slipped away. And you, left alone again, unchanged.

Until her.

Your thoughts drift to Rhaenyra. She is different, and yet she is the same. The moment you met her, you felt the familiar pull of love, the warmth that you had thought long gone. You had tried to resist it at first, tried to keep her at arm’s length, knowing the pain that would come. But Rhaenyra—stubborn, fierce, and full of fire—broke down your walls, just as others had before her. Now, you are bound to her, not by blood or ritual, but by something deeper.

But Rhaenyra is mortal. Like all the others. And you know, in your heart, what that means. You know how this will end.

A part of you wants to run, to leave her before the inevitable comes. You know that one day, you will have to watch her wither, to see the light leave her eyes as it has with so many others. You will have to endure the agony of her loss, just as you have with everyone else you’ve loved. The thought of it terrifies you, more than any battle, more than any dragon. 

You hear the soft rustle of footsteps behind you, and you turn slowly, already knowing who it is. Rhaenyra stands at the edge of the courtyard, her silver hair catching the faint light of the moon. She looks at you, her eyes searching yours, as if she can sense the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind.

"Y/N," she says softly, her voice gentle, yet filled with concern. "What troubles you?"

You don’t answer immediately, instead letting your eyes trace her face, memorizing every detail—the curve of her lips, the strength in her gaze. You wonder how long you will have with her before time claims her as it has claimed so many others. How long before you are left standing alone once again, the cold shadow of immortality your only companion.

Rhaenyra steps closer, her hand reaching out to rest on your arm, her touch warm and grounding. "You’ve been distant," she whispers, her brow furrowing slightly. "Please, talk to me."

For a moment, you are tempted to pull away, to retreat back into the safety of solitude. But her eyes hold you, her presence a balm against the ache in your heart. You sigh, your voice low and rough when you finally speak.

"Do you ever fear time, Rhaenyra?" you ask, your gaze distant. "Do you ever fear the years slipping away, taking everything and everyone you love with them?"

Rhaenyra frowns, tilting her head slightly. "Of course I do. Time spares no one. But that is why we must live now, in the present. Why we must cherish what we have, for however long we are given."

You look at her, your heart heavy. "But what if time spares one of us, and not the other? What if I must watch you wither and fade, as I have watched others before you?"

Rhaenyra's hand tightens around your arm, her expression softening with understanding. "You have seen more than any of us can imagine," she says quietly. "But that is not our fate. Our fate is what we make of it, here and now. You have me, Y/N. And I have you. We cannot fear the future, not when we still have each other."

Her words are a comfort, but the ache remains. You close your eyes, leaning into her touch, allowing yourself to feel the warmth of her hand against your skin, the steady beat of her heart. For now, she is here. For now, she is yours.

But in the back of your mind, the shadow of time looms, reminding you of what is to come. Always watching. Always waiting. 

And you, immortal and unchanging, will face it again.

The Rogue Prince

The sun hangs low over Dragonstone and the courtyard where you stand, gently tending to the Banshee. Her massive form is hunched, wings folded tight against her body as you move your hands over her dark leathery skin, inspecting every inch. The creature is quiet, save for the soft rumble of her breath, her green eyes glowing faintly as she watches you with an ancient understanding. There's a bond between you, one forged in blood and ritual, something deeper than words or time. A connection that goes beyond mere companionship.

But that connection, that understanding, is not one shared by anyone else. Especially not by those who feel the primal fear that the Banshee's presence invokes. She is a thing of nightmares, a creature bred to strike terror in the hearts of dragons and men alike.

You hear the soft crunch of boots on the stone behind you and know, without turning, who it is. Daemon Targaryen, always light on his feet, his presence unmistakable even when silent. He has an aura about him, a sense of command that fills any space he occupies. Still, you sense a hint of hesitation in his steps as he approaches the Banshee, something unusual for the Rogue Prince.

“You must have lost your nerve, Daemon,” you call over your shoulder, the faintest hint of amusement in your voice. “I never took you for a man who hesitated.”

Daemon’s voice, rich and low, carries a mocking edge as he replies, “I don’t hesitate, Y/N. I’m simply weighing whether or not I want to be torn apart by your little friend here.”

You laugh quietly, running a hand along the Banshee’s side, feeling the strength of her muscles under her skin. “She wouldn’t tear you apart—at least not if I told her not to.”

Daemon steps closer, his eyes fixed on the creature before him. Even for a man who rides Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, there’s a certain respect—or perhaps a deep-seated fear—in the way he regards the Banshee. Caraxes is terrifying, yes, but the Banshee is something different. Something older. Something darker.

“She looks like she crawled out of the Seven Hells,” he mutters, folding his arms as he studies the beast. “Is there any part of her that doesn’t scream death?”

You glance at him over your shoulder, a smirk playing on your lips. “She’s not so bad once you get used to her. A bit like you, I imagine.”

Daemon chuckles, moving even closer. He stops just a few paces away, the distance between him and the Banshee still deliberate. Her green eyes flicker toward him, a low rumble vibrating through her chest, but she doesn’t move. You can sense her wariness, her innate mistrust of anyone but you, but there’s no aggression in her stance. Not yet, at least.

Daemon’s eyes shift from the Banshee to you, his expression turning playful. “Does that thing even have a name? Or do you just call her ‘Beast’?”

You roll your eyes, returning to your task of checking the Banshee’s wings. “She has a name. But you wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Wouldn’t I?”

“Not with that Valyrian tongue of yours,” you tease, glancing up at him. “It’s an old name, from my people’s language. Far older than any of your words.”

Daemon watches you for a moment, clearly intrigued. “Humor me. Let me hear it.”

You pause, running your hand along the edge of the Banshee’s massive wing. It’s a name that few have heard, fewer still have spoken aloud. A name passed down from generations of Dragonslayers, from a time when the world was different, when your people stood against the might of Valyria itself. You hesitate, knowing how the sound of it might unsettle even the most fearless of men. But then, Daemon is not most men.

You murmur the name softly, almost under your breath. It rolls off your tongue like a whisper of the wind, ancient and guttural, a sound not meant for human ears.

Daemon’s expression shifts as he hears it, his usual bravado tempered by something quieter, more thoughtful. “I see what you mean,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “I doubt I could manage that without a few drinks.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “I told you. But she knows it, and that’s what matters.”

Daemon’s gaze drifts back to the Banshee, the massive creature still watching him with glowing eyes. He inches closer, almost imperceptibly, as if testing his own courage. He reaches a hand out, hovering just shy of the creature’s leathery skin, as if waiting for some signal from you—or perhaps from her—that it’s safe.

“She’s not like a dragon, is she?” he asks quietly, his voice no longer teasing.

You shake your head. “No. She’s older than dragons. The Banshee is a predator, made to hunt them. Her instincts are sharper, more calculating. But she’s loyal, in her way.”

Daemon lowers his hand slightly, his fingers brushing against the edge of the Banshee’s wing. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t move, accepting his touch with a kind of reluctant tolerance. You watch him carefully, knowing that this moment is not just about him facing the creature—it’s about him conquering the fear she inspires. And for a man like Daemon, fear is not something he allows himself often.

“You know,” Daemon says, his tone lighter again, “I’ve always thought dragons were the pinnacle of terror. Now, I’m starting to think there’s something worse.”

You smirk, folding your arms as you lean against the Banshee’s side. “Oh, trust me, Daemon, there are worse things in this world than dragons. Much worse.”

He glances at you, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Like you?”

You tilt your head, your eyes meeting his. “Perhaps.”

There’s a moment of silence between you, the air thick with unspoken understanding. Daemon is many things—arrogant, reckless, fierce—but he is also perceptive. He knows of your relationship with Rhaenyra, has seen the bond you share, and yet he does not object. Perhaps he respects the connection, perhaps he knows that you and Rhaenyra are tied by something deeper than even he could touch. Or perhaps it is simply that he, like you, understands the burden of being more than what the world expects.

“You’re a hard one to figure out,” Daemon says, stepping back from the Banshee and folding his arms again. “But I suppose that’s why Rhaenyra loves you.”

You raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “And you’re not?”

Daemon laughs, the sound rich and genuine, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh, I’m an open book, Y/N. But you—you’re something else entirely.”

You shrug, turning back to the Banshee. “Maybe. Or maybe you just haven’t figured out how to read me yet.”

Daemon grins, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “Give me time.”

As he walks away, leaving you alone with your Banshee once more, you can’t help but smile to yourself. Daemon Targaryen may be many things, but fearful is not one of them. And perhaps, in some strange way, he understands you more than anyone else—because like you, he walks the line between power and fear, life and death.

And though the Banshee watches him with her glowing eyes, she too understands.

The Dragon Queen and her Dragonslayer

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was silent, save for the soft crackle of the torches lining the walls. The Iron Throne loomed before the gathered court, its jagged edges a testament to the power it represented. And seated upon it, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen—first of her name, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. She had worn the crown for years now, her reign hard-fought and blood-soaked. The weight of it showed in the lines that etched her once-youthful face, in the silver hair that had begun to streak with gray. But there was a strength in her still, the fierce fire of a Targaryen queen who had battled for her birthright.

Today, however, her thoughts were elsewhere. Far beyond the hall, beyond King’s Landing, beyond even the lands she ruled. They were with a memory—one that had haunted her for years. A memory of you.

The court was in session, lords and ladies arrayed before her, but she barely heard their voices. Her mind was with the last time she saw you, so many years ago now. You had saved her children, stopped the ships of the Free Cities at the Gullet, and then... vanished. You had promised to return, yet the days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, and still, you had not come back. Rhaenyra had waited, even when reason told her that you were lost. And still, somewhere deep inside, she had never stopped waiting. But now, so many years later, even the hope had begun to fade.

Until today.

“Your Grace,” a guard interrupted her thoughts, stepping forward with a slight bow. “There is a visitor at the gates. They claim to be a close friend of the Queen, though they come from distant lands.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed, her gaze sharpening as she regarded the guard. “A close friend? Who?”

“They would not give a name, Your Grace,” the guard replied. “But they were insistent. Said you would know them.”

Rhaenyra’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment, she felt the familiar pull of hope, a sensation she had long buried beneath the weight of her duties and losses. She composed herself quickly, her voice steady, though her pulse quickened.

“Bring them in,” she commanded, her tone betraying none of the sudden storm inside her.

The court murmured softly, curious at this unexpected arrival, but Rhaenyra paid them no mind. She sat taller on the Iron Throne, her hands gripping the arms of the seat, her breath catching in her chest. Could it be? After all these years?

The great doors swung open, and the guards entered, flanking a figure draped in the travel-worn garb of distant lands. Your steps were measured, slow, as you crossed the hall. The torches flickered as you passed, casting shadows on your face, but Rhaenyra’s eyes never wavered. She knew you. She had never forgotten.

It was you.

You looked exactly as you had the day you left her—unchanged, untouched by time, your features sharp and ageless. Your eyes, those eyes she had known so well, gleamed with the same strength and wisdom that had captivated her so long ago. Your movements were graceful, as they had always been, as if the weight of the world did not cling to you as it did to everyone else.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat as her world tilted, the very axis of her reality shifting with your presence. Her mind struggled to grasp what her heart already knew—that you had come back. You hadn’t aged a day, while she had grown older, while years of ruling, of loss, had worn her down. And yet, here you were, as if time itself had no claim over you.

You stopped before the Iron Throne, your gaze meeting hers, and for a moment, the years fell away. You bowed your head slightly in respect, but there was a knowing smile on your lips, a look that spoke of secrets shared, of a bond that had never truly been severed.

“Your Grace,” you said, your voice like a familiar song, one Rhaenyra hadn’t realized she had been longing to hear. “It has been a long time.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened around the arms of the throne, her heart racing as she fought to find words. “You...” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, disbelief and something more—something raw and painful—tangling in her throat. “You’ve come back.”

“I promised, didn’t I?” you said softly, your eyes never leaving hers. “I always keep my promises, Rhaenyra.”

At the sound of her name on your lips, something inside her broke. She rose from the Iron Throne, descending the steps slowly, her eyes locked on yours as if afraid that if she looked away, you might vanish again. The courtiers, the guards—none of them mattered. In this moment, it was just you and her, and the years that had stretched between you dissolved like mist.

When she reached you, she hesitated for a brief second before raising a hand to your cheek, her touch tentative, as though testing if you were real. The warmth of your skin, unchanged, made her heart ache with a mixture of relief and pain. She had waited so long.

“You haven’t aged,” she murmured, her voice low and filled with awe. “Not a day. How...?”

“I told you, Rhaenyra,” you replied, gently taking her hand in yours. “The bond with the Banshee—it comes with a price. Time doesn’t touch me the way it does others.”

Her eyes searched yours, filled with emotions too tangled to name. “And yet... you left. You didn’t return.”

“I had to protect your children,” you said softly, regret flickering in your voice. “And then, I couldn’t come back. There were things I needed to see, places I needed to go. I didn’t want to drag you into the curse of my immortality.”

Rhaenyra’s breath hitched as she heard the pain in your words. She had lost so much—friends, lovers, even family. But you... You had been her constant, her anchor in the storm. And now, here you were, offering her a path she had never imagined.

Your fingers gently entwined with hers, your grip steady and warm. “Come with me,” you whispered, your voice filled with the weight of centuries, with the promise of something beyond the world she knew. “I’ve seen worlds beyond this one, Rhaenyra. Places that would take your breath away. Let me show you.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze dropped to where your hands met, and for a long moment, she was silent. She thought of the realm she ruled, the Iron Throne that had been her father’s, her birthright. The crown that weighed so heavily upon her head. But then she thought of the years that stretched ahead—of the loneliness, the losses yet to come. Of the children who had grown, who no longer needed her in the same way.

Slowly, deliberately, Rhaenyra reached up and removed the crown from her head. It felt heavier than it ever had before. Without a word, she dropped it at the base of the Iron Throne, the clatter of metal against stone echoing in the silent hall.

She turned back to you, her lips curving into a smile that was filled with a rare lightness, a freedom she hadn’t felt in years. “I’m ready.”

Without hesitation, you took her hand, your grip firm as you led her away from the throne, away from the court, away from the world that had bound her for so long.

And that was the last time anyone ever saw the Dragonslayer or the Dragon Queen. The court whispered of their disappearance, of how the crown was left behind, a symbol of the queen who chose love and freedom over the weight of a kingdom. Some said they went east, to lands beyond Essos, to realms where dragons and gods walked side by side. Others said they were never seen again because they left this world entirely, into places where neither time nor death held sway.

But in every corner of Westeros, in every whispered legend, one thing remained clear—Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, had found her heart once more. And she had followed it beyond the edge of the world.

[vanderdyks]

We dont talk enough about the fact that Goku wasnt born strong. Gohan, Vegeta, Broly, Goten, Trunks... all born with innate strength. But Goku... Goku was weak. His entire life growing up, there was ALWAYS someone stronger than him.

For a saiyan to be outmatched by earthlings... ridiculous. But he was. Several times over. Every bit of strength Goku has, he had to work for, train relentlessly for. Its easy to forget because hes so strong now and continiously comes out ahead. But thats the POINT.

Vegeta grew up knowing he was the pride of the saiyan race, born strong, elite, a prodigy. He was hopelessly outmatched by frieza and some of his army, but for a saiyan, vegeta was the strongest (or so he believed).

Because the saiyans put so much belief into power you were born with, power you were destined to have. You either had strength or you didnt. And Goku didnt. So he was third class. His destiny wasnt power, it was weakness.

Its why Vegeta is so constantly thrown off by and therefore obsessed with Goku in the beginning. Because how could someone born so weak be THIS strong? It didnt make sense.

Then we have Gohan, born with incredible hidden reserves of power. Unlike Goku, Gohan was born with potential. His strength was always there. And sure, he had to work incredibly hard to unlock it but its a story arc we keep seeing repeated with gohan. Either its unlocked with anger or someone unlocks it for him (the grand elder, old kai, etc.)

And then Goten and Trunks, both super saiyan by the age of 7. Power came EASY to them. It was as natural as breathing. Goku, Vegeta, and even Gohan all struggled to reach super saiyan. It took a toll. But Trunks and Goten take that power from literal legend and make it a game.

No one has ever had to work as hard as Goku to achieve strength. And you can argue with me on this all day long if you want to. He didnt have hidden powers. There were no hidden reserves, no one to unlock his innate abilities. When he was a child, his unnatural strength compared to human made him special. But for a saiyan, goku was one of the lowest of their race.

Every bit of strength, every morsel of power in gokus body, was built through training. He didnt unlock hidden potentials, HE CREATED them. Its why Goku is the mortal who figures out how to unlock ultra instinct. Because he almost never won a battle purely based off a sheer power, no. Goku had to be smart, needed to be clever. He was forced to hone technique just as much as power, was taught by all his masters the importance of harnessing his mind as well as his body. He grew up meditating, sensing energy, learning not to rely on his eyes, but all his senses. He was training to filter out his own extra unnecessary movements all the way back when he first met Korin and then later again with Kami.

Goku lost fights a lot. All the time. But everytime he lost, he learned. Because he was forced too. Because when Goku lost, there was no backup. He was it. And so he would HAVE to come back stronger, have to find the way to win. Or everyone would be dead.

Maybe its just me but i just think theres something incredibly special about a saiyan labeled as "weak," a saiyan no one bothered to pay any mind to being the first to become legend. He avenged their entire race. That little boy with a tail, born with a power level of 2, became the strongest of them all.

[earthlybeam]

I was just rereading your “reader saves their life” stories, and it made me wonder about Legolas in that situation. Would you mind writing one for him? If you did, and I didn’t see it, I am so sorry to be a bother!

I don’t mind writing, it’s no bother to me so don’t worry 😉 but enjoy sweetie ✨🫶❤️‍🔥

how would the elves react to this?

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Legolas Versions below (I did two versions so enjoy) ✨🫶❤️‍🔥

✨🍃🏹 𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼 🏹🍃✨

𖧧 Almost Stabbed by an Orc in Mirkwood While patrolling the borders of Mirkwood, Legolas is caught off guard by an orc, who almost strikes him with a spear. The reader/you intervenes, knocking the spear aside and dispatching the orc just in time.

𖧧 The air in Mirkwood was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. Legolas moved through the shadows with the grace of a predator, his eyes scanning the forest with practiced ease. His senses were honed to an extraordinary degree-nothing could escape his notice. Yet, even with his heightened awareness, a fleeting moment of calm distracted him as he caught sight of a deer moving through the trees. Its coat shimmered like silver under the moonlight, and for just a heartbeat, Legolas allowed himself to admire the beauty of it. But as quickly as the peace arrived, it vanished.

𖧧 A faint sound, barely perceptible, reached his ears—a disturbance in the stillness of the forest. Instinctively, Legolas snapped his head up, alert. His eyes darted to the shadows, every muscle in his body tensing. His trained ears caught the faintest whisper of movement, but it was too late. The orc emerged from the darkness with unnatural speed, its grotesque face twisted into a snarl, and the spear was raised high, aimed straight for him. The attack came so quickly that Legolas barely had time to react. The spear grazed his arm, and the force of the blow knocked him off balance. His hand instinctively reached for his bow, but it was too late to stop the strike. It seemed like the battle would end before it truly began, the orc poised for the killing blow. But then, in the blink of an eye, the situation changed.

𖧧 A blur of motion erupted from the darkness-you. With a swift and precise movement, you intercepted the orc's spear, knocking it aside with a sharp crack. The orc, unbalanced by your intervention, staggered back. You didn't hesitate. In one smooth motion, you dispatched the orc with a clean strike, the body collapsing to the ground in a heap. Legolas, still catching his breath from the narrow escape, turned to you. His wide eyes reflected a mixture of astonishment and profound gratitude. In that moment, he saw you for the first time, fully aware of the skill and timing that had saved him. His heart still raced, but the immediate danger had passed, leaving only the electric tension of the battle that had almost been lost.

𖧧 "You..." Legolas' voice was steady, though there was an undeniable hint of awe in his tone. His gaze softened as he looked at you, an unreadable expression in his eyes. He was still processing what had just happened-how someone had stepped in at the perfect moment, effortlessly shifting the course of the battle. "Your timing is impeccable. I could not have fought that orc off in time." You stood beside him, calm and collected as ever, while Legolas felt the adrenaline start to ebb from his body. His posture relaxed, though his admiration for you remained. His lips curled slightly into a small, grateful smirk, despite the tension still lingering in the air.

𖧧 "I owe you my thanks... and perhaps a little more than that," Legolas continued, his tone warm, his presence now more aware of yours than ever before. His eyes lingered on you, clearly captivated by your actions, the way you moved with such fluidity and skill, so unshaken even after such a close call. He brushed his hand over the cut on his arm, the pain already fading as his attention shifted back to you. The injury was minor, but the intensity of the moment lingered longer than the physical sting. He looked at you with a gaze full of admiration. You had been there for him, not just as a companion but as someone who was more than capable in the heat of battle. The suddenness of your intervention caught him off guard, but now he was left with nothing but gratitude and, perhaps, a growing sense of connection.

𖧧 "I had hoped to find peace in these woods tonight," Legolas mused softly, his voice low but with a touch of humor. "But I find it even more delightful when shared with such a... timely companion." There was a fleeting, almost imperceptible pause as he took another step closer to you. His presence seemed to draw in the space around him, his usual air of confidence tempered by the vulnerability of having been saved. The bond between you both, formed in the heat of battle, felt even more powerful in the quiet aftermath, a shared understanding of what it meant to fight side by side. In the dim moonlight, the forest around you seemed to recede, leaving only the two of you standing amidst the aftermath.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

𖧧 Hunted by a Pack of Wargs Legolas and the reader/you are pursued by a pack of wargs, and during the chase, Legolas is nearly caught. He is momentarily knocked from his horse, and one of the wargs is about to strike. The reader/you arrives just in time, cutting the warg down and pulling Legolas to his feet.

𖧧 The thundering of hooves echoed through the dense forest as Legolas urged his horse onward, his heart pounding in rhythm with the frantic galloping. The pack of wargs was relentless, their growls and snarls reverberating through the trees as they closed in, gaining ground with terrifying speed. The beasts were swift, their dark forms darting between the shadows, and despite his elven agility, Legolas knew they would not tire easily. He could hear the thundering behind him, a promise of death that echoed in his ears. His grip tightened on the reins, urging his horse to move faster, but he could sense the pack’s proximity—feel the air shift as they stalked, patient and deadly. It wasn’t just one or two of them; there were many. The sound of their paws on the earth was a growing chorus, each step a reminder that escape was a fleeting hope.

𖧧 The moment Legolas glanced over his shoulder, his sharp eyes caught the gleaming teeth of the closest warg—a massive beast, its yellow eyes locked onto him. It was a mistake. The warg surged forward, faster than he could have anticipated. Legolas’ horse, startled by the sudden movement, reared violently, throwing him off balance. His heart leapt into his throat as he tumbled from the saddle, hitting the ground with a jarring thud. Pain shot through his body, but there was no time to dwell on it. His hands scrambled for his bow, but it was too late. The warg was upon him, its growl a terrifying, guttural sound as it lunged forward, jaws wide, aiming to finish what it had started. Legolas’ breath caught in his chest, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as if his fate had already been sealed.

𖧧 But then, there was a blur of motion—you. In an instant, you were there, a flash of steel cutting through the air with deadly precision. The warg’s snarling jaws were split open in a single, clean strike, and the beast crumpled to the ground in a heap, the life draining from it as its body fell limp. Legolas, still reeling from the fall, was pulled to his feet with surprising strength, your hands steadying him. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he glanced up at you, his eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and gratitude. The air around them was thick with tension, the sound of the remaining wargs still hunting, but for that moment, Legolas was focused only on you. For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, catching his breath, his gaze locked on you as he regained his balance. His body ached from the fall, but the rush of adrenaline coursing through him was far more intense than the sting of his injuries. He was alive—because of you. Legolas’ eyes softened with a deep sense of gratitude, and despite the danger still lingering, his lips curled into a small, appreciative smile. “I thought I might be lost to the pack,” he said, his voice low, edged with a touch of awe. “You saved me.”

𖧧 He straightened his stance, feeling his pulse slow, though the threat was not yet gone. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his usual composure now touched by a vulnerability he rarely allowed to show. His admiration was clear in the way his eyes held yours, the subtle shift of his posture as if he were finally acknowledging something beyond the battle—the connection forged in the heat of survival. Though the hunt was far from over, Legolas felt a quiet, unexpected sense of peace in that moment, knowing that he was not alone in this chase. Not anymore. “Come,” he said softly, the command clear but gentle. He extended a hand toward you, his smile now tinged with something deeper—gratitude, trust, and a bond formed in the most dangerous of circumstances. “We must finish this together.”

[jadegretz]

Kitana: Secrets of the Edenian Throne by Jade Gretz

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a spectral glow over the crumbling ruins of the palace of Edenia. Kitana stood alone on a dilapidated balcony, her sharp eyes scanning the desolate landscape below. The wind rustled through the overgrown gardens, carrying with it the faint, eerie whispers of the past. Kitana felt a shiver run down her spine as she tightened her grip on her fans. Tonight, something felt different, as if a shadow from her past was about to emerge from the depths of the Netherrealm.

The night had been quiet for too long, and Kitana's instincts, honed through centuries of battle, told her that danger was imminent. She had felt a growing sense of unease for weeks, a subtle prickle at the back of her mind that warned of an approaching threat. Now, as the chill of the night deepened, she knew that the time had come to face whatever darkness lay ahead.

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the garden, and from the shadows, a figure emerged. Cloaked in tattered robes, it moved with an unnatural grace, its eyes burning with an unholy light. Kitana's breath caught in her throat as she recognized the spectral visage before her.

"Kitana," the wraith hissed, its voice echoing with a chilling resonance. "It has been a long time."

"Sael," Kitana replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her heart. "I thought you were gone for good."

The wraith stepped closer, its twisted smile sending shivers down Kitana's spine. "You thought wrong," it said, its voice dripping with malice. "I have returned to claim what is mine. You betrayed me, Kitana, and now you will pay for your treachery."

Kitana's mind raced back to the time when Sael had been a powerful sorcerer, one who sought to overthrow Edenia and seize its throne. She had defeated him in a brutal battle, banishing his soul to the Netherrealm, where she believed he would remain trapped for all eternity. But it seemed that the dark forces of that cursed realm had granted him the power to return, driven by an insatiable hunger for revenge.

"I did what I had to do to protect my people," Kitana said, her voice …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[fairy-heart-magic]

More Dragon Slayer Headcannons

Uhh holy shit the last one blew up like crazy, so here I guess have more dragon slayers being creepy.

Because they have more air in their lungs they can hold their breath for a stupidly ridiculous amount of time, they’re also excellent swimmers.

They have really dense bone structure but hollow air filled bones so they’re all extremely sturdy, they also have much denser muscles which leaves them unnaturally strong.

The more they use their dragon slayer magic, the more dragon like they become both in physical appearance and personality as over time it starts to slowly show up in their personalities, they become territorial and protective of what they deem to be ‘there’s’, they growl at people as a warning to back the fuck off, they bear their teeth as a sign of aggression, as for the physical their eyes will take on an unnatural glow, Natsu’s becoming orange like embers glowing in the darkness, Laxus’s become electric yellow, Gajeel’s become like brownish rust red and so on, their teeth become longer even the way they walk and carry themselves becomes more inhuman, they way they fight becomes like that of a beast only not wild, extremely intelligent and cunning to a frightening degree.

They naturally seek out their own element, almost like a honing instinct, Laxus tends to travel towards storms, while Natsu often travels as much as he can to hot places where fires are likely to start, Gajeel always visits a city’s junkyard, Rogue always finds his way to dark, pitch black caves while Sting always climbs to the highest sunniest peaks he can to bathe in the light, Wendy frequently visits high up or isolated mountains to be closer to the sky.

Dragon Force effects more than just their magic, it also effects their personality and they can become almost completely different people entirely retaining only their base most present thoughts from before hand with their instincts often telling them to do one thing only; defeat whatever enemy is in front of them.

They’re also in part nocturnal which is both inherited from their magic and because it was how they where raised, while it varied from dragon to dragon, most preferred to hunt and move at night-time due to the fact less humans where active at night and they could see perfectly well in the dark which made avoiding humans easier. Both Laxus and Erik are also semi-nocturnal because of this and most dragons slayers find it difficult to sleep at night as their brains are hard wired to be active during the period most humans are sleeping. The only acceptation to this is Sting who while he can use his magic in the dark, it doesn’t work nearly as well as it does in the day time.

They heal at an incredible fast rate, almost double the spend of a normal human. Though they can’t regrow limbs or anything like that, this incredible healing ability makes it easier to survive severe injuries and wounds. Laxus however using electricity can stimulate the cells in a particular area to heal even faster than other dragon slayers however overusing this technique leaves him severely exhausted and if he used it too much he’ll overload his entire nervous system and just collapse.

That’s about all I can think of for now, I hope you guys like them and feel free to use or reblog if you want.

[jjsmaybank20]

Carol Danvers taking someone in like a younger sibling figure, and them (reader) trying to constantly make it seem “worth it” to Carol and getting really injured when on a mission? Just really angst and found family worry, please?

Worth It

Carol Danvers x GN!Teen!Reader

Summary: Carol takes you in, but when you try to prove that her choice was worth it, you get seriously hurt.

Warnings: angst, you kind of die for a second (but you're okay), happy ending

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: Sorry this took so long! Hope you like it.

navigation  marvel masterlist

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When Carol found you sleeping on a bench in a park on Earth, she decided that she would try to help you. Not to her surprise when she woke you up, your fight or flight instincts immediately kicked in. The thing that surprised her was when you used just your mind to throw the closest thing to you at her, which happened to be the very bench that you had just been sleeping on. 

After you realized that you had just launched a bench at an Avenger, you apologized profusely. Carol had just smiled and told you that no one had ever thrown a park bench at her before which had made you laugh nervously. 

After talking for a few weeks, meeting up in random places, Carol offered to train you and give you a home with her on her ship. You eagerly accepted, jumping at the chance to not only finally have a home, but have one with your hero. 

Living with Carol was easy, and you finally felt like you had a family and someone you could rely on. But what comes with not having that feeling of security for so long is the nagging doubt that it could get taken away at any time. You lived with the fear that Carol would get tired of you, or that she would find you useless and kick you back onto the streets. 

Because of this fear, you constantly made an effort to make life as easy as you could for Carol, and to try to prove your worth to her every day. You would do your assigned chores as well as some of the older blonde’s, you would make meals whenever Carol even just hinted at not wanting to, and you trained harder than you ever have to hone your powers and prove that taking you in wasn’t a mistake.

After much begging and pleading, Carol finally relented and let you join her on a mission. When the two of you landed on the planet that you had gotten a distress signal from, you tried to shake off any remaining nerves. This was your big chance to prove yourself. 

---

When Carol knocked out the last attacker, she called out for you. Having lost you in the scuffle, she wanted to make sure that you were okay. When she didn’t get a response, a sense of panic began to fill her chest. She whipped her head around, hoping to spot you upright and okay. Her eyes passed over an unnatural lump, but she didn't process it for a second. When she realized that the lump is your unconscious body, she flew towards you as fast as she could. 

The blonde superhero collapsed on her knees next to you. She shakes you, gently at first, but then more aggressively when you still don’t react. She felt tears begin to well up in her eyes, but she knew that if she lost it now, there was surely no hope for getting you to where you need to be. She picked you up, holding you in a bridal carry as she flew back to her ship. She gently placed you down on her bed as she frantically called Fury. 

When he picked up, he immediately recognized the panicked look on her good friend’s face as well as spotting your limp stature in the background. He quickly sends over the coordinates to the S.W.O.R.D. Space Station, and Carol desperately found the nearest jump point. 

After she hurriedly docked her ship, the tall blonde practically sprinted towards the medical center of the space station. Any person who got in her way was faced with the deadliest glare they had ever been on the receiving end of in their life. 

When Carol bursted into the center, the medics got straight to work. They took you out of her arms and began to run tests on you. You seemed to be stable, filling Carol with short-lived relief. Suddenly, the heart monitor you had been hooked up to started beeping rapidly before going completely flat. 

The doctors jump into action, calling out all different codes and getting the crash cart ready to revive you, but when Carol sees them shock you for the first time she instinctively tries to run towards you. When she tries to move, someone is holding her back. She fights with everything in her, kicking and yelling for them to let go and let her go to you, to let her go to her little one. 

At some point she realizes that it is Fury himself holding her, and she finally lets herself break down. She turns and sobs into his chest, prompting the taller man to wrap his arms around her and hold his friend close.

He lets Carol cry into him until she can calm down slightly. Fury rubs her back comfortingly, the two sitting in an anxious silence. Carol sits up quickly when she hears the medical center doors open, and she watches with worried-filled eyes as one of the doctors comes towards the pair. 

“She’s still unconscious, but she’s stable.” This news is enough to make Carol burst into tears again, except this time they were tears of relief. The doctor gives her a second before he softly asks, “Would you like to come sit with her?” The blonde nods, still wiping the ever-flowing tears from her cheeks. Fury guides her up and into the room, where Carol unceremoniously collapses into the chair next to your bed. 

She grabs your hand and squeezes gently, firmly promising, “I will be here when you wake up.” 

It’s quiet for a while, and the tall blonde begins to drift off. She jolts awake when she hears your voice, rough from not speaking, rasp out, “Carol?” You groan in pain when she pulls you into a tight hug, and she pulls back quickly, apologizing softly. 

You look into her eyes for a second before you burst into tears, causing Carol to panic again. “What? What is it? What hurts?” You just shake your head, trying to gasp out an apology but your sobs restrict you. 

You take a while to calm down, but when you do, you quietly say, “I’m sorry. I failed you. You shouldn’t have taken me in in the first place, I’m useless.” You keep your eyes trained on your lap, not wanting to meet Carol’s own eyes. 

Carol feels her heart clench when she sees how small you’ve gotten, and she quickly climbs into the bed next to you. She puts her hand under your chin, tilting your face up to meet her eyes. “I am not mad at you. I wouldn’t have been able to complete that mission without you.” She pulls you into a hug, this time a lot more gentle. “Taking you in was one of the best things I have ever done. You don't need to earn a home with me, okay? You already have one.” 

You nod into her shoulder, finally letting yourself accept that you had found your family. When Carol pulls back, she takes your face into her hands. “Let’s let the doctors take a look at you one last time, and then we can head on home.” She smiles at you, and you can’t stop your lips from ticking upward. Home. You liked the sound of that. 

---

@lovelyy-moonlight @pnsteblnme @alotofpockets @theenglishswiftie @hehehehannahthings @didyoubringauntienat @natashamaximoff-69 @marvelwomen-simp @wanhedakomskai

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[bubble-popping]

snippet #1 of (almost) daily writing bc idek honestly

If asked, Techno wouldn't be able to explain how he found himself in his current situation. He was trapped on the couch, squished between two small blondes and held down by the soft comfort of a multicolored quilt.

Punz curled under his left arm, ear occasionally flicking due to Techno's breath and hands bunched into fists just below their chin. He drooled in his sleep, softly snoring. Dream, however, laid unnaturally still. His only signs of life were the steady rise and fall of his chest and the death grip he had on the front of Techno's shirt. Sometimes, he twitched and frowned, which Techno learned meant he was having a nightmare. Thankfully, it simply took a little shake and nuzzle to make him settle down.

He wasn't complaining, not in the slightest. He wouldn't have it any other way. Sure, it surprised him too when he realized how much he liked Punz since he'd had a crush on Dream for Prime knows how long, but they fit just as snugly in Techno's hold as Dream did.

Still, in these moments of peace and quiet when sleep just eluded him no matter what he tried, he had to wonder. Truthfully, so much happened in just the past couple months that it made his head spin thinking back on it...

The night Punz arrived on his doorstep kicked off everything. They'd shivered in clothes ill-equipped to handle the Arctic air, further proving his utter desperation. Most of the details were fuzzy now, something about being hired for a job that led to them inadvertently learning of Quackity's 'activities.' They needed help, they needed Techno's help. How could he refuse those puppy-dog eyes?

But, it was his idea for them to stay. It was game night for the Syndicate; the best place to be on the server in Techno's humble opinion. And despite how much persuasion it took to finally get him to join, Techno could see they'd make a perfect fit in the group. Not to mention their help was vital in breaking Dream out, given his intimate knowledge of the place and planning. (At least, that was what Techno assumed at the time, something that turned out to not be as true as he thought, which begged the question of why they agreed...)

He got along well with everyone, amicable if a bit stiff. Definitely an introvert, so Techno made it his mission to include them in everything, his own introversion be damned. Gradually, the tightness in his limbs loosened and they relaxed. He even laughed at some of Techno's little jokes--in a scoffing, eye-rolling, head-shaking kind of way, but still. And once Techno introduced them to the bee farm, it was over. All their nervousness disappeared as they fawned over and tended to the insects, getting grass stains on their jeans and honey stuck in his hair.

That was probably when Techno fell for them hook, line, and sinker. A wolf hybrid, all sharp canines and pointed ears, predatory instincts honed to track and kill almost anything. Yet, he had kneeled in a bed of flowers, smiling and gushing over how precious the tiny creatures were. Small enough to fit in their palm, to be effortlessly squeezed to death without a second thought, only for them to carefully guide it to the fragile petal of a tulip.

Techno wasn't given much of a chance to do anything but fall in love.

Then, there was Dream. Dream was... Techno could go on for hours to describe everything he adored about the man. Pretty green eyes, his slowly returning freckles, that wonderful wheezing laugh. So easy to fluster, to get a beautiful shade of red on his cheeks and a shy smile on his face. Again, that started long ago, practically since Techno joined the server.

[illusivesoul]

A new chapter of my Femslash February 2022 fics, a year later lol. Morrigan/Leliana angsty smut.

Words: 2076 Read it on AO3

The flame engulfed the tip of the incense rod. Waiting a moment for the fire to warm it, Leliana blew into it to put it out, and the red hot tip of the rod emanated a powerful scent that began filling the rookery.

The spymaster sat against the stone wall, eyes closed as she let herself be enveloped by the smell of the incense and the warmth of the candles, though the comforting gaze of the statue of Andraste gave her all the warmth she needed.

She had come to value these moments in the dying hours of the day. All the crows were away, and they would begin arriving as soon as the sun started to crest over the horizon. Her agents were resting or away on missions.

.

For a couple hours, she would have the comforting silence she had come to enjoy, with only the moonlight that crept through the clouds and the window to keep her company.

She would have the silence and shadows that had become her home.

Closing her eyes as she kneeled in front of Andraste, she let the words fill her mind.

"The army of the faithful gathered before the gates of the city

Wept openly. And from among them voices raised

In threnody for Andraste wreathed in flame.

Though the fire enveloped her like a shroud, and the heat from the blaze

Reached across the field, Andraste was silent and did not cry out.

And the legionnaires who stood guard nearby

Were shaken, and began to whisper among themselves:

"Is she truly the servant of a god?"

The loud caw that rang across the rookery made the verses of the Chant vanish from her mind, and she instinctively found herself holding her dagger in front of her, her mind and body honed to confront threats at any moment should they arise.

Yet her eyes found nothing but the emptiness that had been her comfort just moments before.

A loud swooping sound was heard, and darkness enveloped the room as the candles were snuffed out, with only a few rays of moonlight preventing the darkness from completely overtaking the rookery.

Another caw, and when the brief noise of a spell vanished, a familiar presence made itself felt.

“I can smell you, witch”

“But can you see me, nightingale?” The voice whispered by her ear as a cold hand placed itself softly on top of her eyes, blocking her vision as another softly wrapped itself around her neck, the unnatural cold creeping into her skin making it clear that there was magic at work.

Leliana felt her resolve waiver, her grip on the dagger loosening as her hands fell to her side as Morrigan’s mouth found her neck, making a desperate gasp leave the spymaster’s lips as a deep kiss that would surely leave a mark was etched into her skin.

And the sensations stopped.

Opening her eyes and swiftly turning around, she was met by a smirking Morrigan , a large black robe covering all of her body and a half smile set on the witch’s face, enjoying the anger she saw rising on the redhead’s face.

“So predictable. You always did have that weak spot on your neck”

“Why are you here, Morrigan?”

“Must we play this game every time, Leliana? We both know I’m not here to join you in your praying to a statue and your silent maker” 

Leliana’s gaze followed Morrigan as she started to pace around the rookery, her long fingers tracing the shape of the now darkened Andraste.

"Shouldn't you have already run back to Celene's side? She must miss you greatly. I know she's found quite a lot of uses for your tongue, most of which go far beyond advice on the magical and the arcane"

Morrigan let out a brief but loud laugh "The Inquisition's dreaded spymaster jealous of the empress of Orlais? My, my. Jealousy is such an unbecoming trait, Leliana. I do understand your frustration though. I imagine being the left hand of the Divine and a woman of faith doesn't let you use your tongue in the ways that you so much enjoy" 

Morrigan's eyes drifted to the dagger in Leliana's hand, seeing the fingers tighten around its handle before she sheathed it.

"Would you have preferred that I'd be advising the Inquisitor instead? So we could gaze angrily at each other and exchange barbs during the strategy meetings? Getting you all worked up so that you can then push me into the many dark corners of this castle and…"

“Get out”

“The Inquisitor told me how you described me. ‘She's ruthless. Capable of anything’. Surprised you didn’t tell him that I ate children and set towns on fire for fun. Though you’re not one to tell stories anymore, from what I’ve heard”

“As if I would need to exaggerate to describe your… wickedness. I merely made the inquisitor aware that he should not let his guard down around you. The rotten apple doesn’t fall from the tree, after all” Leliana replied as she stepped closer to the witch.

Morrigan huffed, but Leliana noticed the way the witch’s fists clenched “Looks like your tongue hasn’t dulled. Shame you hardly put it to use other than to pray to the nothingness”

“You’d do well to leave now”

Morrigan leaned into the statue, and with a subtle movement, the robe partly opened, letting Leliana see enough to make whatever resolve she had left vanish.

“Make me, spymaster”

Those who oppose thee

Shall know the wrath of heaven.

Field and forest shall burn,

The spymaster's gauntlets hit the ground as Leliana pushed Morrigan against the wall, their mouths locked into a fiery kiss that made them both gasp loudly for air. This was the part that the witch always enjoyed the most, seeing Leliana's barely contained anger transform into unbridled passion. She pushed the woman's head downwards, Leliana gasping in pleasure as her lips moved from Morrigan's neck to the space between her breasts. Her head lingered there. Morrigan softly kneaded the red hair, and they didn't move for a moment. Too soft, too intimate, too vulnerable for her liking.

She nudged Leliana's head to the side, and the woman wasted no time in capturing a hardened nipple in her mouth, her hands softly grabbing the breast and massaging it. Morrigan closed her eyes and gasped as she listened to the pleasured sounds coming from Leliana as her lips and hands did wonders on her tits.

She knew how much the redhead enjoyed this, and she in turn took her pleasure out of hers.

The seas shall rise and devour them

The witch raised her hips to make them meet Leliana’s hungry mouth as the spymaster kneeled in front of her. The mouth that by now knew every fold, mark and line spot of her skin. The redhead placed one leg over her shoulder, placing some quick kisses on the stretch marks that adorned her stomach before burying herself in Morrigan’s core.

Morrigan moaned, letting out loud groans that filled the rookery as Leliana's fingers toyed with her soaked folds, her face buried in the black mound of hair between her legs, taking every scent and drop that came from the woman.

Morrigan buried her hand in the woman's red hair and pulled her back, Leliana's needy and wanton filled groan as her mouth parted from Morrigan’s fold making the witch’s knees feel weak. The sheer look of despair and want in the redhead's blue eyes as she met Morrigan’s along with the glow of wetness that covered the lower half of her face made a shiver go up and down the witch's spine.

Leliana tried to move forward, but Morrigan pulled her back, drawing out another groan in frustration from her before letting her finally plunge in once more.

The wind shall tear their nations

Leliana gasped against the cold stone as Morrigan held her closely from behind, her armour coming undone with the swiftness that only familiarity could bring.

Her legs spread, and the cold air coming through the roof brushed against her skin, but the feeling was soon drowned by Morrigan's fingers slipping inside her, curling upwards and reaching that spot that made the spymaster's knees weak at the same time as the woman’s other hand reached around her and began softly rubbing her engorged clit.

The redhead pushed against Morrigan, their bodies being as close as they could be, their moans uniting and turning into the symphony that they had grown accustomed over the years, a music that was only meant for their ears.

“Say it” Leliana demanded amidst her moans.

“Make me say it”

Leliana grabbed the back of Morrigan’s head and turned hers to meet her eyes “Say it, Morrigan”

“I… I love you” The witch answered, follow immediately by a curling of her fingers inside Leliana and another brushing of the woman’s clit, making the spymaster dissolve into a trembling mess only held upright by Morrigan’s grip.

They laid down on top of the black robe on the ground as Leliana’s climax passed, Morrigan enveloping the two of them in a comforting magical warmth that made the cold mountain wind vanish from her minds.

Morrigan moved her hand from Leliana, only for the spymaster to grab it and press it firmly around herself, not before planting a soft kiss on the palm of the witch’s hand. Morrigan placed a soft kiss on her neck as she held her tightly from behind, feeling the rhythm of their breaths moving in tandem as her eyes got lost in the full moons that shone their light over the two of them. 

“Are you still awake?” Morrigan asked after some time.

“Yes”

“Aren’t you going to ask about Kieran?”

“I want to, and at the same time I don’t.  You’ve made it clear that you don’t want me to be part of his life”

“I never said that”

“You did not have to. Your actions said it for you. He is already old enough to remember things, Morrigan. I’d rather he not think of me at all than be the woman he’ll see once every couple of years or once every decade when her mom decides to stop by. Because her mother is an egotistical, selfish…”

Morrigan felt her stomach sinking as she heard the pained hush Leliana let out, and she could tell without seeing that there were tears running down her face “Maker, you break my heart, Morrigan. Every time”.

Morrigan waited until enough time had passed, until Leliana’s breathing told her she was lost in the world of dreams before uttering words that only the 2 moons in the sky would listen “I am sorry, my love… for everything”

From the face of the earth,

Lightning shall rain down from the sky,

The loud caw that reached her ears made her eyes snap open as she stood, her heartbeat raising at the swiftness of her movement. As her vision cleared from the tiredness of sleep, Leliana saw several crows standing on the railing and near their cages, filling the air with their noises and with the small rolls of papers containing important information tied to their legs. 

"Morrigan?" Leliana asked as she stood, wrapping her arms around herself as the cold morning wind that entered through the open window brushed against her bare skin as the first rays of sunlight appeared over the horizon. 

She stood and took a few steps before noticing the large black robe on the ground. Wrapping it around herself, her eyes closed for a moment as the lingering traces of the perfume reached her nose.  The witch was gone. Leliana knew she wouldn't stay. She never did.

As her sight moved to the other side of the room, where the sunlight had started to shower the statue of Andraste. Yet this time, the statue's gaze gave no warmth, no comfort. Just an emotionless, cold, judging stare that Leliana felt it pierced the depths of her soul, so much that she had to turn her eyes away from it.

Once again she felt the sinking feeling in her stomach, the want to feel anger but only being able to feel regret, the constant longing that perhaps this time it would have been different, that perhaps this time… she would have stayed.

She knew better, yet she kept hoping.

"Morrigan?... Morrigan…"

They shall cry out to their false gods,

And find only silence.

[legobiwan]

Whumptober Salvage: Episode 1

I obviously did not do Whumptober this year as my October schedule was INSANE. Now that I have a good percentage of my life back, I want to make up for this, as I have some cool ideas and I need the challenge of writing on a schedule.

I can't guarantee that I can produce something every day, but I'm damn well going to try. Caveat that these shorts (ha, "shorts," they said, laughing) will be less polished than my usual work (much less edited, if at all), as I'm using this as an exercise to get my writing back in shape before tackling my larger projects.

Today's theme: Forced to Choose

Today's author commentary: This was supposed to be a short. It ended up just over 2,000 words.

Warnings: Major character death

~~~~~~~~~~~

Bleck is dead.

They’re out of options, out of time. The last gambit with the Pure Hearts was just enough to break through Super Dimentio’s shield, to make him vulnerable to attack. (It, not him, Mario reminds himself as he bounds forward, executing a messy somersault that delivers him a mere breath from the angry slam of a gargantuan boot that would see him flattened in an instant). 

It was a bizarre piece of irony that the loyalty of Bleck’s minions could resurrect the Pure Hearts for one last encore performance, that the same people who attempted multiple times to kill Mario and his friends, the ones who ushered in the end of all worlds without a second thought, the ones who corrupted his little brother - 

If they live through this, they’ll get no thanks from his mouth.

But that’s a thought for later, for when the dust had settled and the worlds remained standing. (The worlds would remain standing. Mario won’t let it end any other way).

Mario sprints towards a rectangular pillar, kick stepping his way to the top. He’s certain to plant a foot directly into the grotesque likeness of Dimentio’s smiling mask as he clambers upwards, landing on the narrow platform just in time to hit the decks as another one of Super Dimentio’s missiles flies over his head. 

Too close, he thinks, shoving himself upright on trembling legs.  

They need to end this now. Peach is waving her parasol, trying to attract the attention of the enormous creature as Bowser booms from behind, ricocheting from platform to platform until he’s near enough to unleash a torrid stream of fire aimed at the back of Super Dimentio’s head. 

It’s enough to send the creature staggering, if that’s what the spastic, jutting movements of the sickly elongated neck could be called. But Bowser’s retreat is too sluggish, the Koopa not quick enough to avoid the retaliatory swing of an iron foot to the gut that sends him hurtling across the blank room, Bowser crashing into the far wall with a thunderous roar.

There’s no time to think, the small opening possibly their last hope of survival. Mario acts on years of well-honed instinct as he summons Carrie and Cudge in quick succession, riding the little boxy platform straight into Super Dimentio’s face, rearing back with Cudge to deliver a devastating blow to the bridge of the gigantic monster’s nose.

The resulting shriek is like a thousand sharpened nails being drawn down a chalkboard, a screeching static that melts with the creature in real time, feet dissolving into bubbling, swirling puddles of acid, legs less collapsing than imploding, a house of skeletal cards upended, each joint falling to the ground with a hollow bounce. 

A line of tiny, fire breathing molecules eat their way up two-toned smock and white ruffles, leaving a disembodied neck and head to float freely over the empty floor for a long second before the creature’s head comes smashing down to earth with a horrid splat, the force of the collision cracking the monster’s jaw in two, the upper portion of the head now unhinged from its base, the gaping maw open at a wide, unnatural angle.

Mario slides to the edge of a crumbling platform, the echoes of Dimentio’s mask now wiped from the edifice. Gingerly, he hops to the floor, limping through the smoke-shrouded scene to join the Princess and Bowser, who are keeping a safe distance from the now-malformed mockery of his brother’s face.

“Is…is it over?” Peach asks, wheezy. She puts a hand on Mario’s shoulder. He’s not certain if it’s a gesture of comfort or evidence of the toll the battle has taken on her. “Did we -”

“Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha.”

Terrors seizes in Mario’s chest as the decapitated head of his brother laughs, the unhinged jaw popping and creaking with each pulsating syllable. Peach’s grip tightens on Mario’s shoulder, her fingers digging into sore, bruised flesh as she lets out a horrified gasp. Behind him, Mario can feel the heat rising from Bowser’s fiery exhalations, the Koopa grinding his fangs together as he lets loose a dangerous, guttural growl.

“You think this is the end?” Dimentio’s voice bounces off every surface of the high-ceilinged room in a nightmarish symphony of sing-song mockery. “This isn’t finished. The Count is dead. And there is only one means of escape.”

The jaw detaches even further, the upper piece of the head bending back with a tortured squeal of viscera and metal. There’s a low rumbling, the earth beginning to tremble beneath Mario’s feet. All at once, the head of Super Dimentio lets out a rusted, phlegmatic bark that seems to emanate from the invisible depths of a diseased chest, and with it, expels a soft, human-like object in a spray of gooey, greenish fluid.

Mario’s heart stops in his chest. “Luigi,” he whispers, breaking free of Peach’s iron grip to sprint towards the prone form of his brother. 

Please be alive. You have to be alive. Oh my God, please. I’ll do anything. 

Relief floods past spiky adrenaline as Luigi begins to stir, Mario covering the last distance between the two of them by sliding on his knees across the smooth, marble floors, coming to rest at his brother’s side. 

“Luigi?” He’s pawing at his brother’s chest, his legs, his face, Mario doesn’t know what he’s looking for or what he's even doing aside from trying to account for all the little bits and pieces that make up his brother, to hold Luigi together by sheer force of will, as if he were a broken vase just waiting to fall to apart.

“Mario?” His brother’s grey-green eyes focus on his own, the dreamy, half-hypnotized look now melted away in favor of sharpened anxiety. Luigi grabs Mario’s hands in his own, using his brother to leverage himself up to a sitting position. 

“Mario, what happened? Where are we, why am I - “

The words die in Luigi’s throat as his gaze lands on his own bloated, distorted image, jaw jackknifed away from the upper part of his skull, blackened moustache now seeping with a gooey phlegm streaked with crimson, the wide, unblinking eyes criss-crossed in impossible directions. 

The ground trembles again, this time with enough violence to send a set of pillars toppling into a pile of broken concrete, the linear shapes and angles of Bleck’s castle seeping trails of pustulent white down the dark walls of the chamber. 

“Oh my God,” Luigi rasps, shuddering.

“Ciao, Luigi,” the bodiless voice of Dimentio greets.

Luigi squeezes his eyes shut, grabbing at the sides of his head with both hands. “No. No, no, no. This can’t be real. It didn’t happen. None of it happened. You can’t be real!” he screams, bringing down a shower of debris from the cracked ceiling. 

“Careful, mon ami,” Dimentio chides with a small chuckle. “This reality seems to be contingent on your mood.”

Mario wraps a protective arm around his little brother. “It’s over, Dimentio. You lost.”

“Is it, though?” The mouth of the monster has stopped moving, frozen in a gaping expression of demented awe. Only the eyes remain animated, dark, swirling irises pinballing off the walls of jaundiced sclera in a chaotic polyrhythm. 

“One last surprise! Ah ha ha ha ha. I may be dead but the Chaos Heart is not. A piece of it lives on, and while it does, nothing can stop the end of all worlds!”

A thunderous crackle booms from outside the castle, the room, reality itself teetering to the side as chunks of marble and plaster cascade to the floor, revealing an open wound in the ceiling through which the violet eye of the Void swirls, tempestuous.  

Luigi grips his brother’s shoulders, his voice high with panic. “Mario, what are we going to do?” 

“We’re going to stop this, Luigi,” Mario grits. “Right here. Right now.” He turns towards the head of Super Dimentio. Black skin is peeling from its cheeks, an ear dangling to the side by a single string of flesh. “Alright you bastard. You’re obviously done for. Where’s the last part of the Chaos Heart?”

“Where else?” Dimentio laughs, the teeth of the monster now crumbling to dust one by one. “Inside its perfect vessel. Just as it was foretold in the Dark Prognosticus.” 

Reality phases in and out of a sickening double, a photographic negative overlaid with a collapsing present. Peach and Bowser scramble over to join Mario and his brother, Bowser shielding the brothers from the worst of the falling detritus with his shell, Peach unfurling her parasol, situating it as best she can over both her and Bowser’s forms.

“Whatever it is, Red,” he growls, “we gotta do it fast.”

Mario nods. “What’s the vessel?” he yells over the rising clangor, pushing his brother further into Bowser’s protective embrace. 

“You mean who is the vessel,” Dimentio cackles through half a disintegrating face. “It’s quite simple. Destroy the man in green.”

The man in…

Denial tears through Mario’s chest.

“Liar!” he screams, jumping to his feet, oblivious to the hailstorm of matter pelting his body. “You’re a fucking liar!”

There’s no answer to be had, the last physical remnants of Dimentio carried off by the whirling Void, the space the head had occupied now a congealed puddle of tarry emerald. 

“Shit!” Mario yells, leaping out of the way of a massive piece of scaffolding. Something grabs at the straps of his overalls, pulling him under one of the last standing arches, bright, fuchsia lightning setting the room afire with a violent crackle.

“Lou, what are you doing?” Mario demands, shoving his brother further into the shadowy alcove. “You could have been killed!”

His brother is silent, gaze fixed on the ashen floor. Outside, the tumult crescendos to a booming, percussive explosion, rattling the very foundations of the castle. Small wisps of violet are beginning to reach down from the heavens, each eddy scraping a few more atoms of reality with it.

Luigi locks eyes with his brother, biting his lip.

“Mario - “

“No.” He knows what his brother is about to say. What he’s going to ask Mario to do. He grabs his brother by the back of the neck, pushing their foreheads together. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Mario.” His brother cups either side of his face, a movement so gentle Mario thinks he might cry. “I remember it all. Everything. Let me - “ Luigi’s voice cracks. “I need to make it right.”

Something awful crawls up Mario’s throat, a tight, squeezing thing wrapping vice-like fingers round his vocal cords.

“It wasn’t your fault, Lou,” he manages to force out through a tangle of emotion. 

Luigi gives a small sob. “I still did it, though.”

A low moan sounds from the sky, a deep, bass drone not voiced by any creature of this existence, as if it were the fundamental tone of all of reality.

Mario slides his face into the crook of his brother’s shoulder. “I just got you back,” he croaks, wet. “I can’t - I can’t - “

“You can’t let the world end because of me,” Luigi says, petting the back of his brother’s head before gently guiding Mario to meet him eye to eye.

“Let me be the hero for once.” Luigi gives a watery smile. “I’ve got this one,” he says, giving Mario’s cheek a fond pat before turning to walk into the maelstrom. 

Mario stands frozen as he watches his brother walk away, his thoughts and emotions encased in a sticky amber, his body either unwilling or unable to put a stop to what is happening. As his brother reaches the edge of the threshold between safety and annihilation, he pauses to look over his shoulder. 

“I love you, bro,” Luigi says. 

All Mario can do is give a simple wave back. 

It will have to be enough. 

Luigi huffs out a small laugh, waving back in kind. “Ciao, Mario.”

His brother disappears into the rainbow-hued whirlwind, the world coalescing into a single point of darkness.

[theink-stainedfolk]

Unspoken

---

The night was colder than usual, with a chill in the air that seemed to creep under the skin and settle in the bones. Dacre Marsden had just finished a long shift at the hospital and was walking home, his mind still running through patient charts and medical cases. The streets were quiet, the city finally settling into its usual rhythm after a hectic day. He walked slowly, his pace unhurried, lost in thought, as his boots clicked against the pavement.

As he turned down the narrow alley next to his apartment building, something caught his eye—a figure slumped against the wall. The silhouette was barely visible in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, but it was enough to make him pause.

At first, Dacre thought it was just a homeless person seeking shelter. There were plenty of them in the city, each with their own story, their own struggle. But this person... there was something different about the way they were positioned, the way their body was twisted unnaturally, the jagged breath that barely reached his ears.

His instincts, honed by years of medical training, kicked in immediately. He moved toward the figure, heart beginning to race. “Are you okay?” he called out softly, kneeling down beside them.

The figure didn’t respond. It was a woman, her face partially hidden beneath a mess of tangled, dark hair. Blood streaked her torn clothing, and a few stray droplets stained the ground at her feet. Her body seemed limp, as though all the strength had drained from her. Her breath came in shallow, labored gasps, and her eyes were half-lidded, barely conscious.

Dacre’s mind raced. She’s been beaten. Badly. His eyes scanned the alley quickly, looking for any sign of what had happened. But there were no sounds, no other figures in sight. Just her and the quiet night.

He hesitated for only a moment before his training took over. He gently placed his hand on her shoulder, trying to turn her to face him, to see if she was still conscious. "Hey, can you hear me?" he asked again, his voice softer now, trying to gauge the extent of her injuries.

The woman’s eyelids fluttered open, just a crack, her gaze unfocused. A flicker of confusion and pain passed across her features before her head lolled to one side, and she fainted in his arms, completely unconscious.

Dacre cursed under his breath, panicking for a moment. He had to act fast. Her condition was dire, but she was alive—that much was clear. He couldn't just leave her here to bleed out.

Without thinking, he scooped her up into his arms, his heart pounding in his chest. Her weight was more than he expected, but he managed to hold her close, cradling her against his chest as he quickly made his way to his apartment. He lived above the small medical practice he ran out of his home, and it wasn’t far, but every step felt like an eternity as his mind raced. What happened to her? Who did this to her?

His mind also lingered on something else. The woman’s appearance—there was a hardened look to her, a certain sharpness about her features even in the state of unconsciousness. She didn’t look like someone who would end up in a back alley, battered and broken. Something about her was familiar, yet strange. The kind of person who kept their distance from the world but still seemed to fight against it.

He arrived at his apartment door, panting slightly from the exertion, and fumbled with his keys. Come on, come on, he thought desperately, before finally unlocking the door and stepping inside, the warmth of the room a stark contrast to the cold of the alley.

Dacre laid her down on the small couch, his hands shaking as he checked her breathing, relieved to find it steady, though shallow. He grabbed a wet cloth from the sink and began wiping the blood from her face, his movements gentle, as though he were afraid she might shatter under his touch.

As he worked, he noticed the bruises on her arms, the deep cuts along her side. It was clear she had been through something traumatic, something violent. She didn’t wear any jewelry, didn’t carry anything that might indicate who she was, and the roughness of her clothes—worn, weathered, and stained—spoke of someone who didn’t belong to any world he knew. A gang? Maybe. But there were no marks, no tattoos, nothing that stood out as a clear identifier.

Dacre felt a wave of anger build inside him—anger at whoever had done this to her. He didn’t know her, but the very idea of someone being brutalized like this, abandoned in an alley to die... it made his blood boil.

Her eyes fluttered again, and this time she was able to focus, though she still looked disoriented. She let out a quiet groan, her fingers twitching, as if trying to push herself up. Dacre gently placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her. "You’re safe now," he reassured her, his voice soft but firm. "I’m going to take care of you."

She blinked up at him, her eyes dark, filled with a wariness that didn’t belong to someone who had just been saved. She recoiled slightly, as if the very thought of him touching her was alien, unwelcome. Her lips parted, but only a low, pained sound escaped her throat, a futile attempt to speak.

"Don’t try to talk," Dacre said, moving to gather some supplies. "You’re injured. I need to get you patched up before you bleed out any more."

The woman’s gaze followed him as he moved around the room, but she didn’t say anything else, just watched him warily, eyes narrowing with distrust. Dacre could feel it—she didn’t trust him, didn’t trust anyone. She was used to pain, used to being left behind, discarded. He could see it in the way her body tensed at every sound, at every movement. But what struck him most was how she never asked for anything. Never begged, never pleaded. Just... survived.

As he cleaned her wounds and patched them as best as he could, he wondered about her—who she was, what had brought her here, why she had ended up in such a state. But for now, there were no questions. Only silence.

Finally, as he finished, he looked down at her again. She was quieter now, exhausted from the pain and the ordeal. Her breathing was steadier, but her body still trembled from the shock. Dacre sat beside her, his hand resting near hers, unsure of what to say, knowing nothing could fix the damage she’d endured.

"Just rest," he whispered, though he knew she might not be able to sleep. "You’re safe here."

She didn’t respond, but for the first time, Dacre noticed a faint shift in her expression—a tiny, almost imperceptible relaxation of her features. It was the closest thing to gratitude she had ever shown, and it was enough for him.

---

My ♡s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue @frostedlemonwriter-deactivated2

[qyburn]

Does Ole know how to fight? He looks like someone physically trained in the sense of combat, the jump in the gas station scene is very well choreographed (congratulations to Sam for the performance, even considering his height) - I'm a jiu-jitsu fighter and a ballerina, he did a jump very acrobatic in that scene, and I also imagine that he wasn't the type of hitman who kills you with a sniper, but the type who, if necessary, will go into brute force combat.

There's also the scene of him rescuing Dot from the well, Munch literally arrived with everything at Roy's henchman, unarmed and with only a knife (considering he had the knife that blinded Gator), I wanted to see the combat scenes with him, like we saw Malvo, Numbers, Wrench and so on. He seems very well trained to me.

(he seems to follow more of a stealthy style of combat)

ooo yes I love this question >:333

yes I do believe munch knew how to fight, though not formally. again, this is a situation where time is on his side; his own personal form of self defense that he's used for so long it almost resembles a discipline of martial arts were it not for how bestial & instinctive it is. at least with martial arts you can tell there was a before and after while the skills were honed, but munch has always needed to lash back at predators. its likeness to formal combat comes with his eventual incorporation of firearms combined with the pseudo-psychic knowledge he has of human behavior.

munch seems to prefer firearms as a last resort, though & doesn't appear to like relying on them. idk he seemed exasperated when he had to pull out the assault rifle in ep1, & when defending himself against gator in ep2, the scene clearly reads that he is the weapon, and not the pistol. age has not withered him but made him unnaturally strong and fast. thats more my headcanon since its feasible for a grown man to snap another grown man's wrist but learning of munch's supernatural origins adds that different flavor to his physical prowess.

im of the mind that munch's path to becoming a hitman was a complicated one rather than something he just picked up to survive. "a man is paid to soldier" but then he lays down his arms to go live with a community that welcomes him, until "the cannon & the musket" pull him back into solitude. i think thats when he starts using firearms as an extension of himself, to seek revenge. he probably had his own formal hunting skills, sure, but now that the significance behind those skills has been ripped from him, he wants to feed that cruelty back. bows & arrows become guns, and when he cant pick off his enemies from afar, he uses his hands and teeth. it might also be a form of punishment, like attaching a gangrenous limb to a stump. it provides you with temporary reach at the cost of poisoning you.

I thought it was interesting that he knew he was going to be ambushed the second he saw those men through the bushes & yet still followed gator to the shed (?) instead of incapacitating him before they turned the corner. I think he wanted to humiliate him, and, in turn, roy, by proving he's just as useless being supported by others as he is alone. kinda pretentious here so bear with me, but I also thought it was great that munch subdued gator by yanking his groin. a very good blink-and-you'll-miss-it instance of munch using the tillmans' masculinity against them.

the whole thing with dot's rescue will always be fascinating to me no matter what bc of all the unspoken layers leading up to it. munch went to the ranch with the intent of hurting gator, but somewhere along the way he sensed dot's presence, like he could smell her fear, and he followed it. from the way that one henchman was pulled, we can infer munch snuck up from behind, maybe from low ground, which would explain why the others didn't readily see him from their peripherals. that combined with his ferocity threw them off guard just enough that he could disarm them. instead of approaching them as another henchman, which he temporarily was, he rips them apart. instead of leaving dot to use the ladder, he checks up on her, remarks about the unfairness of her situation, and extends a hand. there is a clear thought process here, not entirely governed by animal instincts. he does sense the caged animal in dot, but the residual human in him desires contact and reassurance and the need to help, especially someone who's so like him that it haunts him. I've waxed on about it before but its so "stray animal learns to respect the human that feeds it" except he & dot weren't on that level yet. it was just a spiritual connection, one that was unequivocally necessary to act on. humans are social animals, but animals all the same, & that dormant part of his brain that yearned for love all those centuries was poked at, ironically, after being beaten in battle by this woman who was at her most animalistic. a prey animal turned predator.

[inoreuct]

Okay I actually have a few extra headcanons for this au (and the little ficlet I’m writing for you), so take them into account when reading lol (hope you don’t mind)

Zoro (when in human form) has two pairs of canines (not one, the extra pair sits behind the first. The first (normal) pair are quite large, and sometimes stick out of his mouth), and his teeth are all unnaturally sharp. Also, slit pupils because I said so. He also has tiger stripe prints on his back, although he normally excuses them as tattoos. Ears are slightly pointed, fingers more nimble, you know the drill. Moves and jumps way faster/higher than a normal person has any right to. Nails are similar to cats claws (as in, attached to the bone), and are incredibly sharp. The Tiger form is massive, and makes him look like some kind of spirit (sword + massive + green = not normal lol). Scars and the such transfer to each form. Side note, Zoro doesn’t really feel pain (or temperature for that matter), so it’s harder for chopper to treat him, because how does one treat something when the subject can’t feel it? Zoro is also really intelligent and perceptive, it just doesn’t seem that way because he has zero fucks left to give.

Hope your day is good my guy <3

IM SHAKING YOU SO HARD. WHAAAAAAT THE HELL THIS IS SO SO GOOD ALREADY.

i’m sat here hunched over my phone like 👀👀 I’M SO MAD I DIDN’T THINK OF THE SLIT PUPILS FIRST I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THAT and yes to the pointy teeth. he’s a bitey bastard with his crew already but he’s entirely capable of ripping someone’s throat out with those. and the TIGER STRIPES your brain is so HUGE. massive, dare i say. the increased speed, strength, agility— it’s not obvious when you don’t look closely but once you do it’s easy to see that he’s Not All Human. but i think his crew is almost a safety barrier against people reading too much into it, because zoro bickers and banters and lets them hang all over him, and it puts strangers at ease yk?

HE’S DEFINITELY BEEN MISTAKEN AS SOME KIND OF SPIRIT AT SOME POINT. THE WHOLE CREW GOT A KICK OUT OF IT a village thought zoro was a divine guardian or something and the entire crew got treated like royalty. usopp felt a little bad about not saying anything but the others were Capitalising and zoro was living his best life LMAO

and omg. i hate it when people pass zoro off as dumb or stupid because he is a dumbass but he’s not Dumb. he literally created his own sword style. his battle instincts are honed nearly sharper than his claws. he sits in the back of a room and seems antisocial but he is clocking EVERYTHING; who’s coming in and out of all the exits, where his crewmates are, any potential threats etc etc (also figures out exactly what booze they have by smell alone but let’s not enable him shall we)— the point is, he is intelligent, perceptive and he doesn’t seem like it, which makes him all the more dangerous. people look at him and see a blockhead with three swords, and the next thing they know they’re pinned to the ground with claws in their chest and fangs at their throat. he’s vicious and i love it.

ANYWAY I’M SO EXCITED TO READ THE FICLET YOU HAVE NO IDEA I’M DOING LAPS RN. this was so enjoyable to read already i literally can’t wait for the whole thing. HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY ANON 🫶🏼🫶🏼

[eclecticopposition]

@grand-magnificent keeps writing great stuff for Sunday Six, which we assume is a thing where you write six sentences (or more, as the case may be) and we thought we'd try our hand at it too. And if you want in, well, consider this your prompt to join in and tag us in whatever you make!

Great news, we're still Phrygian-pilled. Have some spooky shit with Figure in the dark.

-

Figure’s hand traces the wall as he follows the emergency lights through the Blue Channel. It’s dim but still lit enough to see by, and it's unusually quiet. Maybe everyone else was closer to each other when the power went out.

Hopefully nothing has gone the very bad kind of awry. That would spell trouble for everyone.

Idly glancing into the partly-open door of the much larger, much darker cargo hold, they don't intend to stop. They very nearly just close the door as they pass.

There is a sudden wrongness in his vision, and Figure jerks back in instinctive shock. 

Before him in the unlit cargo hold there is a shifting mass of metal, tall and unnatural. It is huge. It looks like a single many-fingered hand reaching out from nowhere, a living extension of the dark – a hand in caricature, a hand with too many fingers, a hand that dwarfs him easily, a hand that implies a body so vast it could not possibly fit in the ship. It is monstrous. The way it moves makes the room feel illusory. Dread prickles through him as he watches it creep upwards in silence, rising towards the malfunctioning lights.

Something got aboard the ship, I need to do something, is their first instinct. Figure has seen enough to have a honed sense of impending threat. He feels like he is not in his body, looking at this thing. Nothing seems quite right or quite real. It feels more like living in a memory of a nightmare, watching the nauseatingly impossible unfold.

They can't move. They’re frozen. All they can do is stare.

His eyes land on a familiar set of clothes. A velvet jacket, a white dress shirt, a set of fine black pants. The outfit is suspended on one cluster of the wires like a finger puppet. There's no head, no body – the cables pushed through them just keep going and going, a single finger of the hand, held still like a delicate afterthought. It holds a pair of dress shoes slightly off to the side, loose in a grip of cables. 

Cold horror floods them, and for one intense, unreal moment he is certain that this thing has done something to Phrygian, that it has taken their friend and they will never see them again, that it will wear their clothes like a discarded thing and he can do nothing, that–

And then the rest of his mind catches up, and his mouth moves before he can process what he's saying.

“Phrygian?”

The cables pause. Something in the room shifts. Figure doesn't know what – the metal body doesn't move to look at them.

“Oh,” says Phrygian’s voice. “Hello, Figure.”

Figure tries not to seem too relieved. “What's going on?”

“The power went out,” they say. “I just wanted to check.”

“Oh,” he says.

A brief hesitation, and then the mass of cables begins to shrink inwards, coiling and recoiling back into the clothes. “Sorry.”

“No, that's not–” He struggles for the words. “It's okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The whole cargo hold echoes a hum of acknowledgement, as Phrygian extends cables down from their pants into their shoes. It is done in a matter of seconds. Phrygian vanishes into their envoy body, shaking fingers into their normal-sized hands with a few brisk flicks of their wrists.

“Better?” they ask, sounding a little amused.

“I… guess,” Figure says, dubiously. He’s unwilling to agree but unsure what else to say.

Even looking at Phrygian’s envoy form, Figure can't shake the visual of a finger puppet. Like they are actually talking to an affable costume on their friend’s finger, which Phrygian has stuck up for their benefit. 

They can't help but feel guilty. How is Phrygian supposed to trust them with their whole body? Figure hadn't even been able to welcome one hand.

“Sorry,” they say.

Phrygian pauses again, examining them. “It's alright.”

“I didn't mean to… you know. Walk in on anything.”

It is the wrong thing to say. They can tell the moment the words leave their mouth, and their suspicion is confirmed when Phrygian turns their face slightly away.

“You didn't walk in on anything,” they say. “I don't mind when people look at me.”

“Right. I– sorry.”

Phrygian just nods. Figure wishes, desperately, that he knew how to do this.

“I don't have a problem with it,” he adds, unable to resist the urge to keep talking. “If you wanted to– I’m okay with it if you want to be yourself in front of me.”

That gives them pause, and they look – are they looking, or just acting like it? – back at him consideringly. “It seems like it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I can handle that,” he says, firmly. “I want to get used to it.”

There. That's the truth. He might not even sound like a total asshole. Hopefully.

“Alright,” Phrygian says, sounding thoughtful. “I’m not usually in the cargo hold, but you could always use the bedroom.”

“Oh,” they say, a little surprised. “Yeah, sure. Would that be alright?”

“Yes.”

Of course it would be. Phrygian wouldn't be a bedroom otherwise. Figure nods, trying not to let his nerves about potentially screwing up again show. “Sounds good. I’ll… check it out?”

Phrygian laughs a little, reaching up to adjust their collar. Figure hadn’t even noticed it was out of place. “Looking forward to it.”

[not-poignant]

Your dialogue is incredible, do you have any advice on how to write like that? Like the actual process you use to arrive at what's on the page. Do you write a ton of dialogue and then cut it down to the gems? Or does it just come out like that when you write? The characterisation in the dialogue is superb, and somehow it never feels overwrought or unnatural. I guess I'm just hoping it's a carefully-honed craft you can give practical tips on, rather than something you can just innately 'do' 😂 xx

Hi anon,

So firstly, I'm so sorry anon because this will probably piss you off: I do find dialogue extremely easy to do, which is why all of my stories are so dialogue heavy. I don't sit there writing a ton of dialogue and then whittling it down, and it just comes out as I write. At most I sometimes just have to double check tone continuity on certain characters (i.e. 'would Augus / Dr Gary / the Raven Prince use this exact phrasing or would they use something else')

When I daydream about my stories, I daydream about the dialogue first. I 'listen' to my characters and the things they say. When I write it down, I don't sit and think 'what would they say' I just write what they'd say. But...I've been doing this for like a long time now, and I do believe there are things that can be done to build the skill.

I feel like throughout my life, I've done things that at least some other people don't do, which makes dialogue easier for me.

But firstly, down to mechanics, here's a link to a post I've made before on things to focus on re: honing dialogue as a skill.

What some folks don't realise is that constructing a vocabulary or tone for a character is like constructing a character. A character's voice says so much about them - how much money they make (or if they're nouveau riche in some cases), where they live, if they were popular or unpopular in school, if they're shy or extroverted or charismatic, if they care about how they come across, if they're a precise or messy thinker, etc. Each character you have, you need to be spending time just thinking about elements of their voice and dialogue if you're not used to doing this already.

The best place to start with this, honestly, is by rewatching some of your favourite shows or rereading some of your favourite books and noting down things about the dialogue that are unique to each character. (Ideally this will be in stories that have very unique dialogue patterns lol). This is actually fantastic for fanfic because you can end up with a cheat sheet (which I've also written about) that will instantly make your character's dialogue sound 'true to form' without having to overthink it.

And the rest I'm putting under a Read More because it's literally just me rambling:

Another place to research is simply by listening to conversations. Listen to the people around you talk, and write down the things that are specific to them. How do they agree or disagree with something? Are there sayings they're using particular or specific to where they live? Do they use a lot of slang? And if so, is it generational? Who are the overspeakers? The underspeakers? the ones who deflect? The ones who shut things down? When you're listening to people talk, think about the words they use, the pitch, if their voice is croaky or smooth, confident or shy, what makes it shy? Is it soft? Do they hesitate? If it's confident, what makes it confident? Is it loud? Do they almost never say 'um' or other words of hesitation?

Think about how these people's voices might differ from place to place. How do they talk to a waiter vs. customer service on the phone vs. a best friend vs. a family member vs. a teacher? Think about the changes you make in those circumstances.

Over time, this knowledge comes to you more instinctively. I've spent my entire life being very interested in the way people talk (I'm neurodivergent, and chameleon-like, and I will adopt other people's patterns of speaking unconsciously in order to 'blend in' - but it gave me a pretty good knack with dialogue! As did 'practising conversations' in my head growing up, lol.)

A really good place to look at character voice sometimes is also in actor interviews. Go and check out like... the Hot Ones interviews or something on YouTube, and you'll see a ton of extremely distinct character voices that are right there to research. How Jack Black talks vs. someone like Tom Hanks vs. someone like Nick Offerman vs. someone like Tom Holland shows huge variation in what makes dialogue unique from person to person.

Your characters don't need to sound like caricatures, ideally they will feel things and embody things strongly enough that this isn't really a problem (even Benoit Blanc sounds like a genuine person despite sounding like a cartoon character because of the emotion / feeling he can get into that voice). Your main goal, imho, is to make sure that all your characters don't end up sounding like carbon copies of yourself. I think this is a problem even people who write natural dialogue can stumble into (that I've been guilty of too), it flows naturally because they're just writing how they'd think/react to something, but it's 6 characters and you realise 'hang on, I'm just reading 6 versions of the author.'

This is where researching the distinctness of character voice is really important, and making a cheat sheet to check when you're going back through a chapter can be invaluable.

There are little things I do fairly naturally these days, to use Underline the Black (or Underline the Rainbow more generally) as an example. Temsen says things like 'Goodness!' instead of 'oh my god.' He can still do the latter, but he's far more likely to be quite sort of formal when he's surprised or shocked by something (and Kent has picked that up, so he does it too, lol, which makes sense - because they work together and people adopt each other's speech patterns when they get along).

Efnisien is very comfortable with swearing, he's got 'juvenile alpha who had to fight with Gwyn all his life' throughout his dialogue. Gary is quite formal and talks in complete sentences almost always. He very rarely hedges or restarts his sentences, and as Efnisien observes: He speaks like someone who's about to go onto a podium and confidently deliver a lecture. He's very self-assured. Efnisien on the other hand hedges a lot, shuts himself down, doesn't finish sentences, and bites back some of his words. Dr Gary doesn't use endearments in general, and can be extremely sarcastic. His humour veers towards deadpan.

Caleb is very forward, bold and confident. He uses endearments like 'baby' and 'sweetheart.' He's flirtatious, and he doesn't talk too much. His voice when he says something tends to fill the space - he has the respect and attention of the people around him. He speaks in complete sentences that are generally quite short (but not short-tempered) and to the point. He comes across as someone who's looking for a good time, but he's not obviously emotionally available when he speaks.

Nate (in Underline the Blue) is people pleasing and generally obsequious (but his inner dialogue indicates there's a snarky voice waiting to get out). He hedges, but ultimately tries to be pleasing. A lot of 'what do you like best? What do you want?' He redirects with questions and tries to avoid talking about his personal life. His voice is quiet in tone, and also quite lacking. He sounds like someone who hasn't had the opportunity to enjoy conversation for its own sake. He shuts conversations down rather than opening them up. He almost never initiates any dialogue at all.

I can do this across all my characters because I have their mental cheat sheets relatively memorised. Whatever book or story you're focusing on, it's a good habit to be able to just mentally know a paragraph or two about your character's voice. Checking in with that mental knowledge (or cheat sheet until you learn it) before starting writing any chapter can help guide you.

The way a character talks determines how the story flows. Nate doesn't start conversations, so he needs to be paired with someone who does. This means if Nate starts a conversation - he's going to be more anxious than usual most times, which creates many opportunities for angsty scenes.

Efnisien is hostile and combative, especially when he's afraid or upset, which creates a lot of opportunities - simply through the way he talks - for increased chemistry with a more calm but still incisive opponent like Gary. Once you start to get a handle on dialogue, how your characters speak alone will create flow through the plot, and also create ways to get through a plot or reach certain points. I know for example that Efnisien's verbal response to the directives softens Gary towards him. Or I know that Gary's softer coaxing voice when he's soothing Efnisien will genuinely soothe Efnisien - even against his will. That's a powerful thing to know about my character's voices!

You're gonna pick this up in no time, anon. You might even have really good dialogue instincts and just be over-thinking it. But I do think in general, sit down with whoever you like to listen to - your fave YouTubers, people on TikTok, your favourite shows etc. and then just...listen to the dialogue. Be wary of subtitles in this case, because they can sometimes erase or hide the actual unique details of a person's voice to make it more 'generic.' Some are better than others.

And then just write down the things that feel unique to those people. Especially notice turns of phrase that you don't use yourself. (Which also means thinking about the kind of cheat sheet you'd write for yourself! Tbh that's probably a good place to start lmao).

Definitely click on the links I've put in this post, the first one in particular breaks down all the details of dialogue more specifically. And doesn't take like 4000 words to not actually make much of a point, like in this post sdlkfjas

If I'd posted it as dialogue we wouldn't have been here for so long but anyway tl;dr I find dialogue stupid easy but that's because I've been observing dialogue and what makes it unique all my life and there's no real short-cut for that but if you start doing it now you'll find writing dialogue way easier really soon.

[jadegretz]

Tali: Navigating the Universe by Jade Gretz

The Normandy shuddered, a metallic groan echoing through the ship as it was buffeted by unseen forces. Tali clutched the railing, her quarian suit doing little to quell the rising panic. A rift had opened in the fabric of reality, a yawning chasm that threatened to consume them all. And now, they were falling.

The ship tumbled through a vortex of colors and shapes, a kaleidoscope of madness that assaulted the senses. Tali's vision blurred, and the world around her dissolved into a swirling maelstrom. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the descent ended with a jarring jolt. The Normandy lay still, suspended in an alien void.

As her vision cleared, Tali found herself in a familiar yet profoundly disturbing landscape. The Citadel, a beacon of civilization, was a twisted mockery of its former self, its towering spires gnarled and skeletal. The sky was an unnatural crimson, and the air was thick with a palpable sense of dread.

A figure emerged from the shadows, a grotesque caricature of Commander Shepard. Its skin was pallid, its eyes hollow, and its movements were jerky and unnatural. This was not the Shepard she knew, the hero who had saved the galaxy. This was a monstrous parody, a twisted reflection of a broken soul.

Tali drew her omni-tool, her heart pounding in her chest. She had faced countless threats, but nothing had prepared her for this. This was a nightmare, a twisted inversion of reality.

The Shepard creature lunged, its movements swift and deadly. Tali fought back, her training and instincts kicking in. But this was no ordinary opponent. The creature's strength was inhuman, its reflexes honed to a razor's edge. She was outmatched.

As the battle raged, the environment around them began to change. The Citadel was crumbling, its foundations giving way. The sky darkened, and a sinister wind howled through the shattered city. Tali realized with horror that she was not alone in this nightmare.

From the shadows emerged other twisted versions of her crewmates. Legion, a mindless killing machine, its synthetic body corrupted by dark energy. Garrus, a cold-b …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)