#[spoken: spectre]

[lady12maiden]

Hi, so how would you people feel if someone were to hypothetically make a Dear Evan Hansen x Slay The Princess thingy?

[deities-anew]

spectre, messenger, what are you two?

a whore

a monster fucker

[idkyetxoxo]

Cregan Stark - Northern Frost Southern Sun

Summary - In the unforgiving North, a Southern princess struggles with her political marriage to Cregan, feeling like an outsider. As she voices her insecurities, their bond deepens, transforming their alliance into a passionate connection that bridges the divide between their worlds.

Pairing - Cregan Stark x Martell reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2124

Masterlist for Cregan • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Born into nobility, my life had always felt scripted—a path inked not by my own desires but by the hands of the men around me. 

My father, my uncle, my brother, even the echoes of my grandfather shaped the walls around me. 

As a daughter of House Martell, the rulers of sun-drenched Dorne, my existence was predetermined, my fate a strategy in the game of thrones woven by my father, Prince Qoren Martell himself. 

A Martell daughter, after all, was a prize to be bartered, and he had chosen a formidable match.

He pledged me to Cregan Stark, Lord of House Stark, in the distant, unforgiving North. 

A union as calculated as it was unfeeling, our marriage was intended to bind the desert heat of Dorne with the ice and shadows of Winterfell. 

It was a pact, a quiet promise to fortify our realms and maintain a precarious balance in the ever-shifting powers of Westeros. My father assured me it was for our people, for peace. 

But I knew what the alliance would cost me: the endless winds that sliced through bone, the chill that would burrow into my soul, the lonely shadows that clung to Winterfell's walls like phantoms.

The North was all I had dreaded—an imposing land where silence lingered thickly in the air, and winter settled in more than just the stones. 

Every breath was laced with frost, every glance held a guarded judgment, as if they wondered if this southern-born woman could ever survive in a world so different, so grim. 

And always, there were whispers—"the Dornish wife"—spoken softly yet deliberately, trailing me like spectres through the dim corridors.

Yet amid the cold and the solitude, Cregan Stark surprised me. 

He was not the man I had envisioned: distant and unyielding, a creature as cold as the land he ruled. 

Instead, Cregan had a quiet strength, a kindness that seemed out of place in such a harsh land. He understood, perhaps better than I, the challenges I faced here. 

With subtle gestures and quiet assurances, he tried to ease my discomfort, his attentions more thoughtful than I'd dared hope. He never pressed, but he was there—a grounding presence, a warmth that, little by little, began to soften the edges of my isolation.

A moon had passed since our union. I was neither entirely happy nor entirely sorrowful; I was simply... here. 

Somewhere between contentment and restlessness, caught in a place that wasn't mine yet somehow, piece by piece, was becoming so. 

Winterfell was no closer to being home, but Cregan's attentions made the frigid halls more bearable, his patience an anchor as I drifted, my heart searching for familiarity in a sea of foreignness.

One evening, as twilight painted the snow in hues of indigo and grey, I stood on the balcony, gazing out across Winterfell. 

The frosty landscape stretched endlessly, an ocean of cold where dawn seemed forever on the edge of arriving but never quite here. 

As I watched the endless expanse of snow, I remembered the hot, golden sands of Sunspear. 

In Dorne, the sun-kissed our skin, the scent of ripe figs and sea salt filled the air. Here, every corner held a chill, every shadow seemed to whisper secrets.

In that stillness, I heard a voice—a voice I had come to know well, warm yet edged with the subtle command of a lord.

"What's on your mind?" Cregan's words reached me, low and tender.

Startled, I turned to see him leaning on the railing beside me, his gaze thoughtful. His presence was a welcome warmth, and yet I found myself instinctively closing in, the winter wind cutting through my gown.

"Nothing," I replied, a feeble defence as my voice carried softly into the chill.

He studied me quietly, his eyes catching the slight shiver that ran through me as the wind nipped at my shoulders. 

"Doesn't look like 'nothing,'" he said, his voice low. "You're cold. Come inside." 

Without waiting for my reply, he draped his cloak over my shoulders, guiding me toward the warmth of our chambers, stopping by the hearth as the flames crackled to life.

"I don't belong," I murmured, staring into the fire. My fingers traced the thick Northern fabric of my gown—a cloth I'd hoped would make me feel less like an outsider. 

The weight of the words hung between us as if spoken aloud for the first time, stirring the silence in the dim room.

"What do you mean, my love?" Cregan's voice broke the quiet, a softness I hadn't expected. 

He turned to face me, his eyes searching mine with a rare vulnerability as if my answer mattered more than the words themselves.

I took a long, steadying breath, watching the flames dance and trying to gather the right words. 

"They still see me as different," I whispered. "A stranger, from a land they neither know nor trust. I try to blend in, to be... what I think they want. But sometimes, I wonder if they'll ever truly see me as one of their own." 

My voice trembled as the truth spilt out, deeper than I'd intended. "They whisper, Cregan when they think I can't hear. They don't trust me. And some days, I'm not sure they ever will."

Cregan listened in silence, his gaze steady and unwavering. 

Without a word, he reached for my hand, his calloused fingers rough yet gentle as they enveloped mine, grounding me in the midst of my insecurities.

"Give them time," he said softly, his voice like a balm. "The North can be as harsh as winter itself, slow to warm, but it's not unyielding." 

His hand lifted my chin, guiding my gaze up to meet his. In his eyes, I saw not just kindness, but an unwavering strength, as if he could will my doubts away by the force of his conviction alone.

"You belong here, with me," he said, his voice a quiet promise. "No whispers or frost will ever change that."

I felt his words settle over me like a cloak, their warmth reaching parts of my heart I hadn't realized were cold. But still, uncertainty lingered, stubborn and unrelenting. 

Perhaps sensing my hesitation, Cregan shifted closer, his presence wrapping around me like an unbreakable fortress.

He cupped my cheek with a tenderness that both surprised and soothed me. 

"You are the heat I've always been missing," he murmured, his voice low and thick with meaning. 

Slowly, his hand drifted down, sliding under the folds of my gown with a touch that sent a shiver through me—a sensation born not of the cold, but of something deeper.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a laugh escaping as I fought back my nervousness.

"Showing you." His voice was gentle, a playful glint in his eyes. "Showing you that you belong."

With a tender confidence, his hands moved, sending ripples through me that melted the tension from my body. 

His touch was warm and steady, his fingers tracing up my sides, and for the first time since coming to the North, I felt my fears begin to ease as if his presence alone could erase them. 

The doubts, the whispers—they all faded as his hands explored, each caress a quiet reassurance.

His gaze held mine, unwavering, and in that moment, there was an intimacy that transcended touch, a promise woven in the quiet between us. 

He leaned in, his lips finding mine, capturing them with a gentleness that made me feel like I was being seen for the first time. His kiss was both soft and fervent, his lips warm as they moved against mine, igniting a fire that outmatched any northern hearth.

As his hands roamed over my body, rough and calloused from years of wielding steel, they were uncharacteristically gentle, tracing the lines of my skin as if memorizing each curve. 

His fingers held a kind of reverence, as if I were something precious, not just the wife bound to him by a political alliance but a person who was cherished.

In that moment, he lifted me, guiding me slowly towards the bed, never once breaking the kiss. 

I felt myself sink into the softness of the furs as he laid me down, the flickering fire casting its amber glow across the room, cocooning us in its warmth. 

There was a tenderness in his touch as he caressed me, his movements slow and purposeful, each gesture a quiet declaration.

The world outside the chamber ceased to exist; there was no cold, no looming suspicion, no whispers echoing down the corridors. 

Only Cregan and the fire between us, burning bright and fierce.

His lips trailed down my neck, each kiss a spark that sent warmth radiating through me. He paused, his gaze seeking mine as his hand found the ties of my gown, his touch both reverent and questioning. 

I met his eyes, giving him the permission he silently sought, and with careful, deliberate movements, he began to untie it, each pull of the fabric a slow unveiling.

As the gown slipped away, leaving me bare before him, I felt no vulnerability, only an overwhelming sense of being cherished. 

Cregan's eyes held nothing but admiration, and in that look, he banished every doubt, every whisper that had haunted me since I'd arrived in the North.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice raw and thick with emotion. "So beautiful."

His words soaked into me, warming those fragile places hidden within, and I felt myself drawn to him, my fingers threading into his hair, pulling him close. 

His warmth was a balm, a grounding presence I needed as his lips found mine, slow and deliberate, speaking promises only we could hear.

With a practised, fluid ease, he shed the last of his clothes, his gaze never breaking from mine. 

His bare skin met mine in a press that was both electric and soothing, each inch of contact igniting a surge of feeling, of completeness that made me gasp. 

His hands traced down my sides, exploring the curves and lines of my body, as if they held secrets he'd yearned to know. 

Every touch, every brush of his fingers sent shivers across my skin.

He lowered himself, aligning our bodies with a reverence that made my heart ache. 

When he settled between my thighs, his touch shifted, moving from a delicate exploration to a quiet, steady possession. 

His grip on me tightened, anchoring me beneath him, and his eyes held a ferocity that was matched by the tenderness in his touch. He was wholly mine, and I, his.

"You're mine," he whispered his voice a low growl that sent a thrill through me. "Mine."

"Yes," I breathed, my fingers pressing into his shoulders as I clung to him, letting myself believe it. "Yours."

He moved with a deliberate rhythm, each thrust a declaration, an unspoken vow that silenced the doubts within me. 

Every part of me, every fragment I thought too broken to matter, felt seen, treasured. 

The warmth grew between us, winding up in intensity as he continued, his movements steady, yet laced with a simmering need that built with each passing moment.

His hands roamed over me, possessive yet reverent, fingers tracing gentle lines along my skin. His lips left trails of warmth, soft whispers mingling with our breaths. 

The connection between us thrummed with a strength that felt sacred, binding us beyond words, deeper than the physical.

Our rhythm intensified, his hands gripping my waist, his lips capturing my moans as we chased the rising wave together. 

The air was thick with the sounds of our bodies, the soft crackle of the fire, the murmurs of our whispered names.

In that moment, there was no North or South, no whispers of "the Dornish wife." There was only Cregan and me, bound together by a love that had taken root in the most unlikely of places.

When the climax came, it hit with a force that left us breathless, a bliss that surged through us like fire and water, fierce yet softening. 

He held me through it, our breaths mingling as we trembled in the aftermath, our hearts beating as one.

Cregan collapsed beside me, his arms wrapping around me as he pulled me close. We lay there in the afterglow, our bodies entwined, the fire casting a soft glow over us.

"You belong here," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm to my soul. "With me."

"I do," I replied, my heart swelling with a newfound certainty. "I belong with you."

As I drifted off to sleep in his arms, I knew that no matter the challenges we might face, we would face them together. 

The North might be cold and unforgiving, but with Cregan by my side, I felt a warmth that could withstand any storm. 

And in his embrace, I found not just a home, but a love that would endure.

A/n - I am such a sucker for any Dornish reader works 😝

Cregan tag list - @veesuguru

[russetfoxfur]

okay so i went a bit insane about the examination of agency in the nightmare's routes, and then this evolved into a deeper examination of the rest of nightmare's whole deal. i am not an analyst so please take everything i say with a grain of salt, but. you know. i find her whole character to be very interesting. rambles under the cut.

warning it is 5k words of me rambling so like. be aware of that

okay, so every route the princess begins by being chained to a wall. this is the first thing she knows. she appears to be the ideal of a damsel in distress - she can't move, can't fight on her own at first, can be easily stabbed if your perception of her stays as a damsel in distress. she has no agency in this. she is forced to wait in the cabin until you, an unknown monster-looking thing comes along explicitly to kill her. and if you're quick and doubtless, she ends her life just as it began - born in a chain in a cabin, died in a chain in a cabin. and that's how you get the spectre.

now, the nightmare you can get on either harsh or soft princess. she's unique in this - as far as i remember, the only other princess like this is the stranger, where you don't meet her at all. (please correct me if i'm wrong though, i'm new to this fandom). and - as pointed out in another analysis, though i can't find it now - she's like this because she speaks to the foundational fear that all princesses have, which is going unperceived. she adapts based on what you are, and while she'll treat you differently if you try to kill her or save her at first, she will always revert to the nightmare when you meet her and then refuse to engage with her at all.

by refusing to perceive her you take away her agency. when you fight her she at least has the chance to fight back. if you manage to stab her in the heart she can at least provoke you into wondering if she's actually dead. but she has so little agency here, fighting for scraps to keep herself alive in the face of a construct that desperately wants her dead, and you leaving her alone says that you don't even see her as someone who's a threat. while slaying her means seeing her as an apocalypse in the making, and freeing her means seeing her as a pitiful thing locked up in a harsh cabin, leaving her alone means seeing her as absolutely nothing at all.

so she fights back. she slips her chains to try and escape from the cabin on her own terms. i genuinely don't think the shutting-down-the-organs thing is a lie on her part - she doesn't really lie, not unless you think she can, and she doesn't want to kill you at all, as evidenced in her chapter II. she knew you were the key to her escape, and then (in her eyes) you have the spite and sheer audacity to kill yourself just when her freedom is in view, just before she can leave for good. you kill yourself just to make sure she can't have the option of leaving at all.

so, to recap: she's locked up, you abandon her, she tries to escape, you die, she dies.

when we come back to her, the cabin bends to her will. her chains are nowhere in sight - whether they existed in the first place is a mystery. what i find interesting is the sort of prelude to her appearance - when you descend into the basement, you're given a choice between staying, running for the stairs, turning left, or turning right.

no matter which way you go, she always finds you.

she gives you the false choice this time. while before you'd spoken to her, tempted her with freedom and autonomy and agency, you'd snatched it away and left her with the worst fate she can imagine. now she's giving it to you - she tempts you with freedom and agency, and then she snatches it away by showing up no matter where you turn. no one ever talks about it but it's just. she'd said so many things to try and coerce/persuade you into helping her leave, and no matter what she'd said you'd left her anyway. you try and go any way to avoid meeting her and facing the princess again, but no matter which way you go she'll always find you.

anyway.

you pass out a few times as paranoid begins his chant, she reacts with mild curiosity and annoyance, and then you're free to question her. someone else pointed out that her mask never changes - it's frozen in this teasing smile, almost like she's smiling over the pain. (which she definitely is, considering what happens in the leadup to MoC.) she repeatedly reinstates her desire to leave and now gleefully talks about the world ending. what has it ever done for her, anyway? she also teases lq with death, just like he teased her with freedom. an eye for an eye.

a few highlights of her dialogue: when told that she's a lunatic, she responds, "I am what I am. And right now, what I am is in control." she also then teases him with death again. how the tables have turned. if you've got the knife, you can tell her you might just kill her instead, to which she warns the player and then says, "This place is mine. And I'm not giving you the stairs unless I'm leaving with you." she then demonstrates you by trapping you in the cabin if you decide to slay her right then and there. everything else is pretty standard - talking about her plans when she's free, talking about what happened after she died. these are interesting in their own right, but not for this analysis.

then, once you've exhausted all dialogue options, you have a few more options, three of which lead to chapter IIIs which have interesting takes on agency as well. you can remain with her, run, leave with her, or (if you have the knife) stab her.

both running and remaining - seemingly opposing actions - lead to the same outcome: the moment of clarity. this happens when you've finally exhausted all other possible outcomes, and all that's left for you to do is to let. her. out. you have no other choice - they're all grayed out. whether it's a broken hero or your own amnesia-blocked trauma doing this is anyone's guess, but the fact remains.

in the leadup to the moment of clarity, she takes off her mask, the thing that's kept her seeming morbidly cheerful and playful throughout the rest of the route despite her multiple open threats and gleeful hatred of the world. the narrator describes, in detail, a horrific existence which she is baring to you in an attempt to get you to help her to leave. she takes off her mask, stops playing nice with you, and tries to get you to see her side of the story, tries to get you to at least pity her and leave.

it's so bad the narrator stops narrating and refuses to go on.

think about this. this is the guy who narrates the entirety of the fury sequence, cool and calm. he describes the nightmarish cabin matter-of-factly a few minutes before, which hero points out. he isn't bothered by you getting killed except that it means his plans are ruined and the world is doomed, and he tells you about various gruesome deaths such as being crushed by vines or watching the prisoner chop her own head off. the only other times i can think of that he despairs like this is when you fail your mission (by freeing or dying to the princess) or when he himself is in danger (getting burned up by apotheosis, getting controlled by the tower). but in nightmare, the vision is so horrible that he cannot stand going on. (paranoid also stops chanting at this time, but he does that before when his concentration is broken. narry is notably VERY DEAD SET on his goal of slaying the princess. he's not like this!)

what this vision is exactly, i cannot tell, but for the sake of this analysis i'm going to interpret it as what she is, behind the mask, behind the facade of a vessel. shifty offloads the nature of her existence, the purest distillation of change - a lifetime, the circle of life, bloom and decay and burgeoning rot over and over and over again, success and fame turning into scandals and dishonor and poverty, humans living and changing into monsters or saints, every choice you make irreversibly altering the tapestry of time you are a part of. she represents the future and its unpredictable nature, and people trying to adapt to changing societal pressures and failing to evolve fast enough, and each unlucky twist of fate that leads to ruin and despair. she is survival of the fittest, and she is testing you.

this is what the nightmare is, under the mask. a monster, a murderer, the essence of death and destruction. this is what you are denying agency.

in this light, refusing shifty's offer of godhood seems almost reasonable. maybe she's trapped here for a reason. death is... pretty bad, isn't it? if our cool-headed narrator doesn't want her out, maybe there's a reason for that. maybe he's loved and lost - maybe he's seeing reflections of himself, in the princess' experiences, and the reason why he's so set on you slaying her is to prevent this nightmare from happening to anyone else.

you die, of course. you have the audacity to die. and when you wake again - we don't know whether she's hopeful you've learned the error of your ways, or whether she's still as forceful as in chapter II, but one thing's for certain - she doesn't win. you still act as the prison guard. you still keep her away from her only goal, and you become determined to keep it that way.

so you guard the door. you slay her. you romance her and question her and murder her and you end up with different voices, each time, different fragments of change that help you evolve to fight her but you always end up with the same princess with the same goal and nothing's getting better and you keep on denying her freedom because she's clearly awful and you're clearly the guard to an irredeemable prisoner.

from her perspective, mind you, she's been locked in a room for no reason, teased with escape, accidentally killed you while trying to leave, entertained your faints and questions, bared her soul to you in order to get you to understand why leaving her alone is such a bad idea, and then you died and promptly doubled down on your decision.

it's hell for her! she doesn't know why you're doing this! she's forced to react to your actions, because you're the one who can take the knife and you're the one who can leave! she lashes out! how dare you! how dare you keep her trapped here! why can't she leave! why can't she be the one in control of her fate! why do you hate her so much, that you are willing to die over and over just to keep her trapped?

so she lashes out at you. she takes vengeance on her captor, and she hunts you again and again, eroding away your defiance loop by painstaking loop. we don't know exactly what she did. we probably don't want to. but it's bad enough to break the voices, shatter many of them beyond recognition, and outright deny us our autonomy in a way that's only otherwise seen in tower.

and i'm not saying she's a saint! i know this whole analysis i've been on her side but that's because most people aren't! she's undeniably cruel to lq, but the thing most people forget is he was cruel first! she is a creature of perception and he denies her even that basic privilege! and she reacts violently! she lashes out and tries to threaten him into staying! has no qualms with sacrificing the world if she can get out! the nightmare cranks the abandonment anxiety of all the princesses up and adds a vicious vengeance to her as well!

but also. this route shows how hero isn't quite so perfect as he appears to be. you get this route by taking hero's third option, which satisfies no one. (it's also worth noting that HEA is also hero's call.) you abandon her, she who literally never has met anyone beside yourself, and that breaks her. so she tries to cling onto you. she possesses you and shatters you and threatens you and wants you there because she knows nothing else and she's already fractured from shifty's splintering, she can't fracture further, so she'll squeeze and claw for any bit of companionship she can get. she'll hunt you down for sport if it means she can spend a few minutes with you perceiving her. she's lonely is what she is. and she's reacting in the worst way possible.

where were we? oh, right. moment of clarity.

eventually, though, after untold numbers of loops where you keep doggedly trying to keep her locked away, she breaks through. she exhausts your options, traumatizes you, forces you to let her out. she will not be defeated. she will have her way. she makes sure of it.

what i also find interesting is that you're not scared of her anymore. paranoia isn't chanting away in the background. there's no more fear - just resignation. no one's happy with your third option, just as the narrator said back when you made it in the first cabin - everyone just wants it to end, and the only voice of dissent is the narrator, who doesn't even remember what's happened and doesn't know how awful it is to keep on trudging through the same, unchanging story over and over and over again. it's not new, or exciting, or changing anymore. it's just painful. you should really just let her out.

ah, but you might be wise enough not to try and pick that third option, and instead choose the more traditional two options - leaving or slaying.

leaving with the nightmare, like most chapter II endings, is pretty straightforward - you comply with her wishes and let. her. out. if you have the knife, there's a fun moment where paranoid says 'fuck you' to the narrator, but otherwise you give her her agency again. you allow her out. you've learned the error of your ways - now you'll let her free.

and, granted, she does wish death onto the world, but - as detailed above - she does kinda deserve it. i'd let her. she should kill people. i want to watch it happen :3

but if you choose to slay her, she reacts not with indignance but with gleeful wickedness. she can't believe you - a paranoid, helpless thing that she'd decided was barely a person at all, just a key that kept getting stuck in the lock, just a helpless little birdie who couldn't even stay alive in the face of her beauty and power - actually killed her! she's too surprised to be angry, i think. and then that surprise turns into realization - she's already figured out that you were always going to keep coming back until you let. her. out, and she can feel herself changing as a result of your changing perception.

and thus we meet the wraith.

while she has the same dialogue no matter where you kill her, you get different voices depending on where you do it - oppy on the stairs/in the cabin, cold if you do it in the basement. you're also forced to kill yourself either way - she tosses you into the void if you betray her, and you're stuck in the basement if you kill her in the basement since, as mentioned before, she won't give you the stairs. you die either from biology or suicide, and then you go into the wraith.

the wraith is a vengeful creature, and for good reason. she tried being nice to you! she tried talking to you, then tried threatening you, then tried forcing you. but you keep refusing! you keep dying, stubbornly, before you can reach her... you keep killing her before she can reach the outside... you keep teasing her with freedom! you keep her away from freedom, so tantalizingly close yet far.

and she's done being nice. she's seen where that's gotten her - a paranoid corpse and a knife through her heart. it's not her fault you keep dying! you just can't help being so afraid of a shackled princess that you're willing to kill yourself to be rid of her! so she's going to take it by force. she'll be evil. that's the only way things get done around here.

so she transforms into the wraith, a half-dead thing with a skeletal grin and grasping claws. you're introduced to her when she twists your ankle and drags you down to her level. she also explains that she was so, so close to freedom last time, but then you locked her away, killed her, and took her body away from her. so she's going to take your body away and march out that door, and you're going to be completely helpless during all of this, just like she was.

interestingly, she also limits your freedom, just like she did last time - if you ask her questions twice, she'll cut you off and take over your body then and there. she's done entertaining your frivolous questions. she wants to leave. let. her. out. she also goes ahead and possesses you without a second thought if you try to struggle or give up

a few interesting highlights from these explore options: you can claim that you were a victim in all of this, and she says, "Just because someone hurt you doesn't mean you get a free pass to hurt anyone else." some delicious hypocrisy there, wraith, as the voices point out. but perhaps she doesn't even see you as someone who can hurt, thus justifying her possession and torture of you. someone who can hurt would have sympathy for the poor locked up princess in the dark basement, and they certainly wouldn't lock her away and stab her to death. only heartless people do that, and heartless people can't be hurt. if you tell her that possessing you is evil, she says, "After all you've done, why would I ever care what you think of me?" she's past the point of evil and not-evil. to her, you're evil - you hurt her first, after all. whether a villain sees a hero as evil is irrelevant; to her, you're means to an end, an end that is always dancing just out of reach. possessing you is a necessary step to her goal.

she then possesses you.

now that she's in your head, she realizes that you also have voices in your head. oppy is immediately on wraith's side, because of course he is, and cold's a bit ambivalent about the whole ordeal (as he often is), though he's leaning toward your side. narry and hero are mortified, as they are wont.

if you struggle as she possesses you, paranoid's able to save up a bit of will and uses it to help you defy her one last time. first you lock her away in the basement, then you stab her, then you are literally willing to kill yourself and fall forever to be rid of her. she's sadistic as she tries to force you to move, but if you want to - because you're the one with agency here, still, even as she forces you to shamble toward the door on a broken ankle, even as she usurps your body and forces you to watch - you can throw yourself out the window.

as you fall, she asks you why you hate her. why you've always hated her. why you didn't trust her when you locked her away, why you decided to stab a knife through someone who didn't even want to kill you, why you defied her even with a shattered ankle and her voice in your head. why you decided your autonomy was more worthy than hers, way back at the start, back when she didn't even want to kill you. why you hated her into the nightmare, and then the wraith. why you decided she was better off alone and abandoned.

and honestly? you might have a valid reason at this point. she did break your ankle, after all. she did shut down your organs and act gleeful about the end of the world. she's a monster. she's sadistic and cruel and horrible and she possessed you, for goodness' sake! you've been trying to defend yourself against a threat! you're literally dying all the time near nightmare, and wraith greets you by breaking your ankle! like, i understand why people hate her! i'm not saying she's a good person! no one is, in this series! that's part of the appeal!!!

but she never even tried to kill you. (to those who are going to say well what about the organs-shutting-down-thing, think about it rationally: she needs you to get out. you fainting and dying isn't helping her. it's an active detriment. if she could control it, she probably wouldn't do it, because you being dead just shunts you back into the same hellvoid again.) she never locked you away forever. that was you. you keep taunting her with freedom and then shutting her away. you killed her and trapped her and, to her, you forced her into this. you forced her to hurt you and possess you and make you fear her. this isn't her fault. this is yours. for locking her away, for killing her, for denying her her one wish. she tried, in that first chapter. and you decided she wasn't worth the time of day.

personally, i would've made this choice also branch off into MoC. this game doesn't do fourth chapters - and i understand why - but i feel like it would've been fulfilling. she finally gets her freedom after you kill her and kill yourself and lock her away and keep her from getting out. you wouldn't even have to change much - you've already proven you're not going to let her out again. who's to say that the wraith wasn't one of MoC's iterations, and that the voices leading the charge then were also able to store some will and kill themselves before she could escape?

and maybe they were right. we don't know what happened between the nightmare and MoC, and we never will. maybe she was horrifically cruel, an unfeeling maniac. maybe she was pleading to be let out, and you weren't having that. maybe she was doing both. what we know is she never left the cabin.

finally, i want to draw attention to what, exactly, shifty says about each vessel. she gives us our best glimpse into each vessel's psyche, as someone who is part of them. her little speech often endears me to the princess i delivered, even if i wasn't very fond of her.

for the nightmare, she states, "This one is filled with sadness. A doll abandoned to the company of her darkest impulses. She desires only companionship, but the only thing she knows is how to hurt. She will make for a tender heart."

this reinforces what i've been saying throughout the whole analysis - most of the nightmare's nightmarish qualities come from her desperate need to be perceived by someone else. to be known. you doom her to a life of eternal loneliness, so she gives into her darkest urges and hurts you, over and over again, to try and win you over. she doesn't know how to do otherwise.

for the moment of clarity she states, "This one is a waiting maw. An inevitable destination where all roads end. She will make for a wise heart."

she chased you over and over until you broke, waiting for you to shatter and let her out. no matter what you tried to do, no matter which choices you made or roads you took, she awaited you, and you awaited her. she was made wise through your attempts to defy her, and eventually she won the long game. it was inevitable, really. you did your best. there's just a pecking order, and you'll always be at the bottom.

and about the wraith she states: "This one is loneliness turned to seething. She could not find her strength in others, so she found it in herself. She will make for a driven heart."

when you refused to save her, when you defied her over and over, she realized she couldn't rely on you to save her. you took everything she had away from her. so she took everything you had - a pristine blade, a free body - away from you instead. she used to be lonely, scared - but now she is powerful, hateful, laughing even as you throw her out a window in a spiteful act of defiance. you monster.

but eventually, inevitably, finally, she rejoins the shifting mound as one of her many perspectives. she finds peace, finally, in the eternal choir of the vessels.

do not mourn her. she is not alone anymore.

...

this analysis is not in defense of her actions - she does do some pretty fucked up things in this! pro tip: do not break people's ankles and then possess them, and also do not torture someone and break their will. just a suggestion.

but the reason i'm making this analysis is that so many people will say that nightmare/MoC (and tower, though this analysis isn't about her (but i love her very much and she was so valid for mind controlling the narrator)) is a horrible irredeemable bitch, and then they'll turn around and praise smitten/oppy/cold.

and that feels... more than a little hypocritical to me. oppy is literally a backstabbing bastard who allies with the person who has the most power - he literally tries to stab you in patd! he is born out of the decision to betray the princess when she's finally thought she could trust you, similarly to the nightmare, except this time you're killing her instead of locking her away. in HEA, he decides that free food is worth more than the princess' happiness, and in thorn he wants to stab the princess because of her newfound vulnerability.

and yet i've seen so many analyses of his behavior! so many people excusing him as a sopping wet cat who just doesn't want to die. and it's like, well, okay, i'm not going to stop you from liking oppy. i'm not a cop. i can get why you might like a morally gray kinda sneaky character. but it just feels a little misogynistic when you hate the nightmare, who also resorts to desperate measures in order to not die, don'tcha think?

or cold! i'm gonna be honest i'm a bit more favorable of cold, but he still advocates for killing the princess when he thinks it'll be interesting. he is literally born when you don't even try to hear the princess out in the first place, coldly stabbing her without a second thought. he values novelty over pain. and yet people will praise him and then turn around and criticize the tower for not caring about you at all!

ugh. i just... hate the shifty neg, you know? so many ppl hate her for being 'manipulative' and 'self-centered' while completely ignoring your own hand in shaping her! she is a creature of perception, after all - the damsel and the tower are wildly different, and they both change based on how you act. each princess is a reflection of your own thoughts toward her. and people hate on the nightmare for *checks script* trying to leave the basement she was locked into, and then reacting violently when the only person she's ever known decides to keep her trapped, possibly for forever. like, you all see why she'd do that, right.

...also, like. god forbid women do anything. even if she did do all that organ-shutting-down stuff of her own volition, good for her. she should do it more. she should kill everyone who disagrees with her. she was locked in a basement and abandoned by the first person she met i think she deserves to kill and slaughter.

andddd end of post! again i am NOT, like, a practiced analyst. there are almost certainly things i got wrong during this, and feel free to bring those up in the comments! i will admit this got a bit out of hand and turned halfway into a gushing-about-nightmare post.

also i just want to reiterate that this analysis explores her motives and explains why she's Like That, and again i am not trying to say she's a precious cinnamon roll. just that she's got some reasons for doing what she does.

ALSO ALSO PLEASE DO NOT MAKE THIS POST ABOUT THE VOICES THIS POST IS ABOUT THE NIGHTMARE AND HER ITERATIONS!!! MAKE YOUR OWN POST!!!

alright! that's it! russet out!

[forsaken-headcanons]

Some HCs

-coolkidd, bluudud, and prettyprincess all have drakobloxxer DNA (how they do is up to interpretation) -007n7 and 118o8 are the kids of the weird strict dad, and 007n7 accidentally got himself in immense debt to mafioso -this is why plead still plays when the killer during LMS is bluudud, mafioso, and weirdly strict (7n is pleading to his father and his nephew and is pleading for more time to get mafioso’s money) -Jason has trauma from being in Area 51 for so long and thus avoided chance for a while when he first came because he still had trauma from being shot to death over and over, even though he had is durability back. -Jason still gets spoken to by his mother. The spectre doesn’t know this and wouldn’t be able to stop this if it did. -team c00lkidd only consists of c00lkidd and his two pizza minions while team bluudud has dozens of members. -If you find the lobby in the woods and enter it you become forsakened. This has only happened to two people: Elliot and Vanity. -the pizza guy we see in the lobby is Elliot when he first arrived. He took a wrong turn and was too tired to consider why he was in a forest. -Vanity was dragging a body bag holding the picked-clean bones of her last meal to the forest to hide it until she came across the lobby.

I can't believe Jason still has proper communication from his mother. Imagine getting scolded for killing people and not eating dinner yet. /j

I'd like to be apart of team C00lkidd!!! Come on man!!!!

[wordstome]

the execution of lady jane grey

I got drunk and Tiktok showed me history_alice's video about this painting by Paul Delaroche. And since God has cursed me for my hubris and my work is never finished, have some medieval executioner König x fem mc. Also, Lady Jane Grey was executed by Mary Tudor (Bloody Mary), not by Henry the VIIIth (the one with the six wives), but I blended the stories just because I can.

1.3k words

König doesn't ask questions.

It's never been his job to ask questions. The king points, and he does the dirty work. Most of the time, he takes pleasure in it: thieves, rapists, murderers, they all answer to his justice. And sure, a true loyal citizen might argue that he's simply enacting the king's justice, but it's König who swings the axe, is it not? In the end, König decides their fate.

In theory, anyway. In practice, this is simply his job. He keeps his head down and does what he's told. He stays quiet about the king's secret executions, the ones that happen in the dungeons instead of out in the open courtyard where the smallfolk gather to watch. It's hypocritical, honestly. They all look at König like he's a monster, some spectre of death among men, but when there's a public execution to be held, are they not the ones clamoring and pushing to be at the front?

There are some times when the king's executions are more...dubious. An advisor who voiced dissent one too many times. A thief stealing barley from the royal stables to feed his family, made an example of. A young man, just a boy really, accused of murdering four grown men—convenient, considering all four men's wives had been found in the king's bed at some point or another.

Those are the executions König prefers not to think about. The ones that haunt him in his dreams anyway. Those are the ones that make him yearn for his days in the army: when the people he killed were as faceless as his hood was to them, when he didn't know them and didn't have to think about the loved ones they left behind. König's never claimed to be a good person, the opposite in fact. But sometimes when he brings the blade down, he imagines a different, more royal neck on the block instead.

He feels this way now, as he watches her make her way to the block.

She's ethereal in her petticoat, the soft silken material reflecting what little light there is in the cold stone room and bathing her in a warm glow. Gentle and obedient into her own grave.

The king's wife. Sent to the block for treason, of all things. But everyone knows the truth: he's only killing this poor woman because he plots to put his latest mistress on the throne. Just a few weeks ago, this sweet young thing was the king's main obsession. She stood no chance at all, the daughter of a local lord currying favor with royalty. And now, she's being put to death through no fault of her own. The injustice grinds König's teeth, and takes his mind to a dark, dangerous place.

If she was his, he would never so much as let another woman cross his mind again. He's seen her about the palace grounds, with her beautiful bright eyes and lively smile, skirts trailing behind her like the tail feathers of an exotic bird. Just watching her had made him feel young again, no longer the brutish old soldier everyone averted their eyes from.

He's only spoken to her once, but he'll never forget it. He had been in her way, but she was the one who apologized. Most people would have seen the hood and backed away in fear, but not her. He watched, frozen and unable to say a single word, as she curtseyed and looked at him with, of all things, a shy curiosity. For one still, breathtaking moment, he held her gaze in his, and he felt like they were the last two people remaining on earth.

Then her lady in waiting had touched her on the elbow, and the spell was broken as they continued on their way. But König had never forgotten.

That same lady in waiting is here now, eyes puffy as she holds the queen's elaborate dress and jewelry in her lap. She had chosen to take it off, so as not to stain the expensive fabrics with her blood. How can she be so considerate of others, when the whole world has failed her so?

She turns to him, trembling like a little bird, and meets his gaze. The words come out before he can help himself.

"I beg your forgiveness," he blurts out, and almost immediately mentally scolds himself. What right does he have, of all people, to ask for her grace?

"Of course, sir," she says, her voice clear and sweet. Surely, he can't feel any more wretched than he does right now...and then she speaks again.

"I only pray you dispatch me quickly..." She turns a fearful eye to the wooden block, sitting almost innocently on top of the straw laid down to soak up her lifeblood. "Will...will you take it before I lay me down?"

"No, madam," he whispers.

She nods, and with a sudden streak of iron will, ties the blindfold about her head. König knows this is a kindness: she'll never see him coming. And yet his heart aches to see her cover up those beautiful eyes.

A loud sob comes out of the lady in waiting, watching her young mistress fumble around blindly. König's heart shatters when she lets out a little cry of confusion as the lieutenant of the prison rushes to hold her steady. "What shall I do? Where is it?"

König feels a sudden streak of anger, at the gentle way the lieutenant lowers her to the ground. The man clearly knows this is wrong, and yet will not lift a finger to help her.

Guilt strikes him yet again as he remembers that neither is he.

Or is he?

He stares down at her, this vulnerable little lamb sent to the slaughter, her pretty neck exposed for his blade, and he knows what he has to do.

The lady in waiting cries out in anguish as the blade lowers to the queen's head, causing her to gasp as the cold metal brushes against her skin. But instead of cutting her head off, König slices through her blindfold with a deft precision.

"What is the meaning of this?" The lieutenant demands as the queen scrambles from her kneeling position. König offers his arm, and she takes it, her hands warm against his sleeve as she stands up. The confusion is writ plain on her face, but her eyes shine with an innocent hope that only steels König's resolve.

"You," König says, pointing his axe at the lieutenant, who shuffles backwards nervously. "You will tell the king that she has been executed. If he asks for a body, find one: I don't care which one. And if you tell anyone what happened here today, I swear to you that I will water the earth with your blood, and the blood of every family member in your line." His eyes narrow at the lieutenant. "Do I make myself clear?" The man nods, stuck still with terror.

The queen's lady in waiting rushes forward, pressing jewels into her hands. "My lady, you will need these," she says urgently. "For wherever life takes you next." She gives König a determined look. "Take care of her, sir."

The queen's eyes go wide and round as she looks up at König. "I don't understand."

He kneels to her height, taking her hands in his. "I am taking you away from this place," he tells her, his voice low and urgent. "But you need to trust me."

She closes her eyes, and takes one deep, trembling breath before opening them again. "I trust you."

"Good." She yelps as he picks her up in his arms, hands instantly darting about his shoulders. "I am sorry, my lady, but we don't have much time."

She giggles, giggles, in his arms. "I don't mind," she says, with a mischievous little look that invites trouble. God, he is utterly fucked, isn't he?

"I can give you time, but not much," the lieutenant says. "Go!"

König doesn't need to be told twice.

To be honest with you, I have no idea what this is. I wrote this in, like. An hour. I think a demon possessed me. I don't think I'm going to write more of this au, but who knows!

@danibee33 @kneelingshadowsalome @crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr @keiva1000 @waves-against-a-cliff @channelsoph @cutiecusp @itsagrimm @dins-riduur-anthe @mantishymns @lexuria

[dcdreamblog]

This is probably getting a little outside your purview, but the same book of Weird War Tales I read about the Creature Commandos in also had an entry on something called the Haunted Tank, a WW II tank crew lead by a man named Jeb Stuart, who claimed to be advised by the ghost of his ancestor, Civil War general J.E.B. Stuart.

Is there any credence or proof to this? I know the Spectre is a thing and the JLA had someone who claimed to be an actual angel on it, but I can’t tell if this is stretching things or not.

There's an absence of evidence, but that doesn't by itself prove an evidence of absence as any good scientist will tell you. Let's break it down. There's two general stories surrounding the Haunted Tank, the WWII version and the less well known modern version.

(Movie poster for The Haunted Tank, WB Pictures, 2009. It was ok. OOC: u/thejedibugs on Reddit)

The original WWII version of the Haunted Tank story followed the crew of an M3 Stuart light tank commanded by Sgt. Jeb Stuart. Stuart claimed until his dying day that he was guided by the spirit of his grandfather, Confederate general J.E.B Stuart. Sgt. Stewart claimed that he received advise from his military ancestor. Painting the words "Haunted Tank" across his machine in white paint and hanging a Confederate Flag from the turret while the tank and its crew served with distinction across North Africa and Western Europe, including Operation Torch, the Normandy Landings, and the Battle of the Bulge.

Sgt. Stuart's crew have gone on record saying they never heard or saw the spirit in the flesh as it were and Stuart's insistence made him seem slightly off his rocker to his comrades BUT having complete faith in their commanding officer's combat ability they played along and many of them have recounted tales of events that they could not otherwise explain in the heat of combat. (Such as multiple occurrences of the tank aiming and firing itself at the correct moment to save their lives without anyone being in the vehicle)

Records at the time are slim. The tank was successful in its missions and as such was rarely questioned by commanding officers.

A reconstruction of the tank (the original was destroyed near the end of the war) is on display at the American Heritage Museum in Hudson, Massachusetts.

(Image of the second Haunted Tank produced for the History Channel's "War that Time Forgot" series)

The second Haunted Tank was and is an M1 Abrams deployed during the 1st Iraq War. This tank was commanded by one of Jeb Stuart's own grandchildren, Sgt Jamal Stuart. (The WWII Jeb Stuart actually has 2 living Grandchildren, the other a woman named Jen Stuart who is also a lieutenant in the armed forces).

Their tank was rescued by the spirit of J.E.B Stuart during an ambush by raiders after falling behind an American convoy due to mechanical failure.

Jamal Stuart has been much colder in his take on his ancestors interference. Since, as the name implies, Jamal Stuart is a black man. (Technically mixed race, his mother is African American) and has spoken at length about having to come to terms with the legacy of his ancestor appearing right in front of him. Whatever actual agreement they came to is ultimately a private matter but Sgt' Stuart's Abrams also became known as The Haunted Tank and also flew a Confederate Flag out of the vehicle's turret for the length of their deployment.

No generation of modern Stuarts seems ecstatic at the associations their stories create (The WWII Stuart had a black soldier among his crew despite official rules against army integration, one of his own children married a black woman and his grandson IS black). And yet the story is what it is, whether you or I or anyone else like it or not.

[messydiabolical]

Template by @finchmarie can be found here. Thank you Finch it's a lovely template! And it's a Keahi double feature: OC MEME as snagged from @stormikins and @keenie-bo-beenie <3

General

Name: Keahi Maynard Shepard

Alias(es): Kay, Whero (fear-o), Ember, Siha

Gender: Genderqueer

Age: 40 in ME1, 42-44 in ME2, 45+ in ME3

Place of birth: Mindoir

Spoken languages: English, French, pidgin Hawaiin conversational/some/learning: Spanish, Arabic, Māori, Asari standard and Drell standard.

Sexual orientation: demisexual, rarely feels attraction but falls HARD when they do. Pansexual.

Occupation: ME1 alliance military infiltrator, rank of commander, and council spectre. ME2 council spectre, Alliance status unclear, and in the latter half secretly, co-shadow broker. ME3 retired from Alliance and council/ honourary roles not active, co-shadow broker with Liara T'Soni.

Favourite

Colours: Purple and green

Entertainment: Archery, nature walks, gaming (management sims and creative tools especially), reading, painting, playing guitar, crochet, music and dancing

Pastime: Having a great meal and maybe playing a game with close friends, then a private chill evening with Thane cosy in their quarters. More active wise, an archery session, particularly if it is on land in nature.

Food: Dad's home style jerk chicken, rice and peas, hard food and dumplings. Or a full roast dinner with all the trimmings.

Drink: Blackcurrent cordial, cool crisp cider, fresh orange juice with bits (pulp for my friends over the pond).

Book: Lord of the Rings trilogy

Have They

Passed University: Joined the Alliance straight out of school, has done many certifications via that.

Had sex: Before Thane, only two partners and brief relationships with a handful of sexual occasions. With Thane, a lot.

Had sex in public: No and absolutely zero interest in trying

Gotten tattoos: Yes. One is a periwinkle over a pentagon, a favourite flower and a nod to Thane. (I figure tattoo removal is much more doable by this point and Keahi is a sappy romantic anyway).

Gotten piercings: yes, muliple. The infiltration track allowed for slightly more lenient dress code in the alliance so they had some ear piercings, although they often closed over and had to be redone. From ME2 onward, multiple piercings including labret and nose.

Had a broken heart: Sort of. (i'm still working out these backstories so the details are a little bare here). Their two previous relationships were both with people they had strong, significant connections with but both were simply not sustainable. Relationship one was a fellow soldier, work, youth and distance made them decide to end things amicably. He later died in duty, Keahi still mourns him. Their second relationship was with a female turian (get him very drunk and they will admit they 'climbed her like a tree' at a good foot taller than him) again met via work and she wasn't looking for a commitment due to work ambitions, a mutual split but was very sad to end things at the time.

Been in love: Thane, the great love of their life, their soulmate, all the cliches. Thane lives because I am soft and they need to grow old and wrinkly together.

Are They

A cuddler: So cuddly with those they are close to. Minimal bodily contact until that closeness is formed though

Scared easily: Not easily. Keahi is a very chill, level headed person. Until they aren't and then it's nuclear time, all the feels.

Jealous easily: Not especially.

Trustworthy: Ridiculously reliable. I think Keahi is one of those people that could be extremely good at lying and manipulation if they have to and truly believe it's necessary, but would never want to and is a last resort, so if you are putting faith in them there's a 99% chance that faith is extremely well placed.

Family

Siblings: None, but was extremely close to other kids on Mindoir :(

Parents: Mum- Dr. Rita Shepard, Agriculturist. She was head of agricultural sustainability and planning on Mindoir, with specialisations in conservation and zenobotany. She made sure any food production didn't cause ecological problems and was sustainable both for the population and the planet. She named Keahi after the plant of the same name which has red stems, and to honour her Hawaiin mother. Dad- Winston Maynard, primary school teacher. Winston was one of those heart of the community types, a smiley, fun, loving man who idolised his 'big brained beautiul' wife and who was every kids favourite teacher.

Rita and Winston:

Children: Keahi loves kids and has always had a 'if it happens it happens and if not that's ok' attitude to having children of their own, knowing their work is not exactly child friendly. Once settled with Thane, Keahi is very happy taking on a step parent role to Kolyat (once Kolyat warms up to them and wants that too) and Feron. Most drell live in tight knit multi generational family units (Thane and Irikah were outliers there) and post reapers, Keahi and Thane live with Kolyat and Feron and very happily and readily help with raising and doting on grandchild Mina.

Pets: The aquarium is converted into a vivarium and home to some space geckos

Tagging: So I've combined two different thigns here, Finch's goregous character template and the OC meme. So to those I tag, you can do one, both or none of course! @pastelroyce @dandenbo @angstyastro @shadowthehedgehog1 @daisywalletchains @who-is-riley @twistedstitcher27 @callista-curations @onedismay @tumblersleftboob and absolutely anyone else who wants to try them out and please tag me I want to see them <3 <3

[luvrodite]

milk teeth (833)

on returning to gotham, and old ghosts that haunt you

After it all happens, your parents whisk you away.

It amounts to a betrayal you never quite forgive them for and despite their efforts, the move doesn’t quite scrub Gotham from your grief stricken memory. It remains forever in the rearview mirror, a taunting spectre at your back, a permanent black spot that seems to jeer, you’ll be back. You cannot outrun me.

Some days, she is benevolent. In dreams, she coaxes you back with promises of home, nudges towards you the days that had once made up your childhood. Memories of what had once been, but could never be again, are offered to you on a plate. Return to me, return, return, return…

She shows her viciousness, too. When sweetness does not deliver you back to her threshold, she reveals her teeth. Fury driven by what has been stolen from her, you bear the brunt of her scorn. Child of smoke and water, you were never meant to leave the bounds of her domain.  

Sunsoaked and dripping in artificial colouring, the West Coast is nothing like your gray, grim city. It’s lit in technicolour, yellows and blues too bright for your retinas, Brighton weakened, unused to anything beyond the pale smog and acid rain. Flash burns make a home in your vision, oil spills in the corner of your eye that linger long after you’ve withdrawn, sitting in the dark of your room with the curtains pulled taut. 

The name that sits in your hollow chest is never spoken aloud. 

Not by you, nor your parents who barely dare to look at you, as though you will shatter under the very weight of their gaze. It festers there, the restless spirit of the blue eyed boy who had held your hand on the first day of high school, wrathful at being forgotten. What prayers you muster go unanswered. How can one gain forgiveness from the dead?

Little bird with a wounded wing, you flinch from any and all attempts at consolation. Memory and imagination blur together, visions procured that haunt your nights and whittle you into something unrecognisable. 

Where has my baby gone?

There is no answer that will satisfy your mother’s tears, no energy to fashion a lie that will comfort her agony. Not when your own peels you back, an unending flagellation that shows no intention of relenting. 

This is a grief not meant for the young – to love and lose, this should have come in the winter of your life. But the baby fat of your cheeks has yet to slim out, milk teeth not all lost. You do not know crow’s feet, nor silver strands that thread through your mane.

Grief, you come to find out, cares not for whom it afflicts. You come to know her well.

The California sun, over the years, becomes tolerable but it does little to put your heart to rest, to quiet the press of phantom fingers and wisps of blue black hair that brush against the curtain of your memory. 

Your lost boy lingers, your graveyard of bones calls you home and Gotham takes you back into her arms, a near decade after Jason is killed.

It threatens to topple you over, a knife lodged beneath your breast when you take your first step off the bridge and onto the island. 

All around you the city thrums with frenetic energy, a spirit that has run undercurrent to the lives of its inhabitants long before the first slab of concrete was laid down. Steam hisses and bellows from pipes in buildings above your head. You are jostled by the foot traffic, hurried pedestrians casting derisive looks over their shoulder and muttering beneath their breath. Someone yells down the road, a too harsh laugh makes your eardrums ache and the ghost of your first love stands beneath a light pole, smiling.

He looks just as he had, that last day. It nearly brings you to your knees, staring at the curly haired angel leaning against the steel, a toothy grin curving a rosebud mouth upwards. 

Somebody shoves you with a yell to stop hogging up the path that you barely hear. By the time you look back, he’s gone.

In street lamps, under the cover of store awnings and atop buildings guarded carefully by stone gargoyles. The flutter of fabric in the wind rings in your ears and the world takes on a blue quality, the muffled echoes of a dying laugh reaching you through a veil. 

That same gap toothed, crooked grin that you’d known in your youth meets you from across a convenience store and you drop the can of soda in your hand, 13 years old and blustering under the weight of a nosy store owner’s gaze – shouldn’t you both be at school?

You walk out empty handed and twelve years older, with bright purple stains on the canvas of your sneakers and difficulty steadying your breathing. The bright blue eyes on your back stay there the whole walk home.

is this anything? idfk. i have pilates in 3.5 hours and i haven't slept all night. yikes! anyway. here's whatever this is. it's unedited btw but i wanted to post something because i haven't in almost a month and i'm going crazy cuckoo bananas over it

[deities-anew]

Minecraft soundtrack?

What about Celeste soundtrack?

....

...

Undertale soundtrack.

Undertale soundtrack.

[warwickroyals]

INTRODUCTION - DRAMATIS PERSONAE - FAMILY TREE - LOCATIONS - PART ONE

BEWARE! The following information might make the events of this narrative REDUNDANT! (AKA SPOILER WARNING)

PRINCE HENRY, DUKE OF GLENCAIRN (1787 - 1840)

The third son of King Louis II, and father of King George. Unlike his elder brothers, he was soft-spoken and tender. An amateur composer and dramatist in his adult years, Henry’s life was turned on its axis when he became second in line to the throne. He died of a fever just six months after the birth of his much-adored son, the first male-line grandson of Louis II to be born in over thirty years.

LADY IMOGEN LONGFORD, later DUCHESS OF GLENCAIRN (1806 - 1881)

The mother of King George and Princess Octavia of Glencairn. At the relatively late age of thirty-one, she left her native England to marry the Duke of Glencairn. Following her husband’s death, she was vocal in her belief that her son George should come before the children of King James I and Queen Caroline in the line of succession. Her relationship with her children was strained and often the source of public controversy, but she remained—doggedly, unapologetically—at her son’s side until her death in 1881.

PRINCESS OCTAVIA JANE OF GLENCAIRN (1838 - 1902)

The only sibling of George, the pair were inseparable as children but drifted apart as they grew into adults. Often jealous of her brother’s inheritance, the relationship broke down when George refused to accept Octavia’s choice of husband. Although the pair later reconciled, Octavia never married. George was devastated when Octavia died alone in 1902.

LOUIS II (1757 - 1817)

King of Sunderland from 1802 - 1817, and grandfather to George. Sunderland’s second monarch, Louis II is largely known for establishing sovereignty and resisting efforts to turn Sunderland into a Prussian puppet state. In 1807, he changed the family name from Hohenzollern to Warwick, inspired by the country’s largest city. Though a successful king, he was harsh towards his children. His fearsome anger sent reverberations down the Warwick family tree.

LOUIS III (1782 - 1850)

George’s Uncle Crown, Prince Louis William Thomas became king in 1817. Holding the throne for an impressive thirty-three years, Louis married twice; one wife he loved and cherished, the other he despised and tormented. His only child, Prince Frederick, died after a long and harrowing struggle with tuberculosis. George was born in the last decade of his uncle’s life and their relationship was distant but cordial. George would remember Louis III as a large and gout-ridden man, always roaring with laughter.

PRINCE FREDERICK JAMES (1806 - 1835)

The only son of Louis III and his beloved first wife. Prince Freddy was everything his father was not: tall, dashing, and popular. Although expected to be a great king, his life was cut short by tuberculosis, the spectre that haunted North America throughout the 19th century. Freddy’s death sparked the succession crisis of 1835, prompting a mad scramble from his aging uncles to marry and produce an heir.

JAMES I (1785 - 1857)

The second son of Louis II, James I succeeded to the throne at sixty-five years old, the oldest monarch in Sunderland’s history. James married the flighty and insecure Caroline of Mecklenburg-Stralsund at fifty-three, by then having had 11 children with his mistress. A reformist politically, James’s short but eventful reign is today overshadowed by interpersonal drama. He was cruel to his nephew George, who in turn despised his Uncle Lennox and prayed for his death.

PRINCESS CAROLINE OF MECKLENBIRG-STRALSUND, later QUEEN CAROLINE (1812 - 1869)

The tormented wife of James I, Caroline hailed from a microscopic German state and spoke little English when she arrived in North America. Upon marriage she be Her marriage produced five children, but only one, the future Louis IV, survived infancy. Over the years Caroline grew shrewd but also paranoid and possessive of her delicate son. She served as regent during Louis’s minority, the only woman in Sunderland’s history to rule from the throne. While competent, Caroline was decisive as Queen Regent, being dismissed by George and his family as Karoline, das kindermädchen.

LOUIS IV (1840 - 1860)

George’s sickly and vacillating little cousin, as the son of the Duke and Duchess of Lennox, Louis immediately supplanted George in the line of succession. Sheltered and constantly ill, Louis deifed expectations by outliving his neglectful father, becoming king at just sixteen years old. Upon reaching majority in 1859, Louis flung himself into a scandalous and ill-advised marriage with Rosalyn Brair, an American commoner from South Carolina. Louis’s health deteriorated throughout his reign and he died aged twenty, but not before defying expectations again and declaring his estranged cousin his heir presumptive over his infant daughter.

[nburkhardt]

Wrote most of this while high, so it’s a silly thing! 🥰

Face flushed and mind on pause, heart beating fast. Eddie’s eyes are a little wide, watches as Steve smiles before falling back on his side of the couch. There’s giggling as he brings his hand to his mouth to muffle it, it’s a losing battle though.

It’s like all the sound around him is gone and only Steve’s giggle is all he can hear as his mind finally reboots, Eddie shakes his head before focusing his eyes back on the other boy. Steve’s still giggling, hand finally away from his mouth and there’s a twinkle in his eyes.

“Did you- did you really just say boop and proceeded to boop my nose?” Eddie finally finds his voice again, finger touching his nose.

Steve nods, giggle starting to fade and all that’s left is a smile. “Yeah, what about it?”

Opening his mouth and then closing it, Eddie just shakes his head, leaning back on the couch. He just looks at Steve.

Maybe it’s the weed, maybe high-Steve is a silly giggly type. Has a thought and immediately does it, kind of person. It’s gotta be that, but he still asks; “Why?”

Steve shifts to sit up, smile still in place. His hand moves and wraps around Eddie’s wrist.

“Got a cute nose, it needed to be booped”

Eddie’s gaze snaps up to meet Steve’s and finds the twinkle. This time, it brings a flush to his face. “Yeah?”

Steve nods, looking way to serious for this, “I really wanted to do that, like, all day.”

He hums, looking back at Steve’s hand on his wrist before shaking the hand and moving it to hold hands with Steve. “Wanna do anything else?”

“Maybe, will you freak out?”

Eddie shakes his head, “if what I’m thinking is right, I don’t think I will”

It’s quiet as Steve nods and moves closer to his face, it’s slow and Eddie can barely breathe as Steve brings his free hand to his face and Eddie’s eyes close.

It’s a little quick thing and Eddie’s already obsessed. Yet, all Steve did was a simple kiss; a chaste kiss. But the thing that makes him obsessed, makes him want more is the after.

Steve leans his forehead against Eddie’s and when Eddie opens his eyes again, Steve’s are closed and there’s a content smile.

“Stevie, think we can do that more?”

The smile on his face grows, and immediately shifts to press his lips against Eddie’s again. It’s simple, it’s easy, it’s filled with something more that shouldn’t be spoken just yet.

I’m gonna end it there because if not I’m gonna go on forever. I saw a thing saying “booping noses & giggling” and while high decided “that’s STEVE!!” So this came to be! Hope everyone enjoys it 🥰

Also, just so you know, I could not for the life of me type out “chaste” it was in my head just swirling around but my hands and mouth refused to work it out. I ended up finding the word in a fic and copying it. Does that happen to anyone else?? Like the word is there in your head, but you cannot get it out?

Permanent tag list: (if you would like to be added OR removed, let me know!)

@spectrum-spectre @itsfreakingbats @mysticcrownshipper @artiststarme @thereindeerlady @justforthedead89 @ronniescontinuum @freyaforestafay @littlewildflowerkitten @gregre369 @zerokrox-blog @flustratedcas @carlprocastinator1000 @marvelmwah @solliesolesito @navnae @i-less-than-three-you @grimmfitzz @estrellami-1 @cartercaptainofthemoon @strangersteddierthings

[star-crossed-fates]

Even My Damnation Spells Your Name

Chapter 11: Once, Forever

Synopsis: In a city of steel and stars, you fall in love with a man the world calls a monster. He looks at you like you’ve haunted every life he’s ever lived. Sylus is danger wrapped in silk, secrets stitched into every glance, every touch, every word spoken like a spell. He’s yours before you even realize what you’re remembering.

Because this isn’t the first time.

Dreams unravel you. Memories not your own. A dragon’s death cry. A kiss beneath bloodied skies. A love too eternal to stay buried. As the past bleeds into the present, you begin to piece together the truth. Some memories burn brighter than the stars, others wound deeper than any blade.

And love, no matter how timeless, always demands a price.

Pairing: Female! MC [Named] x Sylus

Rating: Explicit 18+ [MDNI]

Spoilers: Sylus's myth cards/memories. Please note: memories might be a little different from in-game for story purposes.

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit smut, including various kinks: Praise, degradation talk, first time, CP, DP, anal sex/play, probably some Dragon!Sylus smut, maybe a lot of it. Many, many more that I'm forgetting to list. Consider yourself warned. - Unlikely to be completely canon. - MC is named. Her personality is darker than in the game, far more morally grey. - Switching between MC's memories/dreams/flashbacks and current timeline. - Other love interests will not show up in this. - Some plot, but not super planned out. Basically, this is a "what if the closer they became, the more MC remembers her life with him on Philos.

At the kitchen island, you perch like a spectre haunting your skin, fork limp between your fingers. Breakfast cools in silence, egg yolks spreading like tired halos across the plate, not sun but sorrow masquerading as light. A piece of toast drags through the mess, painting streaks in yellow and broken white, like you’re searching for a hidden truth buried in the crumbs. You should eat, dress, run until your limbs forget why they tremble, but you don’t. You linger in the hollow where wanting once inhabited.

The truth is, you could still sculpt your face into something passable. Curve your mouth, angle your shoulders, and choose words that sound like surviving. You told yourself you left with your head held high. That walking away from him was strength.

Maybe it was.

The flavour of strength? A coin held too long in the mouth—dull, cold, stained with wishes that never came true. You left not because you wanted absence, but because presence had become a crucifixion. Each glance, a nail; each word unsaid, the tip of a blade scraping against your heart.

Staying would’ve meant bleeding quietly until he finally decided you were worthy of the truth he carried like a crown of thorns.

If he wanted to speak, the stars would bend to deliver him. He’s broken time before to reach you, stepping through death and dream alike. Maybe he’s giving you space. Maybe he’s waiting like you are, caught in that suspended breath between want and should.

Or maybe you’re fooling yourself.

You set the fork down, hands splaying on the countertop like wings that no longer lift. You miss the way his voice used to thread the dark, soft as twilight pressing its lips to your skin. How his heat rewrote the air around you.

A knock splinters the quiet, and you freeze. Air sticks in your throat, lungs pausing mid-motion. Reckless, radiant hope sparks, sprinting straight to your heart and setting up camp. You push the stool back too quickly. Bare feet whisper across cold tile. Fingers curl around the door handle before your thoughts can catch up.

Maybe gravity pulled him home. Maybe he’s waiting with a heart full of ghosts, holding a name that burns every time he says it. Maybe the misery mapped a way back to your skin.

You open the door.

Nina stands there in her denim jacket and unevenly laced boots, hair in a messy knot like she ran her hands through it a dozen times on the way over. Her expression isn’t her usual animated smirk or teasing squint. It’s the kind of solace people only use when they think you might be about to break again.

“Hey,” she greets, voice gentle like she’s afraid to knock over whatever’s left of you.

“Hi,” you reply, trying to paint on a smile that is convincing enough to hide the way your throat tightens, irrational disappointment catching there like a bone. “Come in.”

Her eyes sweep your apartment, taking everything in. They catch on the plate at the counter, still uneaten. Your wrinkled pyjamas. “Anira… You know it’s three in the afternoon, right? Or are we just redefining breakfast now?”

Three? You glance back at the kitchen like time might have left a footprint there, like it should’ve warned you as it passed.

Something like a smile haunts your face but doesn’t fully form. “Time’s fake anyway.”

“Mm. So is nutrition, apparently.”

You snort, weakly, and slide back onto the stool. You haven’t talked since the breakdown at work. Just a handful of messages. Half-hearted check-ins. Her thumbprint lingering on the glass of your world but never quite pressing through.

“I didn’t expect company,” you murmur.

Nina shrugs. “Didn’t want to wait for an invitation.”

She grabs a mug from the cabinet with the muscle memory of friendship, fills the kettle without asking, and flicks it on. “You gonna tell me what’s going on? Or are we playing the ‘pretend I’m fine’ game again?”

“I think that Sylus and I might’ve broken up.”

There. You’ve said it. There’s no crash or rupture, only a quiet dissonance that hangs amid the syllables.

The kettle clicks off. Nina doesn’t move. “What happened?”

You shake your head. “I don’t… I don’t even know. It was nothing and everything. I asked him something, and he wouldn’t answer, so I left. He didn’t stop me.”

It’s the softest, smallest truth, but the wound it opens howls.

“Did you want him to?”

The answer doesn’t fall from the heavens. It rises from the cavern of your chest, a phantom made of unsaid things and too-long silences. You think of how he laughed like joy was something he crafted only for you. How he looked at you like a pilgrim charting constellations he already trusted to guide him home.

All the words you didn’t say come back to roost in your ribs, and the ache answers for you.

Yes. God, yes.

Nina sips her tea like the conversation didn’t just leave your heart on the counter next to the cold eggs and the untouched toast. She leans back on the stool, stretching her arms overhead until her joints pop. “So. I picked up a commission.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Since when do you do side work?”

“Since I found out freelance pays better than loyalty. It’s nothing major, just some retrieval intel, but the job’s taking me into Maraik.”

You blink. “Maraik?”

That gets your attention. The word is a warning all on its own—Maraik, where neon burns like firelight and the alleys chew people whole. A bleeding underbelly of Linkon, stitched together with desperation and smoke. Not quite the N109, but not far off in spirit.

Nina shrugs, eyes on her mug. “Client says it’s low-risk. Just recon, maybe a pickup if things look good. But I’d rather not walk in alone.” She glances up, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Could use a wingman with flexible morals and a mean left hook.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Flattered.”

“I’ll even split the pay,” she adds. “Fifty-fifty. Hazard bonus included.”

Perhaps you need something to pull you out of your own head before you drown in it. Anything that doesn’t wear his scent or echo his voice. “I’m in.”

“Good,” she beams, giving your shoulder a small shake. “We leave at dusk.”

Maraik whirrs like a severed nerve. Every step you take buzzes beneath your boots—broken glass underfoot, neon smeared across rain-slick concrete, the air sharp with rust and sweat and the tang of chemical fire.

Bar after bar, club after club, you scan faces, listen to murmured names and codewords. The contact’s name is Riven. No last name, no record. You’re not even sure if they’re a man, woman, or myth. Just a lead trailing through liquor and ultraviolet.

A few compliments. A brush of Nina’s hand over a shoulder. A smirk curled on your lips, just enough edge to make you interesting. The two of you are playing the role of information traders with enough money and desperation to need someone like Riven.

Apparently, it’s convincing.

You’re led by a man with gold teeth and a scar bisecting one eye through two alleyways, then into a stairwell that smells faintly of antiseptic. He knocks three times, waits, then taps twice more, and the door hisses open. The room inside is unexpected. Polished floors, sprawling, serpentine couches, high ceilings strung with crystals that scatter fractured light like tiny explosions.

It’s a trap dressed as a throne room.

Riven lounges on the largest couch, boots propped up. “You’ve been looking for me.”

You smile slowly. “Word is you know things we’re interested in.”

The man watches you both like you’re entertainment, something between a threat and a delicacy. “People are usually more careful when they ask about me.”

“Then I guess we’re not people,” Nina purrs, sliding onto a low stool, legs crossed, arms loose and lazy.

He laughs. “Clearly.”

The conversation spins into coded questions, half-answers, wordplay so tight it could slice skin. You mention a shipment, hint at a buyer. Nina drops a name no one’s supposed to know. Riven raises an eyebrow, impressed or pretending to be.

The information starts to come. Names. Dates. Locations.

A voice crackles over the comm unit on the wall. “Those aren’t freelancers. One of ’em flagged red in the system.”

Everything stops.

Riven’s smile drops. “Well. Isn’t that unfortunate.”

You move at the same time as Nina. Your hand snaps to your holster. Her foot kicks over the nearest table for cover. The first shot hits the wall behind you in a burst of plaster. You return fire, clean and fast. One of the guards drops. Nina slides under another’s swing and drives a knife into his ribs.

“Left!” she shouts, and you spin, knee driving into a throat, another shot silencing someone behind you.

Three down. Four left. It feels like dancing if dancing meant blood and broken bones. Another wave floods the room. You and Nina are backed against the bar, shoulders nearly touching.

Nina meets your eyes once. “We don’t die here.”

The butt of a gun cracks against the back of your skull, causing light to burst behind your eyes, and the world lists, folds, and darkens.

You come to with blood dried at the edge of your mouth and the taste of copper slicking your tongue. Your hands are bound with plastic restraints that bite into your wrists. The room is dim, lit by one low, flickering bulb that makes the concrete walls sweat shadows. Your first breath is sharp. The second is calculation. No weapons. No phone. Boots still on, but laces cut. Jacket gone. No tools. Nina’s awake, bleeding from a split lip, but her eyes burn with the same heat as yours.

Riven stands in the corner, arms crossed, immaculate in his patchwork coat, like this is a fashion show and not a hostage interrogation.

“So,” he begins, voice a lazy drip of syrup, “want to tell me who the fuck you are?”

You tilt your head. “We’re freelance decorators. The bodies were just a fun bonus.”

Nina snorts. “We have a thing for violent interior design.”

He gestures, and a boot slams into Nina’s ribs. She grunts but doesn’t fall.

Riven stalks forward, crouching in front of you like you’re a curious insect. “I don’t care if you’re mercs or just dumb girls playing spy. What I care about is who sent you.”

You smile, blood blooming between your teeth. “Santa Claus. Naughty list.”

This time, the punch lands across your jaw. Your vision flares white for a moment. Your head snaps sideways, but you don’t look away. You’re already mapping. Three exits—two guarded, one barred. The guy to your left has a limp; the one on your right keeps touching his side like he’s hiding an injury. You clock the glint of a knife tucked into one guard’s boot.

“You know,” Riven muses, circling again, “you two could be valuable. Pretty. Smart. Shame you’re so uncooperative.”

You flick your eyes to him. “I’d rather die uncooperative than lick your boots.”

Riven signals again. Another blow. Heat bursts like a sun flaring in reverse, and your breath snags against the barbed wire kink beneath your ribs. You choke it down. Each strike is a brushstroke painting the map you need. Pain is nothing but the toll for time, and you’re buying seconds with bone.

Death doesn’t frighten you. You’ve traced that fringe before, pressed it to your throat in darker hours. If it comes, you’ll meet it like an old friend. But survival is a diagram your soul remembers, and you’ve never forgotten the rhythm of breathing through ruin.

You shift enough to let your fingers find Nina’s behind your back. Her hand curls around yours like an oath. She squeezes once. They don’t know. Not Riven, not his thugs with their knives and their smug, meat-headed grins. Not the man already imagining how best to carve you open. You let your focus slip into the hum that lives under your skin, where your blood turns bright and strange.

Resonance stirs like a tuning fork struck. It’s not force, but surrender. You mirror Nina’s power in a pitch so true the space between you collapses. Her Evol catches flame, flaring brighter, stronger, as if your soul is feeding oxygen to her fire. She gasps a little, the edge of a laugh escaping her mouth like a spark off flint.

Riven narrows his eyes. “What the fuck’s funny?”

Your answering grin is haunted and half a breath from sacrilege. “You’re about to find out.”

He steps forward, full of false calm. A guard flanks him on either side, blades drawn, eyes calculating like predators closing in. Riven bends slightly, his face too close to yours, breath foul. “You think this is a joke?” He hisses.

Nina detonates. The floor roars as a wave of kinetic force slams outward from her body, a ripple that tosses men like dolls and sends concrete cracking underfoot. The nearest blade skitters across the floor like it knows who it belongs to. You dive for it, slice through the plastic binding your wrists, and twist fast to free Nina. She’s half a second ahead, yanking a second knife from the downed guard’s belt.

Yelling erupts. Gunmetal flashes.

You sprint. Gunfire bites into the walls around you, one round clipping the doorframe as you shoulder through it hard. Nina ducks, firing back with nothing but force—each shot of kinetic energy slamming into doorways and chests, buying seconds.

Precious, holy seconds.

A guard lunges at you from the shadows. You pivot mid-run, slam your elbow into his throat, and bury the blade into his side. You tear down a corridor half-lit by flickering neon. Nina kicks open a back exit, the metal screeching loud enough to raise the dead.

Nina grabs your wrist. “Move, Ani!”

Your boots slam against pavement slick with oil and old rain. The sound of pursuit still claws down the alley. Nina fumbles with her keys, swears when she drops them, and then finally unlocks the doors of her rust-bitten car.

You slide into the driver’s seat and bark, “Get in.”

Nina hesitates just long enough to glare at you. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” You don’t give her a chance to argue. You’re already twisting the ignition, foot slamming the gas before the engine fully catches.

The car lurches. Nina scrambles into the passenger seat, barely getting the door closed before you’re tearing out.

“You wanna drive like a psychopath, fine,” she mutters, clutching the door like it might fly off. “But if I die in my own car, I’m haunting your apartment. Loudly.”

You take a hard left, nearly clipping a postbox. “You’re not dying.”

Traffic thickens as you weave into the main street—an endless stream of blinking reds, pedestrians too brave for their own good, and hovercycles darting between lanes like hornets.

Your heart thrums like it remembers another rhythm that’s older than fear or reason. This chaos, this edge-of-death sprint, is the first thing that’s made sense since Sylus.

You don’t think about his name, but it’s there anyway. Echoing. Like the car that still sits parked under your building. Like the bed you haven’t touched since that night. Like the kiss still aching in the chasm of your throat.

God, you should’ve taken his damn car.

A bullet cracks past the rearview mirror. One of Riven’s men must’ve jumped into a bike. You duck instinctively, swear, and shove the wheel to the right, nearly sideswiping a food truck. The car squeals but holds.

Nina sucks in a breath. “You good?”

“Never better.” You are. In a twisted, awful, elated kind of way.

Your arm’s been bleeding since the fight, slick down to your elbow. Nina doesn’t look much better. Her cheek is swelling, and blood is crusted down the side of her throat.

But this?

This is the closest you’ve felt to whole in weeks.

You park two blocks out, tires skidding in gravel as the car jerks to a stop, and kill the engine. “Out. Now.”

Nina doesn’t ask questions. The chase doesn’t stop just because the roads did. You sprint down the street, cutting across the neat line of suburban homes. Jump a fence. Then another. Then two backyard gardens where the grass is too green and the flowers too trimmed.

The house stands at the end of the street. It’s too ordinary. White picket fence. A cheerful red door with a brass knocker, but you know better.

This place is a fortress wearing drag.

You shoulder open the gate and grab Nina’s hand as her stride falters. There are voices behind you, footfalls drawing closer, echoing in the distance. You scramble up the porch and press your thumb to the lock plate, blood smearing the sensor. At the same time, your voice—hoarse and shaking—forces the words from your lungs: “Aegis. Override.”

For half a breath, nothing happens, then a click, and the door unlocks. You and Nina tumble inside and slam it shut behind you. The reinforced locks slide home automatically. Three deadbolts thud into place. Steel veins humming under drywall.

The house is furnished in the barest sense with only a grey couch, untouched kitchen, and a rug so new it still holds creases from the packaging. The air carries that new-furniture chemical tang. You glance toward the corner of the ceiling, where a pin-sized camera sits hidden behind a decorative moulding. Barely visible to anyone who doesn’t already know it’s there.

He’ll see you. He’ll know you’re here. The door didn’t reject your print, which means he hasn’t revoked you. Yet.

You don’t let yourself hope.

“Nina. Basement. Come on.”

She nods, teeth gritted. “Lead the way.”

You push through the kitchen, past the stainless steel fridge and the spotless counters. A pantry door opens to stairs. When you reach the bottom, you press your hand to a section of the far wall. It scans you again, the light flickers, and a panel slides open.

Behind it are racks lined with weapons, shelves of ammunition, and crates of gear that could outfit a small militia. One wall holds medical supplies, organized and clean as a surgeon’s tray.

You’re already pulling out gauze, antiseptic, and wound spray to numb the pain. Blood runs down your arm. Hers pools in her sock. But you’re here. You made it.

You just don’t know if you’re alone or if his eyes are already on you.

Nina grumbles as she presses a cloth to her bruised ribs. You’re midway through stitching your arm when she glances up, eyes sweeping the gleaming rows of weapons on display. Rifles, handguns, serrated blades. The kind of arsenal that doesn’t just suggest trouble—it promises it.

“Where the hell are we?” She asks, her voice rough but edged with awe. “This doesn’t exactly scream hospital.”

You don’t look up right away. Just tug the next thread tight, the pain a sharp, grounding thing. “One of Sylus’s properties.”

She blinks. “Wait. This is fruit boy’s house?”

A brief laugh slips out. “Not his main one. Just one of them.”

Nina turns her head slowly, taking in the racks of ammunition and the stack of claymore mines nestled in the corner like they belong next to throw pillows. “This is a weird setup for someone who trades mangoes.”

You finally look at her, deadpan. “The fruit business is… exceptionally cutthroat.”

She snorts, then winces as the motion pulls at the bandage you wrapped around her thigh. “Okay, but real talk—he’s not in the fruit business, is he?”

You shake your head. “No.”

She pauses. Maybe waiting for more. When none comes, she just exhales through her nose, lips quirking in a lopsided grin.

“Well,” she says, nodding toward a particularly beautiful pair of twin daggers mounted under a set of tactical flashbangs. “Remind me to pick up some apples from him next time. Bet they come with a side of high explosives.”

You let yourself chuckle, the sound raspy but genuine. “Might even throw in a grenade if you’re polite.”

“Shit, then I’ll say ‘please’ twice.”

There’s a short, settling lull with only the soft scrape of her boot dragging against the floor and the pang of bruises blooming beneath your skin.

Her eyes flit up to the camera dot barely visible in the corner. “Think your fruit vendor’s watching?”

You glance at it too. “He always knows who’s in his garden.”

“Hey,” she murmurs. “If I die today, bury me with one of those grenade launchers. I want whoever digs me up to be real confused.”

You huff and wince, pressing gauze to your lacerated ribs. “That could be arranged. I’ll even tuck in a pack of mango slices.”

“Tell ‘em it’s a funeral fruit basket.”

You laugh harder than you should, chest pulling tight with pain and the sweet edge of exhaustion.

Nina watches you for a beat longer, then softly says, “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I just… I needed this.”

“Getting shot at?”

“Getting out of my head.”

“Next time,” she retorts, “maybe we just go for drinks.” “No guarantees there won’t still be blood.” You hum, sliding a magazine into a sleek black pistol. Behind you, Nina lets out a reverent gasp. “Okay,” she exclaims with the pitch of an energetic child, lifting a sniper rifle from the rack like it’s spun gold. “This might be love.”

You glance over your shoulder. The thing is comically oversized, matte finish gleaming under the basement lights. Scope like a telescope, multiple mods flashing with faint energy pulses.

She holds it close, stroking the barrel. “I’m not saying I’d marry it, but I’m also not not saying that.”

You snort, tugging back the slide on your pistol. “Just make sure it doesn’t demand a prenup.”

Nina grins. “I’d give it everything. My apartment, my sad collection of instant ramen, my dying ficus—”

The air splits behind you like fabric torn from the inside out. A hiss of static. A shift in pressure. You both spin on instinct, weapons snapping up in perfect sync. There, standing with one hand casually in his pocket and the other adjusting the cuff of his dark coat, is Sylus.

The mist moves around him like it’s trying to remember the shape of god. Red and black, like spilled ink curling back into a pen that knows only how to write endings. His eyes catch the light like glass cut from blood and dusk. He stands like a riddle dressed in calm, like violence wearing silence.

You don’t breathe. You just remember. What it was to be known by that stillness. What it meant to be chosen by it.

What it cost.

“I see the hospitality hasn’t changed,” he cajoles smoothly, like bullets aren’t currently shredding the exterior walls of the house above. There’s the faint percussion of gunfire upstairs, muffled by layers of drywall and the security-grade ceiling.

Nina doesn’t lower her rifle. “What the actual fuck. The fruit guy just appeared like a damn horror movie villain.”

Sylus arches a brow, eyes flicking to her. “Fruit?” He looks at you, amused. “That’s what you went with?”

You lower your gun. “It was either that or arms dealer, and one of those gets follow-up questions.”

Outside, a series of rapid impacts slams against the front windows upstairs. The foundation thrums with every shot. You can hear shouting and heavy boots converging.

Sylus adjusts his collar like he’s more concerned about dust than death. “Who did you piss off this time?”

His tone is velvet over glass. No accusation, no judgment. Just amusement, like you’ve brought him another curiosity to observe.

You load another mag, check the chamber. “Guy named Riven. He didn’t appreciate our excellent manners.”

“He tried to cut our tongues out,” Nina mutters. “After inviting us over. Rude.”

Sylus makes a thoughtful sound, stepping toward the rack and plucking a combat knife from its sheath without looking. “Riven’s still playing warlord in Maraik? I thought someone would’ve gutted him by now.”

“Well,” you say, slapping a mag into a rifle and chambering a round, “give us five minutes.”

Sylus glances between you both, then turns his head just slightly, listening. “Ten of them outside. Two by the back deck. One on the roof. He’s watching the street.”

Nina stares at him. “You just got here.”

“I’m thorough,” he states, stepping past you to retrieve a sidearm. His fingers brush yours for half a breath.

You ignore the way your pulse stutters.

Nina nudges you. “Do all your exes show up mid-escape with teleportation and a full tactical readout?”

“Just the one,” you mutter.

Sylus is already walking toward the stairs, perfectly composed. “Coming?”

There’s a moment where Nina just stares after him, jaw slightly open. “Okay,” she murmurs, “I get it now. Fruit guy is terrifying.”

You give a wry smile. “Told you. Cutthroat business.”

You’re halfway to the stairs when Sylus veers off-course. His hand brushes a discreet panel on the armoury wall. A hiss of pressurized air follows, the metal face splitting to reveal a recessed storage chamber. There, nestled inside a black velvet like a lover waiting to be touched is the Model X-12.

Your heart skips. Your brain stalls. Your ovaries whisper things they shouldn’t. This is the first time you’ve considered moaning over a piece of polished alloy. Sylus lifts it like he isn’t holding the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen—and yes, that includes him shirtless at dawn.

He turns, calm as ever, while your brain throws itself face-first into a serotonin-laced fever dream. This is fine. You’re fine. You’re definitely not planning to ask if it comes in a his-and-hers set or planning a candlelit dinner for two: you, the Model X-12, and maybe Sylus if he behaves.

“Figured you’d want this back.”

Nina lets out a quiet, reverent sound behind you. “Oh my god. That is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sylus raises a brow. “I assume you mean the rifle.”

“…Sure.”

When he hands it to you, his fingers brush yours, and your brain takes that as an invitation to spiral. You accept the weapon like it’s a love letter written in steel. The weapon meets your palms and chants with reverence along your nerves, balance perfect, weight divine. Somewhere deep in your soul, a choir hits a high note.

You slide a finger down its polished length. “Hello, gorgeous.”

“I’m right here,” Sylus murmurs.

“Not now,” you whisper to the rifle. “Mommy’s working.”

Nina chokes.

You check the chamber, sight the balance, and shudder. “I think I just came a little.”

“I definitely did,” Nina adds.

You sling the rifle over your shoulder and fall into step behind Sylus as he ascends. The ceiling above vibrates with another volley of gunfire. Plaster dust sprinkles down in lazy flakes.

“I can handle this,” he purrs, like it’s foreplay and not a death sentence. “You’re both bleeding and one wrong blink from kissing the floor.”

He says it like it’s logistics, like it’s irrefutable math. You’d slap him if you weren’t actively using your last neuron to stop picturing him walking out there all erotic violence and jawline. You point at him. “Back off, pretty boy. These assholes are mine.”

A trace of a crooked smile touches his lips. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Miss Hunter. Or do—I’d love to see what you’d do with me.”

“I’m begging you both to shut up. I’m concussed and horny-adjacent by accident,” Nina laments with a smirk while fanning herself dramatically.

The door opens to gunfire ripping through the dusk. Sylus steps out first. You and Nina are half a breath behind him, weapons raised. A tide of red-black mist unfurls from his palm, dense as storm clouds. Bullets, mid-flight, suspend like glass beads in amber. A thousand tiny deaths frozen. They shiver as if sensing what holds them is not mercy but dominion. Like rain denied its sky, they fall. The sound: a metallic hush, like hail on gravestones.

Your rifle hums in your hands, synced perfectly to your heartbeat. You squeeze the trigger, and a blast of silent, searing energy lights the night.

They have numbers. Some of them have Evols. A man throws a shockwave through the pavement, sending rubble flying. Another tries to cloak himself in shadow and flank. But you and Nina move like a single organism—ducking, flanking, covering. She blasts a man’s kneecaps out while you take another’s head off from twenty feet with a whisper-thin beam of energy.

Behind you, he watches like a god wearing indifference like a tailored coat, his hands tucked in pockets as if war were just weather.

Only when one of them hurls a blade of compressed air toward Nina does he move. A pulse of his mist consumes the attack mid-flight and then slams the attacker into a wall hard enough to snap vertebrae.

One more unit charges forward, shouting. His eyes find yours across the break of chaos, and in that breathless space between moments, you choose each other.

Again. Always.

The resonance is not a link. It’s a rebirth that splits you open with splendour. It bellows in a divine ache. Two celestial bodies hurtling back into each other’s orbit after centuries of exile.

You burn. You bloom. You remember.

This isn’t power.

This is return.

This is what it feels like to come home to someone who never stopped carrying your name in the quiet of his blood.

Chapter Masterlist 

A03 [Cross-posted] 

Taglist: @mcdepressed290, @animecrazy76, @harmonyrae, @for-hearthand-home, @redseablooming, @morrigan87, @babyx91

[stormikins]

OC MEME: Jenn Shepard

tagged by @omniblades-and-stars thank you!!!

no pressure tags: @unfair-water-plane and @jtownnn

(art by my beloved mutual @spookyvalentine)

GENERAL

Name: Jenn Shepard

Alias(es): Shepard, Commander, Hero of Elysium, Savior of the Citadel, Jenny (by one (1) person), Captain, Shep, ma'am

Gender: Female, she/her

Age: 28 during me1 (she dies before her 29 birthday)

Place of Birth: Baltimore, Maryland, Earth

Spoken Languages: English, Spanish, Russian, and galactic trade (also one thessian language)

Sexual Orientation: bi bi bi

Occupation: weapon for Lieutenant Commander of the Alliance Military, and Citadel Spectre.

FAVORITE

Color: Pthalo green (basically a dark green)

Entertainment: Documentaries, music, combat

Pastime: model ships, sparring, gear maintenance, playing with her hamster Mister Spocket the Third

Food: blue raspberry candy

Drink: Peppermint schnapps

Books: reads a lot of news and tech articles, keeping up to date on new tech and such

HAVE THEY

Passed University: idk, any education she had post high school the military most likely provided for her

Had Sex: Yup

Had Sex in Public: semi-public

Gotten Tattoos: yes! she at least has a thresher maw tattoo after she killed her first one during me1. Her and her fellow N7 grads prolly got tattoos but idk what of

Gotten Piercings: she has a lot in her ears and used to have one in her right eyebrow when she was a teen

Had a Broken Heart: She is the patron saint of heartbreak. She's had friends die and she has had a bad break up once in her early twenties.

Been in Love: The aforementioned heart break in her twenties. And she does fall in love with Kal’Reegar and Nihlus. In some universes, at the same time even! also Saren

ARE THEY

A cuddler: when she's comfortable, oh yeah

Scared easily: the only they fear is you. jenn core

Jealous easily: She gets more possessive. I think there's a line between the two. Don't ask me to define it.

Trustworthy: Oh, she can be loyal to a fault if you prove yourself trustworthy. She is a ride or die friend, one that knows how to keep her mouth shut.

FAMILY

Siblings: She is an orphan, so no biological siblings, but there were a couple kids she considered close enough to call sibling during the first two decades of her life. You can consider Joker, Tali, and Garrus as her siblings.

Parents: Never knew them. There was a teacher that came close in middle school. And then she got really close with Chakwas during the Normandy tours and then post crucible firing, her and Victus got close as well.

Children: Never has, never will. She is not parent material, and she knew that even before the events of Mass Effect happen. Will be a cool aunt and babysit if needed but she does not want to be the first choice. She does not want the responsibility of a child if she can help it.

Pets: she gets a hamster in me2 as a way to help her cope with her reanimation. Post war on Rannoch, she gets an alien cat

[forsaken-headcanons]

Okay . More Pizzadebt hcs because they rotate in my head frequently

Mafioso is very ominously forward with his flirting. Will tip a lot of money if Elliot’s the one taking the order, sends his bunnies to give Elliot gifts during breaks, tells Elliot he’ll “deal with” anyone who bothers the place if asked, etc. Elliot would often be a bit flustered and try to return the money/do something in returnin the beginning but now he rolls his eyes and sighs affectionately because wow this guy could not be normal in his flirting to save his life

Despite Mafioso being an intimidating figure he’ll actually get very flustered if flirted with by Elliot. The first time Elliot discovered this he had to keep himself from making the most evil grin on his face. Sometimes Elliot will throw out a cheesy pick-up line when he delivers Mafioso’s pizza and grins as he watches the man pretend he’s not tripping over himself from Elliot’s words since he normally never flirts

Between the two Elliot is actually more scary when mad. Mafioso’s always intimidating and will gladly take out anyone who’s an issue to him, but Elliot is always kind which means when he gets mad he’s releasing at least a few months’ worth of pent-up rage upon the person unfortunate enough to piss him off (based on my own personal experience maining support classes where I feel 100% more rage and bloodthirst playing them compared to other characters). One time Elliot was having a bad week, was delivering pizza, and saw a person flirting with Mafioso, so he kicked them in the stomach while going full speed on his delivery bike all with a cheery if threatening grin. Mafioso was a bit stunned but also rather impressed by the sight.

Elliot figured out that Mafioso was in the Mafia after like visit two because he’s not entirely subtle about it. One visit from a man who talks like the mafia and when asked for a name says “Mafioso” is a funny cosplay. Second visit when he has small blood splatters on his fluffy coat and the other members also look roughed up? Suspicious but could also just be a fancy gang and not organized crime. The second they mention Eunoia by name(in a hushed whisper he was definitely not supposed to hear), he looks her up online after work, and finds out that the model in the city is closely associated with the mafia? Elliot is very concerned, but seeing as Mafioso hasn’t pressured him into doing any crime nor has anything bad happened to the Pizzeria yet, Elliot shoves that problem into future Elliot’s hands. He’s fine with the unintentional mafia connections so if something bad happens because of it then welp that’s on him

The two aren’t vocal about their relationship but don’t keep it a secret either. Most people who find out keep quiet solely for the fact Mafioso is just naturally scary. Within Forsaken they’re a bit more secretive about it especially considering the current general animosity between the killers and survivors. Whenever the two are together in rounds Mafioso will usually just kill Elliot first rather painlessly because he knows he couldn’t bring himself to do it if Elliot was the last one standing. They both agree that the situation isn’t great but rather than blame each other they blame the Spectre because it’s already causing a majority of the issues here

Building on the last point Chance once caught them kissing in between a round and the next round he was with Elliot he kept looking at him with a nervous expression. Chance made a comment about how he was even friendly with the killer and Elliot made a comment about how if they told anyone they’d be banned from eating Elliot’s cooking for a week. Chance likes getting healed and would rather not starve so they shut up and they haven’t spoken about it since

Okay that’s all . For now . I definitely have more Pizzadebt hcs that shall see the light of day but for now I shall retreat until I think of more hcs to talk about here (which will likely be either Elliot John Doe or 7n7 focused since they’re my favorites rn)

[Fun fact! I type my hcs in discord before I send them here and this went over the nitro character limit of 4000. I’m so normal about these two]

-🪶

Aw. They're adorable! I can definitely see why people like it.

Also the discord character limit is so real.

[pico-farad]

Secret Identities AU #3

revolver, soulburner, kusanagi, and ghost girl

SIAU tag

⇀ Revolver

So the reason I didn't address Revolver in this AU before is because with the other characters (Yusaku, Naoki, Go, Aoi) I tried to keep them recognizable. The changes made are mostly in their circumstances, but their core traits are the same.

That's not the case with SIAU Revolver.

In a secret identities story, half the fun is how characters show off a different side of themselves. People love Contrast, so I was disappointed that with Vrains, Aoi is kind of the only one who takes advantage of that (and then it drops off after season 1). You could argue Takeru but... I want a true old fashioned Alter Ego, where the secret identity is something that frees you to become someone else.

Anyway, I want to make IRL Ryoken a pathetic, unsocialized, sopping wet cat.

I want him to be a basement-dwelling, chronically on Reddit and StackOverflow, miserable little nerd who only goes outside to eat hotdogs. You can keep Revolver exactly the same with his smirks and his monologues, but when he logs off of Vrains, he has a nervous breakdown over the landscaper making eye contact with him through a window.

It's absolutely bait, and people would gobble it right up. The ultimate Yugioh meow meow. 

He may be a hacking genius, but he can't take care of himself. The Knights of Hanoi look up to Revolver-sama with utmost loyalty, but outside of Vrains he's useless and they have to do everything for him. They beg him to make one relationship outside of Hanoi, so of course he just goes with the boy from the hot dog truck, the only person he sees semi-regularly.

Secret identity stories thrive from betrayal. Ryoken will never recover from the betrayal that the hot dog guy is Playmaker.

And while I'm at it, I think it would be fun if mid-series, he shows up at Yusaku's school as a transfer student for Hanoi Reasons. You weebs know what I'm talking about. Yusaku's mind is drifting in class as he thinks about how there's been no sign of Revolver since The Confrontation. The teacher announces that they'll be having a new student in class. Yusaku looks up, their eyes meet, and he thinks to himself Oh hell no. And Ryoken is having an even worse time.

Think of the possibilities, okay?

⇀ Soulburner

I had some comments on the first SIAU post saying that they'd love to see Takeru fitting into the Yusaku Defense Squad, but the thing is, Takeru isn't really a character I would have created if I was actually making SIAU from scratch.

Like I've said before, Soulburner was added to Season 2 because Yusaku needed a real "best friend character." But in SIAU, he already has Naoki, he has Go, he has Aoi, he even has Kusanagi and Ai. Making him Yusaku's best friend would not only be redundant, but it would undercut the friendship arcs that were developed and earned through "Season 1."

Originally I thought that I would have just cut him out completely, but I've come up with a better idea. This one's also going to be quite divergent from canon.

While I was doing research, I read a lot of fan reactions from when the episodes were coming out live, and the widespread theory about Soulburner... was that he would be the Bakura of Vrains. That is, a character who was friendly, but either reveals themself as or becomes something twisted and antagonistic. It's not a rigid definition, but some classic examples would be like Ryou from GX, Kiryu, Rei from Zexal, and Sora. A lot of people were waiting for the other shoe to drop with Soulburner, but it never did.

I'll sign onto it though. I'm not sure how I'd make it work exactly. IRL Takeru, the "facade," can be the soft-spoken, normie glasses guy that we see in Vrains, but I don't think I'd make Soulburner as... unhinged as the Bakura usually is, since Spectre already exists. I might model his personality more off spiky Takeru, the one we see in the Blood Shepherd flashback. Intense, angry, unstable, prone to lashing out whether you deserve it or not. And well, maybe he can be a little unhinged too... as a treat.

Ultimately, Soulburner should be an antagonist, so it makes the most sense to put him on the side of the Ignis. I'd erase the Bohman stuff (sorry Bohman likers...) so that this conflict is represented by Yusaku being in conflict with Soulburner, and Ai being in conflict with the rest of the Ignis. I think it also makes for a more compelling story if the Ignis are a united faction, and Playmaker and Ai are stuck in the center of a three-way conflict between SOL, Hanoi, and the Ignis. It makes Ai's conflict much more poignant, that all of the Ignis are asking him to join their side against humanity, but he can't make that decision. The Ignis dynamic would also be interesting to explore in this scenario, with Lightning, Aqua, Windy, and Flame actually being on the same side. 

As for what Soulburner is doing on the Ignis's side, I'd have to... develop the plot a lot more... Maybe the Ignis are using him? It would require the Ignis to be more sinister, especially Flame. It could be connected to the Ignis targeting their Lost Incident counterparts; rather than the SOLtis route, they plan to use actual human bodies as hosts. That would be pretty compelling, and it's a Yugioh classic. I'd be so down for Kusanagi dueling Lightning in Jin's body, and Earth facing Spectre to try and steal his body (maybe even succeeding and infiltrating the Knights of Hanoi? That could be fun). The Flame and Soulburner relationship could also be fascinating in this iteration, although I'm not exactly sure where I'd go with it.

Open to other thoughts on how to make Bakura!Soulburner work!

⇀ Kusanagi

I want him to have more of a surrogate brother dynamic with Yusaku. With a greater emphasis placed on Yusaku's secret identity, Kusanagi being the only person who knows that about him becomes even more important, as someone who knows both sides of his life and can see how each affects the other.

I think it's clear that Kusanagi feels like he failed Jin, and I think it would be poignant for that to bleed into how he sees Yusaku. Because he's thinking about the life that Jin should have lived. 

He's the one who encourages Yusaku to make friends with the Duel Club, and translates normal high school interactions for him when Yusaku doesn't understand them, and worries about him balancing being Playmaker and his personal life.

Since Zaizen stays an antagonist in this AU, I would give that confrontation to Kusanagi instead: about how Yusaku is a child and a victim and should leave this to the adults.

At first, Kusanagi just sees Yusaku as an ally to find those responsible for the Lost Incident, but as they grow closer, he sees Yusaku as his brother, someone who was hurt, who's still a child, who should be living a normal high school life, and feels more uneasy about Yusaku taking on the heaviest burden in pursuit of his revenge. Zaizen's platitude of "Leave this to me, you don't need to do this, I'll find those responsible" carries more weight if Kusanagi is the one saying it to Yusaku.

The fallout drama... immaculate.

⇀ Ghost Girl

In SIAU, I want there to be a greater emphasis of different factions in conflict not just with Yusaku but with each other. And I want Ghost Girl to play for all of them because she deserves to backstab as many people as possible.

Also, since there isn't a true "secret identity plot twist" so far, I think it would be fun for Ghost Girl to be the one. By which I mean her true identity is revealed to be someone who's been under our noses the entire time. Corny I know, but it's Yugioh. I think it would be fun.

Specifically I want her to be that secretary with a crush on Akira. Hayami. I want her to be spilling coffee on Akira and blushing and going "Oh Chief Zaizen!" while inserting dubious USBs into his computer behind his back. I THINK IT WOULD BE FUN, OKAY?

I'm not sure if I would include Blood Shepherd in this AU, I don't know if he would add anything. But I'll always be a sucker for a complicated sibling dynamic, so who knows? Maybe he infiltrates SOL at the same time as her and they're both fighting over the dubious USB behind Zaizen's back LMAO