#[spoken: spectre]

[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?

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[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

[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

[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.

[ivystoryweaver]

Spectre

A Moon Knight Halloween Love Story

Event #8a: Us

prev | Fic Masterlist | My Masterlist | next

Event #8a Summary: is it really you?

Pairing this chapter: Marc Spector x f!reader (alters mentioned)

Word count: 1.5k

Content: romance, the least angst to date in this story, fluff-adjacent, not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

PREVIOUSLY on "Spectre"...

Warmth met your skin - your flesh met his.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc groaned at the sound of his phone’s alarm, realizing someone forgot to silence it for their day off…if it was, in fact, their day off. Sometimes it was difficult to tell first thing in the morning. Reaching for the night table, his hand collided with the cool glass of a…fish bowl?

“The hell?” He muttered, silencing the shrill alarm, while quickly checking the date. Steven must have been around the past day or so. Flopping his arm over his eyes dramatically, he groaned, wishing for a few more minutes of rest.

Then something tickled, ever so lightly brushing his opposite arm. His eyes snapped over - he thought he felt something warm.

Something soft and feminine. The hair he knew framing your face, bunched up fabric and smooth skin.

He sucked in a breath at the sight of you.

“Oh god. ”Marc could feel your breath against his neck like the sensual warmth of a sauna.

"W-what?" He gasped, rolling onto his side to face...you.

Not your visage. But you.

He whispered your name, his lips parted as he exhaled in a rush. His beautiful dark eyes darted from your own gaze down to the fullness of your lips.

Could you really be alive?

"Marc…"  His name on your lips, spoken with wonder and adoration - the low sensuality of your voice set his every nerve ending on fire. This was your morning voice. The way you sounded after sleep.

Your trembling fingers gripped his bicep, and for the first time since you departed this earth, Marc reached out and touched you.

He gripped your arm - the warmth of which you could feel even through the sleeve of his old hoodie, which had somehow materialized along with you.

Tentatively, Marc reverently reached out and caressed your delicate cheek, nearly whimpering as his thumb brushed your plump, pouting lips.  

"Baby..."

Long, luminous lashes fluttered once, then twice as your glassy eyes met his.

"Marc?" You murmured, your eyes darting around you, before locking with his again.  

"Hi," he whispered, his eyes glistening in the morning sun that streamed in through the window. He was so close to you that you could feel his warm breath on your face.

As if not trusting his own five senses, Marc dragged calloused fingertips over the angle of your jaw to caress your throat, which electrified you utterly.

Dark eyes filled with tears as he allowed himself to feel the pulse of life; the heartbeat of his soul - you.

You had a pulse.

You knew nothing in the world except that you could feel.  Marc was solid and broad and warm and you melted against him as he pressed himself against you fully, side-by-side on the bed.

"Am I in heaven?" You whispered with child-like innocence.  

He breathlessly laughed, wondering himself if he had died and woken up in paradise. One arm slid around you, pulling you securely against his cotton-covered chest. 

You must have left the dark place and gone to the light. How else could you feel so blissfully enveloped?

As his arm flexed against your back, he could feel your lungs expand with each breath of life you drew.

"Marc," you whimpered.  "I-I can feel you."

"I know, baby," he nodded, pulling your bottom half closer still, pressing every inch of you against him possessively, while tenderly caressing your cheek once again.  Your eyes cut the minuscule distance to his large palm and you swallowed, tentatively easing your hand over his, brushing the backs of his fingers with your fingertips while leaning into his touch. 

Your lips trembled as you pressed a kiss to his palm, interlacing your fingers there on your warming cheek. His thumb affectionately wiped the puddle of tears that had filled and overflowed, wetting your joined hands.  

"Don't cry, baby," he pleaded, paying no mind to the fact that he was crying as well.  

"I can cry," you gasped, the beauty of the moment engulfing all your senses at once.  "How? How did we…”

"We love each other," he simply replied, answering out of pure instinct.  

The tiniest sob of joy escaped your throat as your pressed yourself closer to him at every point possible.  "I love you," you murmured, your breath caressing his lips.  "Are you sure you can feel me - that…that I'm really here?"  

He brushed his mouth against yours, the taste of you completely tantalizing. "You feel that, don’t you?" he whispered against your cheek.

"Yes," you whimpered. "Do it again.”

Marc instantly complied, melding his parted lips with yours.  You responded with fervor, entirely overwhelmed by your returned sense of taste and the delectable flavorful essence of him.  Your hands longed to discover every part of him, touching him everywhere until your fingers finally found a home in the thick mess of waves behind his ears.  You pulled him deeper into a passionate kiss, opening your mouth to him as your body arched upward.  

Marc tenderly tumbled on top of you, gasping as your velvety tongue slid across his for a real taste.  You were soft and sweet and sexy, and Marc found himself dizzy with heat; both the hot flick of your tongue inside his mouth and the sweltering heat consuming him wholly.

The sensation of you overwhelmed him - flattened him like a tsunami...

...Which made him tear away, gasping for breath, a low moan of approval resounding in his expansive chest at the sight of you beneath him, lips parted and panting for more - more tasting, more touching, more of him.  

You whimpered at the loss of contact between your bodies, unwilling to give up your favorite rediscovered sense of taste so soon.  Marc held himself still over you, drinking in your beauty, allowing himself to reason that if you were real, and so recently returned to him, that perhaps you might be fragile, somehow, and he could not afford to lose control so easily.

"Marc, please - "

"Let me see you."  His tone was soft but commanding.  

But you didn't want to look; you wanted to taste, to feel as much of him as you could get your hands on; to make sure he was real.  You felt frantic with need for him, your hands gripping his broad shoulders to pull his mouth back down where it belonged. 

There was absolutely no way he could refuse you; nor did he want to, opening his mouth hotly over yours again, giving in to the sensations of your pliable lips moving insistently against his own; your ragged breath searing his lips, his tongue, every part inside that you touched and licked.

You spent a brief eternity in an intimate embrace, tasting and feeling and seeing and smelling until you were certain your five senses were intact and that Marc was here, with you, in the same space and time somehow.    

"Missed you. Missed you so much," he finally panted, a short while later, easing down beside you - dizzy with desire and disbelief.

“I love you so much, Marc,” you whispered in a rush, a million emotions and sensations firing in your mind and body. But one thought stood out above all others. "How long do you think we have?"

Wetting his lips, his brow knit in concentration. "'Til what?”   

"Until I maybe…disappear again."

Marc’s heart dropped to his stomach at the mere thought of losing you.  His partner was somehow returned to him - real and right here, in his arms.  He hadn't even stopped to consider that you might not linger.

"I - honestly, I hadn't thought about it."  He glanced at the window, wondering what time it might be, and how many precious moments he had left with you. 

You nuzzled close, whispering against his mouth, "I love touching you. I just don't want it to ever go away."

So many things to consider.  

Slowly nodding, Marc kissed your soft lips again, reassuringly. "I'll do whatever I can to keep you with me."

Staring deeply into your eyes, he granted you a gentle smile - one more peaceful than his usual grumpy pout. "I wanna kiss you forever."

You smiled dreamily. "I never want to move from this spot…except maybe to venture outside of this room for a change."

"I think that's a great idea," Marc chuckled.  "I guess we could get cleaned up and then go anywhere.  Anywhere you want to go, I can take you," he sweetly offered. There were definitely a few things he wanted to do, but they involved staying in bed. Or the shower. Or both.

But you frowned.

"What is it?"

“I’m scared to move,” you explained in a strained whisper. “I’m afraid that maybe I’m dreaming.”

“I’m real,” he assured you, running his hands down the curves of your body, touching you all over reassuringly. “You’re here with me…somehow.”

You sighed dreamily, brushing his cheek with your soft hand.  "Maybe you brought me to life.”

next

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

🎃HAPPY HALLOWEEN!🎃

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[strawberrybasilsorbet]

Jilytober Day 9

Finished this @jilytoberfest story a little late again! This microfic went in a darker/sadder direction than I expected (CW for funeral planning), but I really like it. Hope you enjoy!

October 9th Prompt: "You literally checked your phone 3 seconds ago"

"Sirius Black."

Lily picked at her roast beef. James bounced his leg, looking at the mirror in his palm.

"Sirius Black. Padfoot. Sirius Bl—"

"He said that he'd call you when he got home," said Lily. "James, the food is getting cold."

Lily, her fiancé, and the spectre of Sirius Black sat in the kitchen of her three-room flat, allegedly eating supper. The man himself was off someplace in London, sneaking into his brother's funeral.

After a pause, James turned to face the table, setting the mirror upright against his glass. He spooned some potatoes onto his plate and took a bite. "It's good," he said.

"Thanks." And they fell again into uneasy silence.

There had been no announcement in the Prophet, but — through some pure-blood whisper network that was opaque to Lily — the Prewett brothers had heard. A small service, family only. Closed casket.

Sirius had claimed to be looking for an answer: whether his brother's body had simply been mutilated beyond repair, or whether the rumors were true, and the House of Black hadn't been able to recover a body at all.

James hadn't wanted him to go. He was convinced that Sirius's Death Eater cousins would discover and attack him, and had told him so, repeatedly. When this line of persuasion had failed, James had tried to insist on coming along as backup, but Sirius had refused. He hadn't given a reason.

Out of options, James had insisted that Sirius take the Cloak, at least. An invisible man would be less conspicuous than a giant dog, and in this rain, it was likely that at least part of the ceremony would be indoors.

"Sirius Black."

"James, you literally checked the mirror three seconds ago."

"But what if—"

"Sirius is a grown-up," Lily snapped. "He told you he'd call when he can."

James gave the clock on the wall a pointed look. "Lily, it's been four hours."

"Maybe the funeral's not over yet."

"It's after six."

"Maybe he needs a minute, James!"

James stiffened, snapping his face back toward Lily. At least he'd stopped bouncing his damn leg. "What the hell is your problem?"

"I haven't got a problem. You're being ridiculous."

James gave her a long look. "Fine," he said. Then, deliberately, he turned his back on her. "Sirius Black."

Lily shoved her plate away, stood, and stomped out of the kitchen.

She didn't understand why she was so upset. Lily had never even spoken to Regulus Black. If it weren't for his distinctive resemblance to his brother, Lily might never have noticed him in school at all. He'd been skinnier than Sirius, and he'd had a gaunter face  — but with his dark hair and gray eyes, the resemblance between Regulus and his estranged brother had been as plain as the resemblance of the gibbous moon to the full. (Tuney had always been thin).

Lily dragged her hands over her face and took a deep breath through her nose. She counted to four, held it, then breathed out again, as Alice Longbottom had taught her after that battle when a curse had nearly ripped open her torso.

(Tuney had always been thin. It was the one thing she'd always been able to lord over her talented, popular sister, leaving magazines open to photos of Twiggy and boasting about her dress size.)

Sirius hadn't spoken to his brother since he'd finished school, more than a year ago. Lily hadn't spoken to her sister in at least as long. Petunia's invitation to her wedding had been returned, unopened.

And her fiancé hadn't understood. You don't deserve to be treated like this, James had said firmly, gently, as he'd held her against his chest. Lily had been crying her eyes out, clutching the sealed envelope. Your family is supposed to support you, Lily. They aren't supposed to be cruel.

The worst part hadn't even been his words, but the horrible weight that they had lifted from her heart. The immensity of the comfort — the relief — that she had felt; the warmth, like she had finally found a home.

If James had spoken such poison to Sirius, whose brother was now dead — well. It was no wonder, to Lily, that he did not answer.

A chair scraped in the kitchen, and she heard her fiancé's loud footsteps as he followed her into the sitting room. Lily wasn't surprised. Neither she nor James were the type to let a provocation lie; it was one of the reasons they fit together so well. He had barely entered the room before Lily rounded on him.  

"If the Death Eaters murder me," she spat, "will you invite Petunia to the funeral?"

James stopped dead. He'd entered the room with his mouth open, ready with some argument that Lily had cut off, and his chin bobbed awkwardly as he processed the unexpected question. Like a fish.

"Well?" It was an accusation. "Will you?"

Raindrops tapped against the sitting room window. James stared. Finally, he said, "You aren't going to be murdered."

Lily raised her chin, although it trembled. "I could be."

"You won't."

"But I could be." When they'd buried Edgar Bones and his little children, the service had been in a magical village. Muggle-Repelling Charms had blanketed the entire Wizarding quarter of the town, including the churchyard. "Would she be able to come, even if you did? If I die in this war, James, will my sister even be able to see the grave?"

A bitter hiccough of a laugh escaped her. James tugged on his hair with both hands and closed his eyes. The fight went out of his posture, and he seemed to let out all of his breath at once, like a flag when the wind is gone.

Without a word, James took a few steps toward her, put both of his hands on her waist, and walked her to the sitting room couch. Collapsing into it, he pulled Lily sideways onto his lap, wrapping an arm tightly around her waist. He rested his forehead against her temple, burying his face in her thick red hair.

They listened to the rain.

Lily could not tell how much time had passed before James spoke. "My family are all buried in Godric's Hollow," he said quietly. "It's been half-magical since before the Statute of Secrecy was passed. There are Muggles buried in the graveyard there, too. It wouldn't be like the Boneses."

Lily swallowed. "I didn't think you'd—"

"Noticed?" James took her left hand with his free arm, lacing his fingers through hers. He turned his head to look at the ring there. "I did. But if I'd never known you, I probably wouldn't have."

He squeezed her hand and released it, then turned his face back into her hair. "Anyway," he said, still quiet, "that's probably what we would do. But if you wanted something different—"

"No," Lily cut him off. "No, that's— that's fine."

"Okay," James said. He took a shaky breath, but when he spoke again, his voice was steady. "As far as the rest of it — I don't think Petunia would need an invitation. I imagine she'd be the one writing them."

"She...would?"

"If she were willing," said James. He shrugged. "I think she'd be better at that part than me. Obituaries, flowers."

"You hate Petunia."

"I don't hate her." Lily turned to face him, skepticism in her expression. Behind his glasses, James's hazel eyes were sincere. "I don't. And...and even if I did, I—." He looked down as his voice broke. "I wouldn't do that to you, Lily."

She looked down, too. "Oh."

"I promise. I wouldn't."

"I...I believe you. Thank you." James nodded but did not speak. The rain lulled, and the silence was suddenly unbearable. Lily swallowed. "What...part would you be better at?"

"What?"

"You said my sister would be better at flowers."

James raised his eyebrows. "Tracking down the bastards who'd murdered you."

"Oh. Right."

"Right."

James's left arm was still wrapped tightly around Lily's waist, but with his right, he began to run his hand up and down the side of her body, from her shoulder to her hip and back again. "Lily. It's not the same."

Of course it wasn't the same. It wasn't the same, because Regulus Black had been a pureblood and a bigot and a child of money, and none of it had saved him.

What did Lily and Tuney have?

It was like peering into a cracked mirror. It had been ever since she'd heard. And then, there was Sirius — who was popular and talented, who was different from his family, who'd gone away, who'd been rejected — Sirius, whom she should have been able to connect with, to understand—

And yet.

"The idiot should never have joined in the first place," he'd told Gideon Prewett, tossing his head. "He deserved it." Whether Sirius had been trying to avoid damnation by association, or whether he'd meant every word, Lily could not guess. But the words had been a cold knife in her gut.

She'd really been starting to like Sirius.

"Lily? You're shaking," said James, still running his hand along her side. "What is it?"

She looked away from him. "Tuney wouldn't even come," Lily said in a wobbling voice. "She'd call me a freak and say that I brought it on myself." James said nothing. "You know she would."

He crushed her to his chest. Lily burst into sobs.

James rubbed circles into her shoulders as he rocked her back and forth. Lily took quick, gasping breaths against his chest, soaking the front of his robes with tears and snot. She didn't know if she was wailing for herself or Tuney or James, for Regulus Black or Edgar Bones or Bones's little daughter — didn't know if what she felt was fear or grief, or if it was the childish voice that cried out inside her, had been crying out for years and years, because sisters were supposed to be forever.

"I love you, Lily" James said, his voice choked. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

And they sat, until she'd cried herself out and he'd trailed off and the rain had finally stopped. Still, they did not rise, but held one another in silence.

"James Potter."

They both jumped.

Sirius's voice, emanating from James's pocket, was hoarse. "James Potter." James looked at Lily uncertainly. His eyes were red.

"It's okay," she said, shifting off of his lap and wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Go. Tell him I send my love."

James hesitated for another moment before nodding. He pressed a kiss to Lily's forehead, then stood, taking the mirror from his pocket as he left the room. "What took you so long?" she heard him say, but she could not make out the reply. Both voices grew quiet as James walked further into the kitchen.

Lily looked around the sitting room from her perch on the sofa, not quite lost, not quite found. She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it tightly to her chest.

On the coffee table, there was a vase of flowers. She reached out to touch them, coaxing their petals to open and close beside one another on the stem.