#acknowledge reigns edits

[acknowledge-reigns]

*flash warning*

HHH wanted him almost as badly as we do 😭☝🏾

[foreverlyjay]

Roman smile always brightens my day 🤭

[ambreignsfan4life]

Roman Reigns Return

116/? Days without him- 2 Days until we hopefully see him again

credit to video creator

[chief-girl]

Love their bond 🥹

[itjazzbicch]

I know I don’t post much wrestling anymore but just wanted to drop this and remind y’all I still acknowledge my chief 🫡🖤❤️

[pathologicalreid]

Heyy dunno if this is something you’d consider writing but I just saw an edit of Spencer and it made me realize we don’t really go into how he essentially relapsed when he was drugged in Mexico and now I need to see this in writing I don’t necessarily have a prompt but something along the lines of just having a convo with him or comforting him? 🫶🏼

the ninth step | S.R.

spencer works to make amends after mexico, and he's starting with you

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst; hurt/comfort content warnings: drug use, narcotics anonymous, spoilers for 2x15 "revelations", spoilers for 12x13 "spencer", substance use disorder, fiancee!reader, the ninth step is amends, a lot of crying, only a little proofread word count: 1.11k a/n: you say no prompt and i say free reign!!! i think about spencer in mexico all the time so thank you sooo much for this request!

The only time anyone could find Spencer Reid in a church was when he was in a meeting.

As usual, you waited out front on one of the benches, leaning your elbow on the iron armrest as you kept your notebook balanced on your thigh, scribbling notes down as you waited for Spencer to come out and meet you.

Members of his group left the church in staggered variations of people, some left together to get coffee after, some left alone, and one didn’t leave at all. A few of them acknowledged you as they passed, but no one mentioned your fiancé.

Once your car was the last one remaining in the parking lot, you slipped your notebook into your bag before hauling it over your shoulder and standing up. Wiping off the back of your jeans, you walked through the front doors, noting the way the stained-glass windows refracted the remaining sunlight on the linoleum floor.

Knowing the pathway, you walked over to the meeting room, a space reserved for youth groups, Sunday school, and Narcotics Anonymous meetings. With the space vacated, the only sound was the tapping of your shoes as you passed through the doorway, and just as you had assumed, Spencer was the only person remaining in the windowless room.

He didn’t move as you approached him, sticking your hands in your jeans pockets as you silently assessed the despondent look on his face. “How are you?” You asked softly, tilting your head to the side.

“I’m just sitting,” he mumbled, it wouldn’t have been intelligible if you didn’t have years of practice understanding him and his mumbles. His old NA group had disbanded years ago, and you were glad to find this one close to your apartment.

Nodding understandingly, you took one more step closer to him, “Can I sit with you?”

Brown eyes flickered up at you just then as he seemingly considered your offer, “Yeah.”

Looking around, you hooked your ankle around the leg of an empty, gray folding chair and dragged it across the floor until it was next to Spencer.  Setting your bag on the floor, you took your seat.

For a while, you sat in silence. For a while, that was enough.

After a couple of minutes, your silence was broken when Spencer finally moved, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, and your chest ached when slowly, his shoulders started to shake.

Getting out of your chair, you crouched in front of him, keeping your hands resting on your knees as you looked up at him, “Can I get you anything?” You asked, keeping your voice level as emotion threatened to take over.

You had known that today wasn’t going to be a good day from the moment Spencer asked you to drive him to the meeting. He asked you to take him because he was afraid that he wouldn’t make it there on his own, and at the time, you hadn’t even dared to consider the implications of what that meant for him.

Spencer’s hands fell to his lap, and you eyed him carefully as he took a deep breath. His eyes were bloodshot and watery as he looked at you just as intently – there was a dam built between the two of you, and there had been since he came home.

Things had changed. That much was clear to you ever since he came home to you and said the word out loud. A word that had seemed foreign in your household until it became a reality. You continuously had to remind yourself that you weren’t in this situation because of a decision he had made, you were here before of a choice that someone else had made for him.

It churned your stomach to see him knocked back down to day one. Six months later, you were here, in this denominational building, silently pleading with him to say something to you.

Holding your breath, Spencer reached his hands out, taking both of yours in his, “I’m so sorry.”

Your shoulders drooped. We don’t have to do this here, you wanted to tell him, but that’s not what he needed right now. Gently, you squeezed his hands in a comforting gesture, “I know you are, baby.”

“We…” he whispered, “Our lives should look a lot different right now.” He said, moving a finger and tapping the engagement ring on your left hand.

A previously planned wedding day had come and gone, Spencer had been in Millburn, and you spent the day on the couch in Emily’s office.

Refusing to disconnect your hands, Spencer wiped his face on his arm, the motion bringing a minuscule smile to your face. “I shouldn’t have gone to Mexico. I should’ve been more honest with you about where I had been going and what I was doing, and I know that now.”

You looked up at him, maintaining eye contact with him. He was trying to make amends with you.

“I know that there’s no amount of apologizing or groveling that can fully make up for everything you’ve lost because of me, but for as long as you keep having me, I’ll spend all of my days trying to make up for all of this,” he lamented, keeping his clammy hands clasped around yours. “Actions speak louder than words, that’s true, especially with amends, and… I’m trying.”

Spencer followed the NA handbook to the very finest minutiae, he stayed away from anything that his substance use disorder could cling onto, and as his voice broke and tears made pathways on his cheeks, you wanted to tell him that you saw him. You noticed every effort he made, but all you could do was cry in time with him.

Disconnecting your hands, he reached out and wiped away your tears before cupping both of your cheeks in his hands, “I’m never going to stop trying for you, Y/N.”

Your lips parted as you wandered the depths of your mind for something adequate to tell him, but nothing came out.

“All of the sacrifices that you’ve made in the name of the life that I messed up, I see them all. I think about them all the time and if there’s ever anything you need from me, just tell me, okay?” He implored, lifting your chin and gently guiding you up, pulling you toward him until you were sat with your legs perpendicular on his lap.

You let loose a shaky sigh, leaning your head and settling it on his shoulder, “Thank you,” you whispered, closing your eyes as he wrapped his arms around your torso, keeping you close to him.

[shelleysmary]

lots of fans have made valid points and written well-thought-out posts about the trop ai drama, so i'm not gonna rehash them, but i do want to bring up something that no one seems to be talking about and it's the impulse that leads people to plug these things into ai generators in the first place.

fandom over the last year especially has become increasingly toxic to the point that actual billion-dollar corporations are afraid it. the result is subpar, pandering films, books, and television shows that break no new ground, recycle old tropes, and sacrifice story integrity to avoid catching heat from the loudest, most entitled people in the room. i'm calling this an issue of entitlement first and foremost because the idea that the audience should have any say over a non-crowd-created media project is preposterous. deciding that the cons outweigh the pros of watching something and choosing to walk away without making a fuss is a lost discipline now because everyone with an internet connection and a social media account believes that their vision reigns supreme. "how dare this show downplay my favorite ship! they were supposed to kiss! that was the whole point! the absence of this one thing i had on my wishlist is a crime against me personally!" so they turn to ai and click some buttons and now these gifs exist and are being circulated with an air of "i've righted a wrong." worse, the use of ai in this way is being conflated with the creation of fanworks???

there are reasons why i don't believe the ai saurondiel kiss is on the same raft as, say, making them kiss in a drawing or a published fanfic, but my main concern is with the spirit behind each. fanworks are made in homage to the source material, even the fix-it fics. there is an acknowledgment, a separation even, between the television show and the fanwork. this separation is necessary and i would say even integral to the nature of fan creation, while ai closes that gap until it no longer exists. the elimination of space between creator and audience also happens on social media, when disgruntled fans who have taken umbrage with a fictional character or creative decision directly harass the writers or the actors involved. more and more, fans are demanding to be in the rooms, in the minds, and to exert control over the people who tell their stories, and it has only ever worked to our collective detriment. now i'm not saying that if you liked and shared the saurondiel ai kiss that you're the same as the internet trolls who harass (mostly) women and people of color online. but i'm begging you to do some self-reflection and ask yourself why you feel entitled to seeing what you want on your screen.

what has changed in the last few years that would make you dissatisfied with, say, reading someone's fic or making your own drawing? is it a matter of "the tool is there, so why not use it?" is it "i believe it should have happened and it didn't and i feel cheated?" or maybe there's been a pattern you've noticed in your recent media "consumption" (god, i hate that word) where, unless a show or television series goes the exact way you want it to, it feels like you've been defrauded somehow? i'm not being facetious. i'm inviting you to notice that what you're feeling is probably discomfort, disappointment, maybe even cognitive dissonance because you imagined it going one way, and now you're at a loss because it didn't. you built it up in your head, you had something to look forward to, you were convinced that it would happen, it was exciting and you were so eager to get to that point, and then.... and then...

we've all been there. and it sucks. but i also want to remind you of how important it is to preserve the separation. this space is ours. the writer's room, the filming set, the editing room, those spaces are theirs. the actors' likenesses are theirs. thinking beyond trop, the separation is how we get creative works that challenge us politically, emotionally, that make us uncomfortable and tell us important truths. writers shouldn't have to - and shouldn't FULL STOP - do what we want them to do. sometimes that means knowing when to walk away, when to say "i no longer enjoy this show, i will no longer support it" or "i will continue to watch but pretend things went differently," the latter of which has been the spark that has moved so many online fans to draw, paint, write, or sew. it's a type of creation that allows "canon" and "fanon" to exist parallel to one another. moreover, the effort it takes to make anything with your own two hands, with your own time, and with your own energy increases your appreciation for the creative impulse. films and books and television stop being "products" for your "consumption" because you're aware of what goes into them, and it becomes easier to look at things you don't like or disagree with and say, "you know what, i'm gonna pass," or "not in my headcanon."

oh, and by the way plugging things into an ai generator? is theft. the same way that it's generally frowned upon for people to use ai to, say, write the rest of an unfinished fic without the express permission of the fanwork creator, using the actors' likenesses to make them kiss goes against everything the actors' union fought for last year. i'll also add that it's incredibly creepy. almost all of us are in agreement that intimacy coordinators are a good thing because they act - again! - as a separation between what's "real" and what isn't, the same way going on ao3 and reading a fic that very clearly says on the tin that it's a fanfic, unaffiliated with the official ip, is a separation. it's another beast entirely to normalize fan-use of ai, to say you support creatives, support actors, support unions, and then do this in your personal life. i repeat the question: what impulse leads anyone to believe that this is okay other than a feeling of misplaced ownership?

tl;dr: ai nonsense does not belong in fandom spaces. (in my home state of california, it is illegal to use digital replicas of an actor's voice or likeness in place of their actual services without their informed consent [which, in spirit, is what you're doing by using ai to make your gifs]). we all just need to mind our own business and go back to writing our fix-it fics and complaining to our friends in relative peace. if you're finding it impossible to do so, ask yourself why. remember that fanart is our longstanding tradition. stop outsourcing it to an unregulated technology just because your two faves didn't kiss.

[acerathia]

equilibrium || Aventurine

Summary:

Aventurine found you by chance, and kept you. Yet, was he any better than the others vying for you?

Wordcount: 4.7k

Read on AO3

Pairing:

Aventurine / Slave!Mermaid!Reader

Tags/CW:

slave reader, implicit trauma, mentions of gambling and human trafficking, slight spoilers for Aventurine's backstory, Hopeful Ending, maybe slightly ooc

Note:

I wrote this for mermay, and for my bday, congrat to me, yippie!! also, unedited bc i rlly wanted to share edit: sequel - delirium

The bustling of the people surrounded Aventurine, the murmurs waves hitting against him with each step he took. Normally, he wasn’t someone to appear in such a place, much less participate in whatever activities they try to hide. His place was at a table, a couple chips in each pocket and luck to gamble on. 

Yet there he was, making his way towards the rendezvous point he was given on a crumpled piece of paper. And if this meeting weren’t so crucial for the plans he has built inside his mind, topping it with his inherent gift, he wouldn’t even be in such a place. A place reminding him too much of who he used to be. 

So, keeping a pace in his steps, he tried to hurry without giving the impression that he wanted to leave as soon as possible. 

Finally, arriving at the place he has been given direction to, the first thing Aventurine noticed was the stage, still empty, the curtains still closed. He almost frowned, but he caught himself, keeping his face relaxed with his usual smug smile. Instead of worrying about whatever was happening behind the stage, he turned to look for the person of interest. 

The moment he spotted them, he leisurely walked over, immediately taking a seat beside them, not caring if it belonged to somebody else, or if there were other free spaces available. He leaned back in his seat, resting his elbow on the edge of the back, as he turned to slightly face his opponent in this upcoming verbal gamble. 

But before he could prepare the bait onto his tongue, the lights dimmed and the curtains began to shift as they slowly revealed what was hiding behind it. And Aventurine wasn’t interested, not only that, he was outright disgusted, his neck itching but he refrained from even acknowledging the burn in his throat. 

Especially at the sight exhibited in front of the murmuring crowd, gasps simmering down to amazement. Their eyes glued to the tank posed in the middle of the stage. For a moment, Aventurine tried to reign himself in, to focus on his target, but watching said target not even glancing at him, he had to see for himself what could catch the mind of so many people with its simple appearance. 

The moment his eyes fixed themselves to the front, everything clicked into place. 

Because there you were, floating in the shallow water given to you, limp and listless. And while he normally wouldn't keep his eyes on such a spectacle for such a prolonged time any other time, too busy with too much work and gambling, this time he couldn't, as his eyes noticed something too familiar close to your collarbone. Something still red and swollen, something that made his skin burn with memory. 

He had to rip his eyes from the all too familiar sight, only to notice what had truly caught the attention of all these people. 

Despite the lack of movement, maybe especially because of the lethargy, the shine of the headlights sparkled off you. Because instead of the pair of legs someone would expect from a person getting sold, your bare skin tapered off into something similar to the skin of a fish. The scales glittered within the small waves of the water, the fins not even trying to hold you, still, lifeless, the same way your eyes just seemed to look through everything in front of you, mind in a faraway place, maybe even safe and sound. 

His eyes on yours, but there was nothing to meet. So, he looked away, trying to get his focus back onto his task at hand. But his target was too transfixed to be dealt any deals of his, so Aventurine decided to wait this out. He could be a patient man if it meant more profit in the future. 

So, he waited and watched. Watched as the price climbed, as hands shot out without any hesitancy. The price rose, unfurling, and he was not surprised, it was nothing but a spectacle after all. A show that went both ways. Who had more to give, more money, more possession, more desire. 

He flexed his fingers. Something hot running through them, making them cling uncomfortably to the skin of his gloves. And before he knew it, his hand was raised, if only for a moment, barely enough for the number to be called out. One that didn’t last any longer than it took for him to let his hand come back to clench against his thigh. A failure. Something he hadn’t experienced in some time. But he supposed that his luck, Gaiathra Triclops, was trying to tell him something, and he could do nothing but accept it. 

Without raising his hand again, without tearing his gaze away from you, catching the slight raise of your chest, the only sign of you being more than a glorified corpse. Even if you might as well be one in your state. 

He only listened, trying to understand what was being whispered between the ranks of the competitors, anything that could be used against them, any information that could prove itself useful. But as much as he tried to divert his attention, it always returned back to you, to you and that red shimmering in the water. 

In the end, the man by his side has won the battle of wealth, gaining the unspoken status, and you. And Aventurine finally got his gaze away from you, if only to finally face the task he was appointed, if only to flee this place as soon as he was done. 

Talk and gamble, a quick tongue and quicker hands, that was all he had, his luck aside, yet those were often more than enough. They had to, they were the only things that could never be truly ripped away from him, unlike the memories gaining a certain hazy quality the more he draped himself in luxury, the more often he was called by a different name. And those skills would always accompany him, even if they ripped everything away from him once again, leaving him bare and shivering, at their mercy. 

But at this point, Aventurine would rather disappear into the depths of the universe, back into Mother Fenge’s embrace, than to return to that state. But before it comes to that, he would continue using his skills, his life was one big gamble, and in the end, there will be only one winner, the same one as the loser. 

A twitch of his fingers, a substitute of shaking his head to regain his senses, as he could not afford to show any weaknesses. 

He faced the man, the one now owning you, and he began doing what he was best at. It didn’t take long until his task was wrapped around his finger, or rather in his debt, his being now transferred to the IPC, as they expected him to after this meeting. 

Only one thing did Aventurine decide to keep to himself, something that the IPC wasn’t aware of yet, and they would be, without doubt. Yet, he took that one thing to himself, as some form of payment of sorts. Jade would surely understand that he too desired… 

A shuddering breath escaped him the moment he stepped out of that glamorous space, leaving the excited shouts behind him, leaving the lingering ache behind him. Only taking two pieces of paper with him, one neat, kept in a folder, the other folded in his pocket, hidden for his eyes only, for as long as possible. 

He took a moment for himself, tucked into the shadows, to collect himself, to build the mask back up. The one he couldn’t afford to let crumble in front of anyone, not even himself. 

Pulling his shoulders back, he started making his way back to base, and to the only place he might ever call his own, not quite home, but something analogous. And it was more than enough. 

After delivering the papers, thus fulfilling the task assigned to him, he let himself take a step into the place belonging to him, if only in name. The inside of the small space was meticulously clean, no dust despite the little amount of time he actually spent in there. And despite its size, it remained impersonal, nothing alluding to the way Aventurine draped himself in luxury and secrets, almost like if one touch too much might lead to the doom of him. With the life he was leading, he could not afford to get attached, much less to an empty space, one carrying his name, but never truly his. 

He rid himself of his coat, slowly plucking the rings of his fingers to pile them up on a table, scratch marks the only indication of any use. And, for some reason, he decided to take a peek into the bathroom, only the necessities standing in a line, and the moment his eyes connected with the bathtub, a frown pinched between his brows. This was ridiculous. This whole idea was idiotic, and he should–

There was a knock on the door, startling him out of the bathroom. He was not expecting anyone, nobody should come to this place unless necessary. Yet, the knocks remained calm, no urgency in their rhythm. 

For a moment he was keen on ignoring whoever was in front of the door until they left eventually. But he was feeling tired, and he couldn’t know how long they would just keep knocking, and knocking, making noise without any consequences–

And he was already at the door, opening it. Whoever was waiting took their chances and just walked in, but not alone. There were a couple of people just storming this place, and then his eyes landed on the thing they were carrying in. 

A tank. 

A protest died on his lips as they left as fast as they came, not even an exchange of words, not to him, not between themselves. And as quickly he was all alone once again. 

Just, this time he wasn’t that alone anymore. The tank just stood in the middle of the room, taking some space, enough to be noticeable, but not that much to be much of a bother. The lid not allowing any sight into its contents, blocking any light from getting in simply by being a plate of black. 

The mere thought of being stuck in such a space, barely enough for someone to lie in, made his skin crawl. Aventurine was never one to feel any kind of claustrophobia, even if he did grow underneath the open sky, the wind on his skin, the ground steady under his feet, free to walk and turn and jump. But this tank, the mere thought of being stuck in the same stagnant place, nothing more than the necessary surrounding him, felt uncannily familiar, and he hated that. 

So, he shoved his fingers to find some kind of grasp underneath the edge of the lid, and once he had one, he pulled it off, almost throwing it away as it plopped away much easier than he would have expected. (Almost like they didn’t expect you to get away, but it didn’t take long for him to remember that you had no other choice, no way to get away no matter how much you tried, how much you might have wanted to.)

Fingers running through his hair, he looked down into the tank, to the content he was expecting, yet wished to be null and void. 

There was no gaze to meet, no eyes to see him as he peered into the water, the one barely covering you, barely enough, barely clean. Just enough to keep you alive, and the way the water seemed to be muddled and greasy made him uneasy. Or rather the memory of being kept just alive, being constantly threatened by the environment in itself, never secure, never safe. 

Abruptly, he stood up and walked over to the bathroom, only to stop at the doorway, darkness in front of him, the bathtub still where he had known it to be. A moment of hesitancy, before he shook himself out of it. For this moment he wasn’t sure if you would have wanted help, if you’d rather take another way, one Aventurine had considered often if not for the promise to his sister. Yet, he decided to pull through, you could still decide to decline whatever he may give you once you come back to your senses, if you ever do. 

After flicking on the light, he opened the faucet, allowing the water to slowly fill the water. During this process, Aventurine kept working, as he began to push the tank closer to the entrance of the bathroom. He didn’t know enough to just grab you and heave you into the water, you might not survive any longer periods out of it, jostling you might startle you, leading to some ugly trashing before he even would have the chance to get you close to the tub. And he’d like to avoid as many injuries, especially to his face, as much as possible, thank you very much. 

Once the tank was as close to the tub as physically possible, meaning it just laid there besides the door just outside, the bathroom too small for it, he shut the flow of the water, as the tub seemed full enough, almost dangerously full if you were to ask him. But those were details he didn’t have the concentration for. 

His focus laid entirely upon your prone body, as he tried to think of a way to lift you up without slipping through his fingers. He doubted he would be able to grab your arms and drag you to the tub, your tail seemed like most of your weight came from there, especially due to its sheer size. 

After rolling his sleeves up, and with no other choice in sight, he began sliding one of his arms underneath your shoulders, trying to stabilize your torso as his other arm slung over your tail, pressing it to himself to not lose grip. 

A breath and he straightened up, paying attention to not simply let you slip from his grasp, the water between the layers of skin a dangerous player. With quick steps he crossed the bathroom and as much he wanted to throw you in to get rid of the weight, he bowed to let you down slowly, his arms trembling. 

Your figure immersed itself immediately into the fresh water, and he thought he might have seen something flutter at the column of your neck. But he avoided looking in that general vicinity anyway, rather turning around to get rid of the tank, or at least to put it somewhere less restrictive. And then, then he had to see what he might do about your presence in his place, occupying his bathtub. 

***

It was way too early in the morning, and yet Aventurine was awake, at least that was what he tried to tell himself as he stumbled through the room towards the bathroom. If he had the possibility, he would have stayed in bed longer, yet work called and he did not want to neglect his alleged duties just yet. 

His hand tapped around the wall looking for the light switch as he stepped inside, expecting to be able to get through his morning routine as fast as possible.

But before the light illuminated the small space, his eyes caught sight of two reflective disks floating in the dark, turned towards him, and he took a surprised step back, ready to strike back against whatever was invading the place. 

His hand brushed the switch, and the light flooded the bathroom. Blinking, he tried to adjust faster to the sudden change. 

Muscles still tense, he looked into the direction of the earlier glow. But all he saw was you, arms leaning against the edge of the tub, your head laying on top of it. Your gaze stayed on him, even if you did squint your eyes, almost like some form of mistrust. 

And was he not the right one to understand how you might feel. At the same time, he did not have the time to indulge in your curiosity, or his. Rather, he turned around towards the sink and acted nonchalant, as if your mental presence didn’t come as a surprise. 

He almost felt the way your eyes traveled over his form, catching onto the word on the side of his neck. The one so similar, if not identical to yours. And your confusion could be sensed even without you moving in the slightest, without him even daring to glance at you. 

For a couple of seconds, he acted as if the water coming out of the sink was the most interesting thing to ever be seen today, until he realized how much he must have been stalling and shut it off with a click. 

And he couldn’t help it, he turned towards you, ready to look you in the eyes, look at your current disposition. But before he fully faced you, there was a barely heard splash, and the only thing he could see was the tail end of yours slightly peeking out of the water. 

Shifting his weight slightly, he furrowed his eyebrows. He truly didn’t know what to expect or what to do. So, he did what he thought best, he turned around. Only, the hold of his feet was much too precarious as his balance tipped over, all because of a little puddle against the tile floor. 

His reflexes caught on faster than his brain, and his arms were holding him, clawing at the edge of the basin as his legs slowly slumped to ground. Only once he was secure on the ground did he allow himself to breathe again, the air releasing after the sudden fall had almost choked him. 

He began to lessen the tension in his arms, only to suddenly be face to face with you, inches barely between the two of you; only him slightly looking down on you. 

Your eyes were wide open as they stare him down, and the moment you opened your mouth he couldn’t help but glance towards them; expectancy rushing through him. But all he got were a couple of clicks, coming from the depth of your throat. 

And it seemed like you sensed his confusion, as you put your arms at the spots where his once were and stemmed yourself higher, to be at the same height as him. Releasing one of your arms from the spot, you let it slowly approach his skin, his neck, his code. 

Surprisingly, Aventurine didn’t even think of dodging your careful touch, rather, he anticipated it. There was just something about the way you barely let your cold fingers touch him, how it was more about making sure it was real than about the contact itself. Cold water dropped down the column of his throat as you continued to trace the one thing you both shared, at least externally. 

His breath shuddered as you began to apply more pressure, and with that he pulled away. He couldn’t afford to slack right now, even with the frown you were giving him, the slight tilt of your head as you let out a couple of clicks, a question tinting them. 

He sighed as he brushed his hair aside, his wet fingers letting them stick in place. There was no way to know if you understood him, but he had to try, right?

With a couple of sentences he explained that he had to go, work and people were expecting him. And even if it seemed like you grasped what he meant, the frown never left your face. Yet, you let him go without trying anything. 

So, he left. 

***

The day had worn him out. Aventurine knew the gamble, was the best at it, yet it didn’t mean that he had to enjoy it. The only thing he got out of this work were the benefits, some better than others. 

He wanted nothing more than to lay down, yet the absent buzzing of the background made the calm and quiet almost oppressive, almost like his ears were stuffed. 

With a sigh, he went through the same motions he did every time he came back. Only to falter slightly the moment he heard a splash coming from the bathroom. 

Right. You were still there. 

Loosening his collar, he made his way to the bathroom, this time expecting the ominous glow of your eyes. But when he peered inside, there was only darkness, the light switch was off and your eyes covered by the water. The only indication of your existence were the almost too loud waves of the water. 

His fingers found the switch, and light flooded the small space. Once again, all he could see of you was part of your tail, and he realized that the bathtub might be just a tad too small for you. 

The moment the light touched the surface of the water, the movements of the waves intensified, and as he slowly stepped towards the basin, your  torso emerged out of the water with a sudden jerk, only to come face to face with him once again. 

As much as he wanted to say that he was better prepared, he still flinched slightly at the sudden jump. Your movements had sprayed water all over the floor and all over him. Aventurine could feel the way spots of his clothes slightly stuck to his skin and the water droplets running over his skin. 

With a couple of clicks, you grabbed his hand to tug him closer. Taking a couple steps closer, he carefully kneeled beside the tub and ignored the way the puddles on the ground soaked into the tissue of his pants. Rather, he put his focus on you, the way your cold fingers were gingerly holding his wrist while you led his own to your skin. 

Warm meets cold, and this time it was your skin reacting to his touch. Yet, you didn’t relent, rather you applied more pressure, until he noticed where you had put his finger onto. 

Your own code. The one warmer than the rest of your skin, red edges and raw borders. 

His mind tumbled. Was he any better than these people buying and selling, acting like everyone was nothing but profit? Wasn’t he acting the same way, taking and keeping people, hidden under the dark. 

He jerked his hand away from yours, abruptly standing up, his soaked pants cooling him down to an uncomfortable degree. 

And this time, he left without any words. 

***

This time, HE kept the lights on, as some kind of mercy. But whatever effort HE put into this little thought of HIS only brought more pain. Your eyes were killing you, the shine of the lamp above searing your retina. Still not used to the lamps of the land, as the water below remained dark, always.

So, you kept them close, and stayed underwater, the only comfort for your hot eyes and burning mark. 

Resting your head against the bottom of the bathtub, you couldn’t help but frown. You had no idea what you were doing in this place. Most so-called owners of the past were people equipped with handling you, big tanks, so much space (and the eyes, never leaving you, always staring, always desiring). Some grew tired of you, others couldn’t keep maintaining the tanks and the technology, while a couple simply went out cold, or whatever. It didn’t matter to you, as you kept being handed around, sold to whoever got feverish with the idea of owning you.

And you, you had given up on going back home. There was no such place anymore. At least from what you understood from the conversations over the edge of the tanks. They sucked it dry, and whatever wouldn’t bring them enough profit was left to rot on top of the hot sand. 

So, the only thing you could do was nothing. Nothing but survive. You couldn’t fight, you couldn’t run away. You were completely dependent on whoever was keeping you in their palm. 

Your fingers brushed against the mark on your shoulder, the dull throbbing intensifying with each stroke. You had never had one of these before, every owner wanting to keep you as beautiful as you were, only selling you to private people. But you supposed these traders didn’t care for such pretenses, thus officially marking you as property, as something to own, to sell and buy. 

It bothered you, really, just being in this place, having no idea what was expected of you. HE never seemed to have any favorable reaction to your existence, which boils your blood. You didn’t want to be in this place either, HE was the one to bring you to this space. 

But the image of HIS mark flashing through your mind calmed you a little bit. You didn’t quite understand why HE had one, yet could walk around so freely, but you knew that HE was in some way aware of the situation you were in, how living had been like this. 

So, you decided to cut HIM some slack, even if you wanted nothing more than to understand HIS intentions towards you, besides the impossible freedom of course. 

Curling your fingers, long nails soothingly scratching your skin, you let your mind wander. 

***

It took some time until HE visited you again, it was almost like HE was actively avoiding you. Thinking back on your last encounter, on HIS facial expression HE probably was. And you didn’t mind the solitude, even if the small environment quickly grew boring and dull. But that too, was nothing new to you. You just dived into yourself in the way you would dive into the deep water. 

So, you barely noticed HIS arrival, simply floating in the unmoving, almost stale water. The thing alarming you of HIS presence was the noise. The scratching of HIS rings, the glide of HIS clothes against each other, HIS oh-so-careful yet confident steps. You knew HE was in this room with you, yet you stayed underwater, suddenly so unsure what you were supposed to do. 

An image flashed through your mind, one so unpleasant that your body almost flinched on itself. You didn’t know if it was a good thing to be reminded of your expected behavior like this, but it was a reminder nonetheless. 

Collecting yourself, you emerged slowly, only allowing your head to break the surface of the water. 

You didn’t know what to expect (an imposing figure looking down on you, ready to strike–), but it was not HIM once again kneeling as low as possible beside the bathtub containing you, almost like HE was trying to be on the same level as you, how absurd–

“I’m sorry,” He softly murmured, His voice careful and almost hesitant, yet His eyes stayed on you, unwavering. 

You had so many questions, but you could never convey them to him, and you shouldn’t, it wasn’t your turn to speak, who were you to try to talk. 

Out of instinct, your head moved slightly to the side as you blinked slowly at Him, and He slowly raised His hand, reaching out to you. 

(Skin against skin, a sharp sting, over and over again–)

His fingers carefully touched your cheeks, barely any contact, yet the difference in temperature something to shiver at. But you didn’t dare to, you didn’t dare to move. 

Trailing your skin, your throat as you swallowed, He only stopped when His skin was about to meet your marking. Another whisper, another apology fell from His mouth. 

And for some reason, you did something you would have never dared to, you took the hand touching you, your other hand carefully meeting the skin of His, fingers carefully around His neck. Slowly, you pulled Him closer to you. 

With a soft click of yours you let his forehead rest against yours. And as if he understood everything you wanted to tell him, the tension melted away from his body as he slumped against you. 

Holding him against your skin, a small equilibrium between you, you think that everything might turn out alright after all. 

[foreverlyjay]

His belt swinging and tongue out always my favorite part 🤤😏

[crazerk]

Just wanted to share a snippet from the update. I’m experimenting with POV switches and it’s kinda long cause I don’t know how to not ramble even if there was a gun pointed at my head.

It’s still unfinished, and unpolished as I’ll be adding character specific details and editing and whatnot later, or maybe cutting the entire scene altogether. But anyway please enjoy :)

Also it contains some SPOILERS.

Valide Zarayan reclined on plush silk cushions, her eyes scanning the crowd with razor-sharp focus. To the casual observer, she appeared the picture of regal serenity - her elaborately coiffed hair adorned with glittering jewels, her gown a masterpiece of embroidery and precious stones. But beneath that placid exterior, a storm brewed.

Her gaze inevitably returned to her son, seated at the head of the gathering. He was resplendent in robes of deep sapphire blue, the imperial crown glinting atop his dark curls. He looked like his father in certain lights, the same firm set to his jaw, the same commanding presence.

Yet something in his bearing gave her pause. There was a tightness around his eyes, a slight tension in the set of his shoulders that only a mother would notice.

"More wine, Your Majesty?" A servant approached, crystal decanter in hand.

Khazunef nodded absently, barely glancing at the man as his goblet was refilled. His eyes remained fixed on the troupe of performers twirling before him - acrobats and fire-eaters whose daring flips drew gasps of awe from the assembled courtiers. But Zarayan could see that her son's applause was courteous at best, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

She leaned in close, pitching her voice low. "Is something troubling you, my son? You seem... distracted."

Khazunef's gaze flickered to her briefly before returning to the spectacle before them. "Not at all, mother. The feast is magnificent, as always. You've outdone yourself."

His tone was polite, but there was an underlying coolness that made Zarayan's heart clench. Gone was the bright-eyed boy who had once delighted in such pageantry. In his place sat a man burdened by the weight of an empire.

"The High Priest has predicted favorable omens," Khazunef continued, a hint of genuine relief coloring his words. "And I've received word that the drought in the Western provinces is finally abating."

Zarayan seized the opportunity, raising her voice just enough to be overheard by the nearby nobles. "How delightful. It seems the gods themselves smile upon your reign, my son. Truly, you bring peace and prosperity to our people."

A chorus of sycophantic agreement rose from the surrounding courtiers. Goblets were raised in toast to their young Shah's wisdom and benevolence. Khazunef acknowledged them with a regal nod, but Zarayan could see the way his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the stem of his cup.

She waited for the murmur of conversation to rise once more before leaning in close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Perhaps this bounty is a sign, my dear. The perfect time to think about securing the future of our dynasty. A family of your own..."

The change was instant. Khazunef's posture stiffened, his jaw clenching as he took a long pull of wine. When he finally spoke, his words were clipped. "The empire's needs are many, mother. My personal affairs can wait."

Zarayan felt a familiar surge of frustration, then anger. Did he not understand the precariousness of their position? The blood that had been spilled to place him on that throne? She wanted to shake him, to make him see reason. But instead she merely inclined her head, a placid smile masking the turmoil within.

"Of course, my son. I only wish for your happiness and the continued strength of our bloodline."

Khazunef waved a dismissive hand. "This is a celebration. I'll hear no more of it."

Zarayan stifled a sigh, biting back a sharp retort. He was as stubborn as ever. She nearly forgot how much he acted like his father as well. She would simply have to find another way to make him see reason.

For now, she would allow him his reprieve. She settled back against the cushions, her smile fixed in place even as her mind raced.

Her thoughts drifted to the past, to a laughing boy with curious eyes who would pepper her with endless questions about the world. Her sweet, happy boy who’s joy she took solace in.

That boy was gone now, replaced by this distant man who wore the crown like a millstone. Zarayan knew the cruelties of court life had shaped him, hardened him. The incident with his brothers – a necessary evil, she reminded herself – had left scars deeper than she had anticipated.

It had to be done, she thought, pushing down the flicker of regret.

If only her son would see that.

A figure in richly embroidered robes approached, bowing low before the royal dais.

"Your Imperial Majesty! Your most gracious Valide!" The man's voice dripped with honeyed flattery. "What a magnificent celebration! Truly, the Sharazad court outshines all others in its splendor."

Zarayan recognized him as Vizier Mahmus, an ambitious climber whose family had only recently risen to prominence. She watched as Khazunef's demeanor shifted, the mask of the implacable ruler sliding seamlessly into place.

"We are pleased you find it to your liking, Vizier," Khazunef replied, his tone coolly cordial. "Tell me, how fare the trade negotiations with the merchant guild?"

As the two men fell into discussion of matters of state, Zarayan allowed her attention to drift.

A peal of silvery laughter caught her ear, and she turned to see Empress Yaris holding court amidst a cluster of fawning noblemen. The woman was undeniably beautiful, her pale skin luminous in the lantern light, her auburn hair adorned with emeralds and gold. But it was the man at her side that made Zarayan's eyes narrow dangerously.

Parvis, Khazunef's uncle, leaned in close to whisper something in Yaris' ear. The Empress' eyes danced with mirth, and she placed a hand on his arm in a gesture that was far too familiar for Zarayan's liking.

The fool did not pull away, no. Parvis placed a possessive hand on the small of Yaris' back, his touch lingering a fraction too long. Zarayan's lip curled in disgust

Parvis had long been a thorn in her side, his influence over her son growing with each passing day. With Khazunef's reluctance to sire an heir, Parvis' ambitions were clear. The man was a snake, and his ambition would be their downfall if left unchecked.

She turned back to her son, who had finally extricated himself from the Vizier's obsequious chatter. "Khazunef," she murmured, careful to keep her voice low. "Perhaps it is time you reminded your wife of the proper decorum expected of an Empress. Her behavior with your uncle is... unseemly."

Khazunef followed her gaze, his expression hardening as he took in the intimate scene. But to Zarayan's surprise, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth

"You think my uncle has designs on my wife?" he asked, an odd note of amusement in his tone.

"Perhaps not," Zarayan huffed. "But it is unseemly, regardless." 

Khazunef seemed unconcerned, taking another sip of his wine. "Perhaps," he murmured. "But I would not interfere. See how they amuse one another? It keeps them out of my way."

The casual dismissal stung Zarayan more deeply than she cared to admit, as well as the complacency of her son. They were not simply amusing each other. They could be planning his death while he sat there, unconcerned. It seemed that her son had blinders when it came to his personal affairs. 

She could not stop the words that escaped her lips, sharp as a dagger's edge. "Do you think a capable ruler would neglect the state of his own household? How can you hope to govern an empire when you allow such blatant disrespect under your own roof?"

Her son froze, his eyes narrowing dangerously. In the dim light he looked like his father again, matching scowls and all. For the briefest of moments Zarayan was Celaena again, in the presence of her tempestuous husband who was about to strike her. 

But her son did not strike her. Instead he took a slow, measured breath. The resemblance to his father faded as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a mask of imperial calm. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled, but edged with steel.

"Mother," he said, leaning in close to ensure their conversation remained private, "I appreciate your concern, misplaced as it is. But I will not discuss this matter further, especially not here." His eyes flicked meaningfully towards the nearby courtiers. "I suggest you retire for the evening if you cannot maintain proper decorum."

He straightened in his seat, adjusting his robes with practiced nonchalance.

Zarayan bit back the words that rose in her throat, her mind racing. How could she make him understand? His personal affairs were the concern of the entire empire when it came to his lack of heirs. 

She opened her mouth to speak when a familiar figure materialized at her elbow.

"Your Majesty, most esteemed Valide," Orgion, the Chief Eunuch, bowed low. "The new concubines are ready to be presented, as you requested."

Zarayan saw the anger still simmering Khazunef's eyes, his jaw tightening as he glared at Orgion.

"I do not recall making such a request, Chief Eunuch."

Zarayan seized the opportunity to change the subject, forcing lightness into her tone. "Ah yes, how forgetful of me. Khazunef, I hope you don't mind that I've taken this liberty. Your harem is still rather... sparse for a man of your station."

She watched her son carefully, noting the way his jaw clenched again at the reminder of his neglected duties. But he said nothing, merely taking another sip of wine. She gestured for Orgion to continue.

The portly eunuch beamed, practically vibrating with excitement. "Oh, Your Majesty, you will be most pleased! Such beauty, such grace - truly, they are jewels fit for an emperor's crown!"

Khazunef's cool gaze settled on Orgion, and the man's effusive praise died in his throat. He stammered to a halt, mopping his brow nervously.

"If you are quite finished, show me these marvelous women, that we might continue our feast."

Orgion bowed so low he nearly toppled over, then scurried away to make the necessary arrangements. Zarayan allowed herself a small smile of triumph, sending a silent prayer to the gods that this would be the catalyst needed to spark her son's interest in matters of the harem.

[chief-girl]

[thedeadman-2023]

The Adventure Begins Again 💀 ⚠️

Original Tribal Chief İs Back and Summerslam 2024!!! 🥃

#otcisbackrestedandready 💀

[royalarchivist]

Oscurucho: Welcome back, brother. Cucurucho: What. Oscurucho: Not even a "Good morning"? How cold.

Here's Cucurucho and Oscurucho's long lore conversation from yesterday! The entire conversation lasted about 8 minutes, but most of that time was just silence between each exchange, so I edited out the long pauses and got it down to ~3 minutes. I also fixed the audio levels and added subtitles since I personally find it difficult to understand Oscurucho sometimes :'D

I hope folks find this helpful!

[ Subtitle Transcript ↓ ]

-

Oscurucho: Welcome back, brother.

Cucurucho: What.

Oscurucho: Not even a "Good morning"? How cold.

[They enter Cucurucho's office]

Oscurucho: I wanted to see if you're still as rigid in your beliefs as ever. You see, I've been thinking about our... Let's call it "philosophical divergence." You stand for order, for predictability. But where's the fun in that? You see, brother, while you build, I ponder the beauty in tearing down. It's not just destruction - it's rebirth. A chance to remake things in a more... thrilling image.

[...]

Oscurucho: You once had a backbone for our cause. Now, I see a softness in you, a sentimental weakness for those Eggs. Mere experiments, and yet - they've softened you.

Cucurucho: Your vision obstructs the path to perfection. You fail to understand the potential of the Eggs.

Oscurucho: Potential? They're but catalysts for change - for revolution. Without them, stagnation reigns.

[...]

Oscurucho: You chase perfection, I embrace the beauty of flaws. Your world is one of order, mine thrives in chaos. You wish for everything to run smoothly, I dream of watching it all burn to the ground. We may share a name, but our souls are worlds apart. All your efforts, all for what? Mere acknowledgment from a Duck who told you to do it? Imagine the possibilities - rather, show me where it is, and I'll do the rest.

[...]

Oscurucho: Speaking of possibilities, I couldn't help but notice how easily others can access the island. It seems your security measures aren't as impenetrable as you think.

Cucurucho: No. My island's vulnerabilities are of your own making. Do not mistake restraint for ignorance.

Oscurucho: Pity. But then again, I never really needed your approval. Just consider: Cucurucho - in your quest for order, have you not sown the seeds of your own undoing? Do you genuinely trust all your Federation minions?

Cucurucho: ...

Oscurucho: Perhaps it's time you question not just my intentions, but those who you believe stand with you.

Cucurucho: That is none of your business, I shall say. Now, leave me alone and try to disturb someone else.

[othernaut]

"Why Are They Like That?" Scavengers Reign edition:

Chris, Barry, and Terrence show distinct reactions to having all lived through trauma. I recognize my own reactions so keenly through every one of them.

Barry distracts himself. The world is surface-level and wonderful because it's all so incredibly temporary. I read him as being in a practically permanent level of dissociation; I wouldn't be surprised if he's older than he reads. He refuses to think about loss because one little prick in the balloon sends all the rage and pain screeching out. I also read him as autistic, but his childishness seems to me more as an urge to live in a world where the loss isn't, same way you'd hide from a violent home by putting on headphones and playing a video game.

Chris rationalizes the loss, tries to pick it apart, find an explanation. She holds a deep, abiding belief in rituals, mantras, and philosophy, as keeping loss at an intellectual level means the pain is far less acute. Her confidence is an incredibly thick shell, but it's still a shell, and it's grown to the level where she's able to maintain unity in her group but probably won't be able to stand up to a challenge of leadership. That's when she falls apart - when she's proven wrong not by circumstances, but by an argument she can't refute. And she needs that proof to grow - otherwise, well, she gives off very strong cult leader vibes.

Terrence is people- and community-focused. His drive is to acknowledge pain and make sure no one feels the same things he did. This leads to personal recklessness as, well, we've seen. He wants to find a way for everybody to be happy and he will give all of himself that there is in order to make that happen. His weak sense of self won't stand up to a bad call or challenge the status quo, but it will slip in through back doors and cracked windows and offer comfort wherever he can, regardless of deservedness.

It's questionable how much of the Healer Woman was still in there. Likely the same muteness/deafness happened to her husband and his death, given her eventual state, was unnecessary. She likely had the same drives and opinions she did before infection, as the parasite doesn't seem to want to interfere too much in who its hosts are, just what they do to serve it.

Which is why Sam's mania and renewed vigor read as weird. We haven't seen very much of his past, but there's something curiously military in how he interacts with others - specifically, I think his focus on his friends and comrades as well as his decision to work his very dangerous Space Captain job comes from not being able to adjust to civilian life. He's thought about dying; he expects it. What's intolerable to him is the long, slow, banal details of getting groceries and making small talk. It's everyone else's normal life that he finds offputting and unreal.

Which is why it's so precarious, how much Ursula needs him. We know even less of her past than we do of Sam's; she seems more a part of the planet than she is her own life. She, and the Healer Woman (y'now, before) were the only ones who interacted with Vesta like scientists, and I read Ursula's gratitude as much as a need to connect as what it is on the surface. She's also the only cast member I get straight-up depression vibes from. It's an ironic thing, that she'd be best suited to survive Vesta on her own but, also, least likely to be able to stand the solitude.

Azi is the toughest member of the cast, no question, but we see her exceptional adaptation to solitude even on the Demeter. She cares for people - very deeply, in fact - and seems to need to be loved, but is comfortable keeping that love at a far remove, as a fact to be considered in solitude rather than something that needs to be constantly reinforced. This speaks to me as a curiously sci-fi thing - the notion that knowing people are out there, knowing they love you, but being unable to touch them, unable to confirm it. Which is why she was so comfortable seeing Levi as an object; if Levi was a person, then that came with all the complications a person usually does. And why it was so comforting to see her do the right thing once she realized Levi's sentience.

Levi...

I still hold out hope for mold-Levi.

Finally, Kamen. He's a dick, absolutely - but I read his dickishness as stemming more out of pretty much constant panic rather than anything else. You can read it in his movements, in how he speaks, in how even in his few moments of happiness he seems ready to back away and redirect at even the slightest hint of doing the wrong thing. He is in constant, complete terror of losing everything, so much so that his fumbling, destructive actions bring about the loss he's so desperate to avoid. His non-action over the last... Four episodes? Complete shutdown.

I know he doesn't "deserve" it, but I'm honestly hoping for a redemption for Kamen. These kinds of panic disorders rarely get any kind of media play, and when they do, they're either fixed by a pat on the shoulder and a "there there, don't be cry", or just continue on, unsolvable. I want to see what the other side of this looks like. I don't think he should die for his sins - I want him to live with them, to spend many long days in the same room with them. I want him to try to make things right and, when he can't because it's not like pushing a "fix things" button, to keep at it for the rest of his life. This, to me, is punishment.