#and from there the resentment festers and grows

[ghostchems]

infernal - terzo x f!reader - part seven

and now... a flashback chapter

art by the always amazing @piaart

author’s note: i feel like shit but it helped me finish this up. plenty of terzo pain here meanwhile reader is home, blissfully unaware. i also have no idea if my writing is good at this point but here ya go! part one/two/three/four/five/six

If you could see the wreck I am these days, you’d have new reasons to stay away. Just hold my hand for a little while —

Misery never goes out of style.

Terzo traces a delicate finger along one of the bags under his eyes, no longer concealed by the dark eye paint he once wore. His brows furrow at the sight of himself in the mirror. The wrinkles have deepened since he left the stage. His hair, now less lustrous, betrays gray strands emerging from his roots and sideburns. All those years spent cultivating his image, trying to become the perfect imperfection that Lucifer himself boasted—only to unravel after one fateful show. He grits his teeth, his mismatched eyes sharpening in his reflection.

With all the glitz stripped away, he loathes how much he now resembles his father…

Terzo forces the thought out of his head. His days are spent analyzing his time as Papa and what went wrong. He wouldn’t do anything differently but it still stung, especially after the new heights and exposure he had achieved for the Ministry. Somehow, it was not enough. His father was never proud of him, a theme that stretched throughout his entire life. Terzo was only ever the Third to him, the third son that would serve his purpose and then be pushed aside for whoever was next. While this had been the typical progression, Terzo was the fool who thought he would be different — even after being warned by Secondo.

Secondo.

“Cazzo.”

He’s late for Uno Night.

The once-revered Emeritus brothers now find themselves relegated to a desolate corner of the abbey with their only entertainment being a silly card game. Their influence wanes with each passing day. Terzo can't help but sneer at the irony of their situation - former leaders now barely more than forgotten relics, with only each other’s company. There was a time when the Emeritus brothers were revered as gods among men. Crowds would surge forward at their concerts, desperate to touch the hem of their robes or catch a glimpse of their painted faces. Devotees would line up for hours, sometimes days, just for the chance to receive a blessing or a fleeting moment of attention. Their every word was treated as gospel, their gestures analyzed and imitated by legions of faithful followers.

In the halls of the Ministry, their presence commanded instant respect and adoration. Ghouls and Siblings of Sin alike would bow their heads in reverence as they passed. Their chambers were filled with lavish gifts from admirers - exotic incense, priceless artifacts, and fervent love letters. The very air seemed to crackle with power and dark allure whenever they entered a room. Now, that electric atmosphere has faded to a dull static. The gifts have stopped coming, the adoring crowds have moved on to newer, shinier idols. The once-mighty Emeritus brothers find themselves grasping at the fading light of their former glory, clinging to memories of a time when they were worshipped as the embodiments of their infernal master.

He used to delicately paint his face for each meeting, a ritual of devotion to himself and his roll as Papa. But now, as he stares at his bare face, he feels a bitter resentment towards the being he once revered. The paint feels like a mask of lies, concealing the growing doubts and anger festering within him. Lucifer's promises of power and glory now ring hollow in his ears, leaving only the taste of ash and disappointment. Terzo exhales through his nose and tears himself away from the mirror, satisfied with his appearance but frustrated with the progression of his thoughts. He had grown more disillusioned by the day with the cause he so passionately promoted, the being he worshipped. Lucifer, once his guiding light, now seemed like a cruel puppeteer, manipulating him for some cosmic joke.

Omega did not like these thoughts. In fact, Terzo has begun avoiding him and instead has been seeking the company of his brothers. Perhaps the one silver lining in all of this is that he is closer than he ever has been with his true family, minus daddy dearest, of course. They had grown up together, with Primo practically raising him and Secondo after they had come to the ministry. Back then he was a true zealot - a satanic lunatic whose fervor for the dark arts knew no bounds. It was from him that Terzo learned the intricacies of their infernal faith, absorbing every ritual and incantation with wide-eyed fascination. Yet, somehow, both Terzo and Secondo emerged less fanatical than their older brother.

But still competitors, nonetheless. Secondo and Terzo had been born to different mothers three months apart so it came naturally. The more time spent together now, the more they realize how similar they can be and deep down, Terzo wishes they had not been so combative. It was encouraged, though, fed and grown by the higher ups in the ministry and their father. Maybe they feared they would be too powerful if they were close.

Now all they care about is Uno.

"Fuck!" Terzo exclaims again, his voice tinged with frustration as he runs a hand tiredly over his face. The weight of his thoughts bears down on him, but he knows he can't afford to dwell any longer. With a deep sigh, he forces himself into action, slipping his feet into his shoes - the familiar spats clicking as he gets them on. Just as he reaches for the door handle, a sharp knock echoes through the room. Terzo pauses, his hand hovering in mid-air. Irritation flashes across his face.

"Enter," he calls out, his voice tinged with impatience.

The door creaks open, revealing a young Sibling of Sin. Their face is pale, eyes wide with fear and urgency. Terzo's irritation gives way to curiosity as he takes in their disheveled appearance.

"What is it?" he asks, his tone softening slightly.

The Sibling swallows hard before speaking, their voice trembling. "Papa, I... I have news. It's about Omega."

Terzo's eyebrows furrow. "Omega? What about him?" He nonchalantly goes back to adjusting his outfit, wondering if this is another plot from the ghoul to try and make him listen to “reason”. He certainly has stooped rather low, almost as low as Terzo.

The Sibling takes a deep breath, as if steeling themselves for what they're about to say. "He's been banished, Papa. Omega has been cast out of the Ministry."

The words hit Terzo like a physical blow. He stumbles back a step, his mind reeling. "Banished?" he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. "But... how? Why?" Pain is etched across his face.

The Sibling shakes their head, clearly as confused and shaken as Terzo. "I don't know the details, Papa. It happened so suddenly. They're saying it came from the highest levels of the Ministry."

Terzo's mind races, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Shock, confusion, and a sudden, unexpected pang of loss all vie for dominance. Despite their recent disagreements, Omega had been a constant in his life for so long. The thought of him being gone, cast out... it's almost inconceivable.

Terzo's composure shatters as the weight of the news crashes over him. His eyes flash with unbridled fury, causing the Sibling to take an involuntary step back. "Get out!" he roars, his voice reverberating off the walls. "Leave me! Now!" The Sibling, wide-eyed with fear, scrambles to obey, nearly tripping over their own feet in their haste to escape. Terzo slams the door with such force that the entire room seems to shake, the sound echoing through the corridors like a thunderclap.

As soon as the barrier between him and the outside world is secure, everything crumbles. A primal roar of anguish and frustration tears from his throat, echoing off the walls of his private chambers. In a whirlwind of unbridled emotion, he lashes out at his surroundings. His fist connects with the ornate mirror adorning his vanity, the impact sending a spider web of cracks across its surface before it shatters completely. Shards of glass rain down, glittering in the dim light like fallen stars.

But Terzo's rage demands more destruction. He overturns his meticulously organized desk, unleashing an avalanche of papers, pens, and trinkets onto the floor. Books, once neatly arranged on shelves, are torn free and flung across the room, their pages fluttering like disoriented birds. His wardrobe—a carefully curated collection of robes and suits that once symbolized his power and prestige—falls victim to his fury next. Garments are ripped from hangers and strewn about haphazardly, silk and velvet mingling with the debris below. Spotting one of his Papal robes, an early prototype, he seizes it and tears, splitting seams and fabric into pieces with savage force.

He could kill them. End the reign of his father and Sister Imperator with a knife to their throats, a hammer to their heads. He’s capable and he’s angry.

But that’s not who Terzo is.

His appetite for destruction is as swift as it is thorough. When the storm of his anger finally subsides, Terzo finds himself standing amidst the wreckage of his once-immaculate quarters. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his knuckles having bloodied his gloves from his outburst. The room, previously a testament to his refined tastes and exalted position, now lies in utter ruin around him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as the full weight of what has transpired begins to settle upon him.

The dust settles around him, both literally and figuratively, as his mind wanders to Omega. Their relationship, once the core of his existence within the Ministry, had deteriorated over the past several months, transforming into a strained and tenuous connection. The rift between them had widened, growing into a seemingly unbridgeable gap that threatened to swallow everything they shared whole. Omega, ever faithful of their infernal master, had persistently begged Terzo to embrace what he perceived as a well-deserved retirement—a supposed reward bestowed upon them by Lucifer himself for their years of unwavering service and dedication.

"Papa, you've more than earned this rest," Omega would implore, his eyes blazing with sheer intensity behind his cool mask that Terzo found increasingly difficult to look at. "Our Dark Lord Lucifer, in his infinite wisdom, has granted you this period of rest and reflection. Why do you persist in resisting? Can you not see the honor in this gift he has bestowed upon you?"

But for Terzo, the notion of settling into a life of idle luxury felt suffocating—a gilded cage that threatened to strip away everything he had fought so hard to achieve. The very thought of turning his back on the empire he had painstakingly built, nurtured, and expanded over the years felt like a betrayal of who he is and what defines him. As time wore on, his arguments with Omega grew increasingly heated and frequent, his frustration mounting with each tense exchange, threatening to boil over into hostility.

"You call this rest, Omega?" Terzo would retort, his voice rising with each impassioned word, hands gesticulating wildly to emphasize his point. "This isn't rest—it's nothing short of exile, a banishment from everything I've ever known and loved! How can you, of all people, expect me to sit idly by, content to watch as everything I've dedicated my life to—my very existence—crumbles around me like dust?" The air between them would crackle with tension during these confrontations, an electric charge that made it increasingly difficult for them to occupy the same space without the risk of conflict erupting at any moment.

Now, with the shocking news of Omega's sudden and unexpected banishment reverberating through the chambers of his mind, Terzo finds himself consumed with emotion. Relief, guilt, anger, and a profound sense of loss intertwine in a dizzying dance, each vying for dominance in the turbulent landscape of his mind. Despite their recent differences and the ever-widening divide between them, Omega had been a constant, unwavering presence in Terzo's life for longer than he cared to remember—a touchstone of familiarity. His abrupt absence leaves a gaping void in the fabric of Terzo's existence, a wound so deep and raw that he isn't certain he possesses the means to heal it.

Even with the turmoil raging inside him, Terzo finds himself drawn to the familiar comfort of his brothers' company. With a heavy sigh, he straightens his posture and smooths down his attire, a reflexive gesture from years of public appearances. He may be struggling, but he'll be damned if he lets it show—at least not to them. They have all had their hardships. If anyone knows and understands what he is feeling right now, it is his brothers. Terzo’s steps are heavy, using his feet to clear a path forward amidst everything now on the floor. He reaches the door, hesitating for just a moment. There’s a weight pressing down on him that threatens to crush him, to break him down until there’s nothing left.

He won’t let it.

Terzo opens the door and leaves his room. As he makes his way towards the small room where their Uno nights are held, his mind goes blank, going numb to the intense feelings that are simmering beneath the surface. He trudges down the dimly lit corridor, his footsteps echoing off the ancient stone walls, focusing on that sound to keep him grounded. As he rounds a corner, lost in the maelstrom of his thoughts, a familiar voice catches his attention, causing him to halt abruptly.

Turning, he sees Cardinal Copia emerging from his office, a stack of papers tucked under one arm and an Uno card inexplicably held between two fingers of his free hand. The Cardinal's painted face breaks into a warm smile as he spots Terzo, oblivious to the storm brewing within the former Papa.

"Ah, Papa, on your way to Uno Night, yes?” The cheerful greeting hangs in the air, a stark contrast to the darkness swirling within Terzo.

Terzo's entire body tenses, his jaw clenching so tightly he can hear his teeth grind. The sight of him, so content and oblivious to the turmoil raging through the Ministry, ignites a fire in Terzo's chest—one that he had hoped was extinguished following his outburst in his room. His eyes narrow as he regards Copia with barely contained irritation. "Uno Night," he repeats, his voice low and controlled, though tension radiates from every syllable. "Mmm… yes." He takes a step closer to Copia, his presence suddenly looming and intimidating.

Copia's smile falters slightly, but he presses on, still oblivious and sweet. "It's become quite the tradition with your brothers, hasn't it?" He hesitates for a moment, then reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a blue reverse card. He holds it out to Terzo, a tentative peace offering. "Here, Papa. I always keep this one for luck. Perhaps... perhaps you'd like to have it for tonight's game?"

Terzo's gaze sharpens dangerously as he struggles to maintain his composure. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, fingers digging into his biceps. The sight of that blue card in Copia's hand—a symbol of the carefree life he now leads—causes the fire to spread inside him, consuming him yet again. Terzo’s voice, when he finally speaks, is low and menacing, barely above a whisper.

"Tradition?" His voice is guttural and rough. "You dare speak to me of tradition when everything is crumbling around us? When the very foundations of our world are ripped away from us?" His words are full of anguish and rage, each one striking Copia like a physical blow.

The Cardinal stumbles back, his expression morphing from confusion to outright fear. "P-Papa, I... I don't understand-" he stammers, his voice trembling.

"Of course you don't understand!" Terzo cuts him off, his composure shattering completely. "You're nothing but a pawn, a naive fool dancing to their twisted tune!" He gestures wildly, his movements sharp and erratic. "Do you have any idea what's happening beyond your little bubble of blissful ignorance? Omega is gone! Banished! Cast out like yesterday's trash! And here you stand, grinning like a fool, oblivious to the chaos swirling around you!"

Copia's eyes widen in shock, the full weight of Terzo's words finally sinking in. "Omega? But how- Why-" he begins, but Terzo is far from finished.

Terzo snatches the blue Uno card from Copia's hand, gripping it so hard it begins to crumble in his grip. "And this?" he spits, brandishing it like damning evidence. "You think this changes anything? You think a game can fix what's broken? This card, this... this mockery of what we once were!" His voice rises to a near-scream. "Do you have any idea what this represents? It's not just a game, you fool! It's everything we've lost, everything that's been taken from us!"

With a primal yell that seems to shake the very stones of the corridor, Terzo tears the card to shreds. The pieces flutter between them like confetti, a mockery of celebration in this moment of utter despair. Copia flinches, raising his hands as if to shield himself from the physical manifestation of Terzo's rage.

"P-Papa, please," Copia stammers, his voice barely above a whisper, a plea for understanding, for mercy. "I didn't mean to-"

But Terzo is beyond reason, beyond mercy. His voice drops to a low, dangerous hiss, each word dripping with venom. "Get out of my sight," he commands, his tone brooking no argument. "You don't belong here. You never will. You're nothing but a pale imitation, a cheap replacement for something you could never hope to understand. And take your pathetic games with you!"

As Copia retreats, practically running down the corridor, Terzo stands amidst the scattered remains of the card. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, anger and grief warring within him. In the sudden silence, the weight of his actions begins to settle upon him. He knows, in some distant corner of his mind, that he's overreacted, that Copia isn't truly to blame for the chaos engulfing their world. But in this moment, all he can feel is the crushing weight of loss - of his position, of Omega, of everything he once held dear. And that damned Uno card, now in pieces at his feet, seems to mock him with its cheerful blue color, a stark contrast to the darkness consuming his soul.

If only he could reverse being removed from the Papacy.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Terzo straightens his posture and adjusts his shirt in an attempt to calm himself. He struggles to push down the turmoil within, determined not to let his brothers see his inner struggle. As he approaches the card room, he steels himself, forcing his face into a mask of nonchalance.

Opening the door, he finds his brothers already seated. An almost startling wave of relief washes over him. He allows a scoff to escape his lips at the sight of Primo, face fully painted and wearing a Burberry scarf. Before he can comment, Secondo interjects.

"Already gave him trouble for it, stronzino. If you'd been on time, you could've joined." There's a glint of mischief in Secondo's eyes.

Terzo rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his best efforts to maintain his aloof facade. He saunters over to the table, pulling up a chair with dramatic flair. "Well, shall we begin? I'm feeling particularly lucky tonight." He shoots a pointed look at Secondo, silently accepting the challenge in his brother's gaze.

He settles into his seat and the feeling of relief continues to spread through him. Here, surrounded by his brothers and the familiar rhythm of an extremely low-stakes card game, he can momentarily push aside his anger and frustration. In this room, he's not the fallen Papa or a disappointment to the Ministry - he's simply Terzo, the youngest of the Emeritus brothers, ready to lose himself in the game and forget, if only for a while, how far he has fallen.

On this particular evening, Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil would make an unexpected appearance, delivering news that would leave the brothers startled and confused.

They would be unable to continue their card game.

Terzo is deep in his desk chair, his body nearly slipped from it onto the floor. His gaze is locked on the the hell phone which has been ringing nonstop since you left for the night. Your taste is still on his tongue, your scent clinging to his robe. He’s afraid to move to disturb the haze he’s settled into, even though you would be back bright and early for work the morning after next. Fingers fall to his temples, rubbing them with each piercing ring of the phone.

He wouldn’t answer. He doesn’t want to face who is on the other line.

Was it Omega? What could he possibly say? He would only complicate matters—as he already has. The hell phone materialized before you, and you listened to the sounds of the abyss. It drove you into Terzo's arms and bed, but... you didn't deserve to experience such terrors or feel so frightened in his home. Or at least, if anyone was going to frighten you it should be him. His fingers drum along the arms of the chair, a deep grumble vibrating from his chest. The goal is to get you to stay, to devote yourself to him and only him. Yet the fear gnaws at him. What if the terrors you've witnessed push you away? The thought of losing you to the very darkness he once revered sends a chill through him. He wants you by his side, but you have to want to be there. Perhaps, he muses bitterly, this is another of Lucifer's cruel jokes—dangling happiness before him, only to threaten it with the very forces he once embraced.

Maybe the imp who fixed your tire that Terzo had shredded was calling. What was that all about? He didn’t have time to mull that incident over earlier while you were here. Is he manifesting things?

The memory of when he had accidentally shocked you resurfaces, Terzo's frown deepens. He recalls the pain on your face when he zapped your wrist. His gaze drifts to his hands, studying them as if they belong to a stranger. These hands that once commanded crowds, that channeled unholy energies with precision and purpose, now feel like unpredictable weapons. He clenches his fists, feeling the familiar tingle of power just beneath his skin. What if he hurts you again?

Another memory flits to the forefront of his mind — when he screamed at you over his relics being displayed causing a lightbulb to shatter. He remembers the fear in your eyes as it happened. It wasn't Lucifer's doing—it was his own power, his own lack of control. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. Perhaps the true threat to your happiness, to any chance of a future together, isn't some external force or cosmic joke. It's him.

The silver lining is that you had seemed to be… into it. But what if next time, it's worse than a small shock or a broken bulb?

The thought sends a wave of despair crashing over him. Is he doomed to be alone, forever isolated by the very gifts that once made him special? The irony isn't lost on him—he who once reveled in his dark powers, who used them to seduce and enthrall, now fears them as the very thing that might drive you away. Terzo slumps further in his chair. The illusion of his perfection continues to fade but he’s stubborn. Unwilling to change his ways even though he knows he can be cruel and difficult.

He originally expected you to just deal with it.

Terzo rises with a frustrated growl, letting the hell phone continue its incessant ringing. He stalks over to his liquor cabinet, hands trembling slightly as he pours himself a generous measure of whiskey. What have you done to him? How dare you make him want to be better? He decides he must, at the very least, attempt to protect you from whatever hell seemingly has in store for you. This includes tempering his emotions, an obvious factor of his otherworldly abilities. Seriously, how dare you?

Taking a long swig, he savors the burn as it slides down his throat. It's a familiar comfort, one that does little to reduce the budding anxiety he feels. With a heavy sigh, he turns his back on the still-ringing phone and retreats to his bedroom, drink in hand. The door closes behind him, muffling the sound of the hell phone but he can still feel its presence. Terzo takes another sip, hoping to drink himself into unconsciousness.

Only two sleeps until he sees you again.

[theotherrichardpapen]

there being next to no established canon backstory for basically anyone in this film is tonnes of fun cause you can say stuff like 'i think nigel had a brother he accidentally killed when they were both children' and there's nothing to dispute it

[vidduality]

SPOILERS for Episode 6 of the Avatar Live Action series

AKA why this episode makes me SO grateful for this adaptation (re: the Zuko flashbacks and the Agni Kai).

----

Wow.

I admit, I was really worried at the idea that Zuko might potentially fight back in the Agni Kai against his father in the live action. I expected to HATE it, and it's certainly a bold change, but it fits in SO WELL with why Zuko is the way that he is (and why he works so hard to push down his empathy whenever Aang tries to reason with him).

The Agni Kai - Zuko obviously did NOT want to fight his father. He still tried to apologize and beg for mercy, but in the end he was just too terrified of his father to disobey a direct order.

But when Ozai left him an opening to see what he'd do with it, Zuko couldn't bring himself to actually land a blow that might burn him. Making his lack of ruthlessness the weakness that Ozai ends up mutilating him for - even straight up telling Zuko that compassion is weakness and then demonstrating by holding his own child down and lighting him on fire - adds a layer of depth that only enhances the original scene (and in another stroke of genius, we see Ozai nearly in tears himself. He's convincing himself of this lesson as well as Zuko, which was likely passed down to him by his own father). Honestly, this to me is even more heartbreaking than Ozai burning him for refusing to stand and fight. Zuko did everything his father asked and he still failed, because his family has distorted what it means to be honorable and believes Zuko's capacity for mercy to be a shameful weakness unbecoming of an heir to the throne.

The 41st Division - And here come the waterworks. Assigning the very people Zuko was hurt so severely for trying to save to his ship as it's being cast out of the fire nation (presumably forever, with the Avatar not having been seen in 100 years) is SUCH a brilliant addition. His crew resents Zuko for being stuck on this impossible mission with this bratty, angry child. And Zuko is too ashamed of his "weakness" to explain why they were assigned to him.

I can totally see Zuko's hurt at their lack of respect making him even more angry (especially after everything he went through to save them from being sacrificed), and his seemingly irrational anger at them just continuing to make them resent him more in a neverending feedback loop of anger and disrespect that's been growing and festering for 3 years.

Which makes the scene at the end when Zuko's crew finally learns about how he saved their lives (as well as why he's obsessed with the avatar, why he's banished, what his scar means and why he's trying so very hard to rid himself of empathy, even if he can never quite manage it when it counts) so much more impactful. I SOBBED when the 41st Division stood at attention and showed him their utmost respect and loyalty, possibly for the first time since they've been on that ship. Zuko's soft "what's going on?" at finally being honored by his crew is just imprinted on my brain.

The seed of the idea that his compassion may NOT actually be what was shameful about his banishment afterall can finally begin to take root.

I just, damn, I love this episode so much.

[wosos-stuff]

Fractured Reflections

Lucy Bronze x Bronze Reader

-------------------------

The first time you realized your relationship with Lucy was fractured beyond repair was during an otherwise ordinary family dinner. You were both home for the holidays, seated at opposite ends of the table, the tension between you thick enough to choke on.

Your parents were oblivious, filling the silence with forced cheer and small talk about football. Your father praised Lucy’s latest performance with the national team, and you could see the pride in his eyes as he spoke about her accomplishments. Lucy, as always, deflected the praise with a modest smile, her eyes never once meeting yours.

It wasn’t that you resented Lucy’s success—you were proud of her, truly. But that pride was buried under layers of hurt, anger, and a sense of abandonment that had festered for years. Lucy had always been the golden child, the one who seemed destined for greatness from the start. Meanwhile, you had fought tooth and nail to carve out a place for yourself, to step out of her shadow and be seen as something more than just “Lucy Bronze’s little sister.”

But no matter how hard you tried, how much you achieved on your own, it always seemed like you were chasing after her, doomed to play catch-up in a race you could never win.

That night at the dinner table, something inside you snapped. Your father had just finished talking about Lucy’s latest victory when he turned to you, asking about your upcoming match with Arsenal. It was a big game, one that could determine whether your team would advance in the league, and you had been preparing for it relentlessly.

But before you could respond, Lucy cut in with a comment about how “every game is important,” her tone dripping with condescension. It was a small remark, barely noticeable to anyone else at the table, but to you, it felt like a slap in the face—a reminder that no matter what you did, it would never measure up to her standards.

You pushed your chair back and stood up abruptly, the sound of the legs scraping against the floor cutting through the awkward silence. “I’m not hungry anymore,” you muttered, before turning on your heel and walking out of the dining room.

You could feel Lucy’s eyes on your back as you left, but you didn’t look back. You didn’t want to see the indifference you knew would be there, the same indifference that had been growing between you for years.

---

The rivalry between you and Lucy only intensified as the season progressed. It wasn’t just a matter of sibling rivalry anymore—there was genuine animosity between you, fueled by years of unresolved tension and unspoken words.

When your teams faced off on the pitch, it was like a battle of wills, each of you determined to prove something to the other. You could see the fire in Lucy’s eyes every time she squared off against you, and you knew she could see the same in yours.

The media loved to play up the “sister rivalry” angle, painting it as a friendly competition between two elite athletes. But behind closed doors, it was anything but friendly. Every interaction was laced with sarcasm, every conversation a minefield of hidden barbs and thinly veiled insults.

You tried to talk to her once, after a particularly brutal match that ended in a draw. Both teams had fought tooth and nail for every inch of the pitch, and by the end, you were both battered and bruised, physically and emotionally.

As you walked off the field, you saw Lucy ahead of you, her head down as she made her way to the locker room. For a moment, you hesitated, considering whether or not to approach her. But something in you—perhaps a lingering hope that things could still be fixed—made you quicken your pace to catch up with her.

“Lucy,” you called out, your voice strained from the effort of keeping your emotions in check.

She stopped but didn’t turn around, her posture rigid. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice cold.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “We need to talk. About�� everything.”

Lucy turned then, her eyes narrowing as she looked at you. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said flatly. “You made your choice a long time ago.”

You stared at her, stunned by the venom in her voice. “What are you talking about? You’re the one who shut me out! You’re the one who always made me feel like I wasn’t good enough!”

“Because you weren’t!” Lucy snapped, her eyes blazing. “You were always trying to compete with me, always trying to prove something. I didn’t have time for that. I was focused on my career, on being the best.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. “You’re unbelievable,” you said, your voice trembling with anger. “You’re so caught up in yourself that you can’t see how much you’ve hurt me, how much you’ve pushed me away.”

Lucy crossed her arms, her expression unyielding. “Maybe you should stop blaming me for your own insecurities.”

That was the last straw. The fragile thread that had been holding you together snapped, and all the anger, hurt, and resentment you had been holding in came flooding out.

“Go to hell, Lucy,” you spat, turning away before she could see the tears that were starting to well up in your eyes. “I’m done with you.”

---

After that confrontation, you and Lucy barely spoke. On the rare occasions when you had to interact—at family gatherings or team events—the air between you was thick with hostility. The few words you exchanged were curt and laced with sarcasm, and it wasn’t long before even your parents began to notice the growing rift.

But they didn’t understand. No one did. To the outside world, you and Lucy were still sisters, still family, still bound by blood. But blood wasn’t enough to bridge the chasm that had opened up between you.

The media continued to hype up your rivalry, turning every match between your teams into a spectacle of sibling drama. But they didn’t see what was really happening, didn’t see the hatred that was growing in your heart, festering like a wound that would never heal.

You threw yourself into your training, into your matches, determined to outshine Lucy on the pitch. But no matter how well you played, no matter how many goals you scored or accolades you earned, it never felt like enough. The shadow of your sister loomed over you, a constant reminder of everything you could never be.

And Lucy, for her part, seemed to thrive on the rivalry. She played with a level of intensity that you had never seen before, as if she was determined to crush you beneath her feet. Every victory she claimed felt like a personal attack, a reminder that no matter how hard you tried, she would always be one step ahead.

---

The final straw came during the last match of the season, a game that would determine the league champion. Your team had fought its way to the top, and now, you were facing Lucy’s team in a winner-takes-all showdown.

The match was brutal, both teams pushing themselves to the limit in a desperate bid for victory. You and Lucy clashed on the field time and time again, each encounter more intense than the last. It was as if the entire world had shrunk down to just the two of you, locked in a battle that neither of you could afford to lose.

In the final minutes of the game, with the score tied and everything on the line, you found yourself with the ball at your feet, racing toward the goal. You could feel Lucy closing in on you, her presence a cold shadow at your back.

You were so focused on the goal, so determined to score and prove once and for all that you were just as good—no, better—than your sister, that you didn’t see the tackle coming until it was too late.

Lucy’s foot connected with the ball, sending it flying out of your reach, and you went down hard, the impact jarring every bone in your body. The referee’s whistle blew, signaling a foul, but it was too late. The chance was gone, the game was over.

As you lay on the ground, pain radiating through your body, you looked up to see Lucy standing over you, her expression cold and unfeeling. For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something in her eyes—regret, perhaps, or guilt—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

She walked away without a word, leaving you to pick yourself up off the ground, the bitter taste of defeat heavy in your mouth.

---

That was the last time you saw Lucy. After the match, she disappeared, throwing herself into her training for the national team. You heard rumors that she was considering a move abroad, but you didn’t care enough to ask if they were true.

The rift between you had grown too wide, the hurt too deep. There was no going back, no way to fix what had been broken.

Your parents tried to mediate, to bring you back together, but their efforts were in vain. You were too far gone, too consumed by your own anger and resentment to even consider reconciliation.

In the end, you and Lucy went your separate ways, the bond between you shattered beyond repair. You were no longer sisters, no longer family—just two strangers who happened to share the same blood.

And as the years passed, the memories of what you had once been—of the closeness you had shared, the laughter, the love—faded into the background, overshadowed by the bitter reality of what you had become.

You continued to play, to chase after your dreams, but there was always a shadow lingering just out of reach. The rivalry with Lucy was over, but the emptiness remained, a constant reminder of the sister you had lost, and the fractured reflections of a relationship that would never be whole again.

[witheredgardenparty]

In Sets of Threes

Read on AO3 (AO3 Account)

Aventurine x g/n Reader

He thinks sometimes that he might be resentful. (or, the one where you are a little too kind.)

Warnings: yandere dynamics, soft yandere, Aventurine's backstory and use of real name, all of the warnings that come with his backstory (if you know, you know), we do not linger on it but it is there, gambling, suicidal ideology, stalking, unreliable narrator, attempted mind games, Reader is hurt (not by violence), implied past abuse against Reader (ambiguous situation), Reader might be manipulative but we cannot trust the narrator... but what if?!, 'came back wrong' trope except the death is metaphorical, L*igi G*lvani

Word Count: 3.4k

Kakavasha is born a single grain of sand. A sliver of chromium quartzite among infinite others. Small, but no less important in the grander design of the desert. A piece of a whole.

He is born into love.

A shattering tears hearth from home. A grain becomes a grit becomes an irritation. He struggles and struggles and struggles until time and effort wear him down into something shining. Into something with edges. Anything deemed unnecessary, dispensable, is whittled away. He is left a remnant of carved facets and mirrored surfaces. What remains is worth showing off. Worth selling.

Whoever he once was dies with a number and a brand. A single bet leaves a corpse’s mouth, and something else takes his place. Wrath drapes his skin like a coat. Spite props the skeleton upright. Grief keeps the blood pumping.

Aventurine wins the bet, of course. He always does. Blood stained rags make way for bespoke suits. Calloused hands are protected in ink dyed lamb leather. He adorns himself in gold bands and bright colors.

(With great irony, he covers himself in peacock feathers. He means it as a warning, as an omen, but the intent is lost on his marks entirely. They mistake it for opulence or charm. Anyone who would have remembered the significance is no longer watching.)

Observers call it ‘indulgence’, but he knows better. Only the nature of his chains have changed.

In games of chance, there is no tolerance for error. He learns to hide the tremor. He is trained to suppress the flinch. The ever growing familiarity of sneering faces is met with a radiant smile.

He hates that it becomes second nature to him.

He hates the rot he lets fester inside himself.

He hates the way you look at him even more.

...please continue on AO3. (Requires an Account)

[cece693]

Protect (Hannibal Lecter x Gender Neutral Reader)

Summary: You didn't care if people were against your relationship with Hannibal, calling you all names under the sun for managing to 'bewitch' one of Baltimore's highest socialites, but Hannibal was a different story.

tags: teaching a lesson, Hannibal really just wants to protect you, murder (duh)

"Hannibal, please tell me you didn't kill him." You whined, looking at your lover, who couldn't even bother to feign confusion, simply letting one of those small, knowing smiles grace his face.

You turned back to TattleCrime, reading all about the mysterious disappearance of Alan Wright, one of Baltimore's more notable socialites. Theories of who could've done it, along with useless testimonies from people who 'loved' him and wanted him back, filled the page. With a frustrated sigh, you closed the laptop and stood up from the couch.

"We talked about hunting too close to home. What if they trace it back to you?"

"They won't." Hannibal reassured, his voice laced with a smugness that you couldn’t help but resent. If you were a normal person, the knowledge that you were sleeping with a cannibalistic serial killer would have sent you running for the hills, but you weren’t sane.

Hannibal's ideology, while disturbing, was understandable, honorable even. Rudeness was intolerable (something you wholeheartedly agreed with), but you could overlook it under special circumstances—this moment constitutes as one.

"Hannibal, you can't kill every person who speaks unfavorably of me. That would draw even more unwanted attention from the police and FBI."

Hannibal’s jaw clenched, a clear signal that your words had struck a nerve. He knew you were right—lately, Will and Jack had begun to suspect him, their eyes narrowing in on the smallest inconsistencies. There was no need to get sloppy and provide them with the evidence they so desperately sought.

"Alan Wright wasn’t just unfavorable." he began, his tone measured and calm. "He was a vile creature, filled with envy and spite. He demeaned you, reduced you to nothing more than a trophy, a shallow figure climbing the social ladder." His words were sharp, each one cutting deeper as he continued. "He dared to belittle what we share, to trivialize it. How could I stand idly by while he poisoned others with his malicious lies?"

"Lies." you interjected, your voice firm but calm. "You said it yourself—baseless assumptions that hold no power."

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tightening again as he processed your words. "Perhaps they were lies." he conceded, though his tone suggested he was far from convinced. "But lies, when spoken by someone with influence, can become a dangerous truth in the minds of others. Alan had a way of manipulating those around him, of planting seeds of doubt and suspicion."

You could see the frustration building in him, the way his control was slipping with each passing moment. "But those seeds would have withered without attention." you pressed, trying to make him see your reasoning.

"They didn’t deserve your time, your energy, or your wrath. It shouldn't matter what others think of us. That would be pedestrian, don't you agree?" You knew it was petty, but Hannibal had to understand the irrationality behind his actions.

"Pedestrian." He echoed, the word seeming to weigh heavily on his tongue. "Perhaps so. But it is not merely about the opinions of others. It’s about the principle of the matter, and the respect I feel you deserve."

Hannibal’s gaze softened, but the intensity in his eyes remained. "You underestimate how far I’m willing to go to protect you, to protect us." he murmured, his voice low and almost tender, though a dangerous edge lingered beneath. "Alan Wright wasn’t just a man spreading lies—he was a threat, one that I could not allow to fester."

You sighed, your frustration growing as you saw no change in Hannibal's mind. "But at what cost? You can’t kill every person who sees us differently, who doesn’t understand what we have. It’s not sustainable, and it’s not worth the risk."

Hannibal’s expression hardened, the control he’d been holding onto slipping further. "I won’t let anyone take you from me." he said, his voice rising, the calm facade beginning to crumble. "Not Alan Wright, not anyone. They will not diminish what we share, what we could become. I will protect you from all threats, no matter how small or insignificant they may seem to you."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his conviction. You could feel the storm building inside him, the way his emotions were beginning to spiral out of control. But even as he unraveled, you couldn’t help but feel a deep, conflicted pull toward him—a mix of fear, admiration, and something else you couldn’t quite name.

"Hannibal." you said softly, stepping closer to him, trying to bring him back. "I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But we need to be smart about this. We can’t let emotions drive us to do something we’ll regret."

For a moment, Hannibal didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if lost in his own thoughts. But then, slowly, he seemed to regain control, his breathing steadying, the wildness in his eyes dimming. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the tension in his body eased.

"You’re right." he finally said, though the words seemed to come with difficulty. "We must be careful. But never doubt my commitment to us, to you. I will protect what we have with everything I am."

[haladriel]

Devourer of Light: How did Sauron regain his power in the Second Age?

So @cassey-fitzcassey and I have been doing some musing.

Since the end of the first season of Rings of Power, we’ve known that Sauron has been hiding under the guise of human Halbrand. 

Since the beginning of the second, we’ve known this isn’t by choice: that Sauron slid straight from powerful would-be ruler to powerless goop, festering in darkness before absorbing his way up the food chain, the passing of an unfortunate rat the true catalyst in this story.

‘Sauron lives because of you!'

When Sauron finally hijacks a body with functional hands, face and legs, the relief on his stolen face is clear. He is free from his squid ink spaghetti prison. And, for better or for worse, from his former life.

But Sauron has been debased: a great Maia, heir to Morgoth, forced into the body of a mortal man? Oof. If he had the power to do so, I have no doubt he would have changed his shape immediately, from the humiliation alone. 

But he doesn’t. Which means he can’t. 

When we see him having to warm his pitiful human body in the Northern Waste, he is dispirited. Resentful of his debasement. Rueing his sworn enemy who he’s had hundreds of years to bitterly, goopily hate.

When he meets the Southlanders, they’re heading away from the orcs: chances are he’s on his way to encounter Adar.

To what end, we don’t know. I’m not sure he does either. He’s almost visibly single-minded on this task, using the trail of humans as a wayfinder. When the Southlander with the sigil shares his wisdom, Sauron is surprised to be approached. He is apathetic towards the conversation, but his curiosity — or opportunism — is piqued enough to turn, and follow. Sauron’s opportunity weather-vane in action.

When the sea-wyrm (hi Ossë) attacks the Southlanders’ ship, once again, we do not see Sauron shapeshift into something more useful. Implication, he still can’t. Or, he’s committed to giving this good human life thing a go. Coin toss, but let's be honest, in such a situation, with no one watching me, I'd probably scrap that plan and disappear stealthily into the depths.

So when does Sauron regain enough power to do all of his usual shapeshifting and other demigodly shenanigans?

Well, by the second season, Sauron is able to put on The Jesus Show™ for Celebrimbor.

At this stage, he can do pretty light displays, give himself a booming voice, change his clothing and physical appearance (to an extent; presumably a vampiric bat is still beyond him) and perhaps (as some have suggested) even control the weather to make Brimby feel bad for him. So when did he regain power? And more importantly, how? 

Theory #0 Horror movie Sauron

It’s true that we have seen Sauron regain shape and form by devouring other beings.

But, presumably, this isn’t how he continues to regain his former strength, which continues to grow throughout Season 1 and into Season 2 — otherwise Rings of Power is at risk of becoming something a lot more sinister than it already is.

This gruesome mechanism seems more of a primitive way for a discorporated Maia to regain a physical form, not to reclaim all that Maia energy that burst from his body — something akin to morsels versus the feast, or long-term nourishment. All in all, while this might be how Sauron starts the process of regaining his strength, it feels unlikely it's how he continues, as any power from everyday creatures and humans simply wouldn’t be enough to restore him to his former self. But the possibility’s still, technically, on the table.

Given this is a high fantasy show, and (mostly) not a cosmic horror one… at this point, it’s worth consulting the source texts. What do we already know from Tolkien about Light and power in Aman and Middle-earth?

Elrond's Lore Interlude: Light and Darkness as interchangeable power sources

Anyone who’s read The Silmarillion remember Ungoliant, ancestor to Shelob? When telling her story in The Silmarillion, Tolkien has some interesting things to say about Light and Darkness: 

There … the shadows were deepest and thickest in the world … secret and unknown, Ungoliant had made her abode … She had crept towards the light of the Blessed Realm; for she hungered for light and hated it.  In a ravine she lived, and took shape as a spider of monstrous form, weaving her black webs in a cleft of the mountains. There she sucked up all light that she could find, and spun it forth again in dark nets of strangling gloom, until no light more could come to her abode; and she was famished. A cloak of darkness she wove about them when Melkor and Ungoliant set forth: an Unlight, in which things seemed to be no more, and which eyes could not pierce, for it was void. — J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 'Of the Darkening of Valinor'

In brief summary of What Goes Down, Morgoth promises Ungoliant all her desires in exchange for her service, and they temporarily ally to launch an attack on the Two Trees Laurelin and Telperion...

...causing the Darkening of Valinor:

…when both Trees were shining, and the silent city of Valmar was filled with a radiance of silver and gold … in that very hour Melkor and Ungoliant came hastening over the fields of Valinor, as the shadow of a black cloud upon the wind fleets over the sunlit earth… Then the Unlight of Ungoliant rose up even to the roots of the Trees, and Melkor sprang upon the mound; and with his black spear he smote each Tree to its core, wounded them deep, and their sap poured forth as it were their blood, and was spilled upon the ground. But Ungoliant sucked it up, and going then from Tree to Tree she set her black beak to their wounds, till they were drained … And still she thirsted, and going to the Wells of Varda she drank them dry; but Ungoliant belched forth black vapours as she drank, and swelled to a shape so vast and hideous that Melkor was afraid. So the great darkness fell upon Valinor.

Why is this relevant? Ungoliant shows that Light can be converted into Unlight, or Darkness. (Side note: Anyone read the Stormlight Archive by Brandon Sanderson? Yeah. That’s where he got it from.) Tolkien makes this relationship even more explicit in the next paragraph:

The Light failed; but the Darkness that followed was more than loss of light. In that hour was made a Darkness that seemed not lack but a thing with being of its own: for it was indeed made by malice out of Light, and it had power to pierce the eye, and to enter heart and mind, and strangle the very will.

And, importantly, Ungoliant grows more powerful by consuming Light.

So, back to Sauron. How might he regain his lost power?

Sauron, Devourer of Light

If Ungoliant’s example is anything to go by, it could be: simply, from encountering things that have Light in them. And devouring it. But what things, and when?

Theory #1 From the Mithril

So, @cassey-fitzcassey had the idea that Sauron might have regained his power when he touched the Mithril during the making of the rings.

Timeline-wise, this is certainly possible, as Sauron does not demonstrate any significant unseen-worldly powers until after meeting Celebrimbor (The Raft: Reprise). But given Sauron wants the rings to be as powerful as possible, there was only a small amount of Mithril available to he and Celebrimbor to work with (hence why it must be magnified using the ring shape), it’s less plausible he would take too much Light power from the Mithril, lest he weaken the end result. Still, however, a possibility.

Theory #2  From Middle-earth, including Lindon's tree

In his time spent as human Halbrand, as part of ‘the residue of evil’ that Morgoth had left behind, Sauron could have been slowly siphoning power off the land and its peoples.

At the beginning of the events in the Rings of Power, the whole of Middle-earth is at peace — the Light of the Eldar is the Light of Valinor, responsible for sustaining their immortality — and it follows that there would be Light both metaphorically and, in the Tolkien universe, literally saturating the lands and its people.

But that light is fading, and there is a blight upon the Great Tree of Lindon.

Darkness is seen elsewhere in Middle-earth, too. In the first scenes in the Southlands, Arondir examines a cow oozing black goop; she has been grazing in lands where there is Darkness, triggered — or, if Sauron himself spent this whole time quietly radiating Darkness from under his icy fortress, exacerbated — by the presence of the orcs.

The implication made clear here is that Light and Darkness can exist inside beings, and that the levels can vary. But, like trying to drink from a trickling creek, Sauron supping Light in this way enough to regain his former powers couldn’t happen quickly. So, given he shows no signs of using those powers in the Prologue, why the apparent acceleration after the shipwreck?

Theory #3  From the Lady of Light herself

You can see where this is going.

Galadriel is the Lady of Light, and lore goes the gold of her hair ‘was touched by some memory of the starlike silver of her mother, and the Eldar said that the light of the Two Trees had been snared in her tresses' (Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn'). 

In Tolkien’s world, where Light can be a source of power for a creature of Darkness to grow stronger, the Light in Galadriel is unlikely merely metaphorical.

The Eldar contain the Light of Valinor and bring this Light to Middle-earth: Galadriel, as one of those who basked in the Light of the Two Trees themselves, will contain more than most.

So when Sauron encounters her, with all her irresistible Light, he’s discovered a deep well of convertible power. Even a bit of her Light might have sped up the process. And, well, while she’s busy touching the darkness, she’s not going to notice a bit of it going missing, is she?

Bonus Theory: Reverse conversion

This has little bearing on where Sauron regains his power from, but as a thought: does Light replace Unlight, or Darkness? Or can it be internally converted?

As his discorporated form shows, Sauron is — spiritually speaking — made of Darkness. He is black ooze personified. Or Maia-ified. Maybe, just maybe, in a world where Light and Dark aren’t only metaphors for morality, Galadriel and Sauron spark a conversion reaction inside one another. Their internal battles become metachemical, with a little of Galadriel’s Light turning to Darkness, and Sauron’s Darkness… turning to Light. 

That may be stretching the bounds a little. But, either way, Sauron lives and regains his power because of Galadriel. And the rat.  ________________________________

Disclaimer: I haven’t read all of Tolkien’s legendarium yet. He wrote a lot of stuff. If there’s anything that’s been missed, I’d love to hear about it.

[sexyandcringe]

Hopeless romantic

Part 1 ◇ Part 2 ◇ Part 3

Warnings: reader drinking (nothing serious though), mention of sexism by reader's parents.

Content: osamu x reader, Angst (to fluff in the next chapters), hurt/comfort

A/n: Guess the Song of Achilles reference! :)

It has been around three weeks since you last saw Osamu that day: you took your chance to scurry away when he went back into the kitchen briefly, leaving your payment to Tsumoto.

The memory of his embrace with another woman still lingered in your mind, but you were able to distract yourself with the hundreds of books on your shelf and the dogs in the shelter.

You took this time to explore other places in the city, from the cozy Indian restaurant near your workplace, where the taste of salty chapati mixed with matar paneer melted in your mouth like butter, to the Mexican fast food spot at the corner of the library, where you savoured the taste of chiles en nogada followed by elotes. Yet,  nothing compared to Osamu’s handmade onigiris, the taste of his love surpassed any food you’ve ever tried.

You don’t believe he didn’t notice your absence, but it wouldn’t bother him that much, you assume, since you’re nothing more than a friendly regular. 

Or at least, you used to be a regular.

Now you are just a girl who spends her days between work and shelter,  occasionally going out to drink with the few friends you have. You know it’s wrong to use alcohol to dull the suffering, but sometimes it’s the only way to remind yourself that life still holds meaning, and that happiness, however fleeting, can be found.

But not going to Osamu’s restaurant has its consequences, like going to the grocery store to buy all the necessities to make a healthy meal and right now you are not exactly having fun doing all this.

When you were a child, your mother always told you to learn how to cook and clean because “someday you’ll have to do it for your future husband”, so, as an act of rebellion, you refused to learn anything other than the most basic dishes of your culture; this act of rebellion ended up biting your ass now because you are tired of eating the same basic things over and over again and you miss Osamu’s food.

You wander through the aisles, searching for the ingredients of the recipe you want to try.

it has been at least half an hour now and you’re meticulously selecting each item, trying to get the correct amount of food. You always tend to buy more than necessary, which ends up with you never using that specific product again and making it go to waste—like the honey syrup you bought for your pre-made pancakes that now sits untouched. You don’t even have time to eat breakfast most of the time. 

You are trying to understand which vegetables are less decayed than others when someone approaches you slowly. 

“That one will go bad in like 2 days.” 

You startle at first, but you freeze completely the second you meet his eyes.

“Hey.” he smiles.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god, please why did he have to come here out of all the grocery stores in the city?

You tried to forget about him like an unwanted pest, avoiding all the places he could be at, you even chose a longer path home so you wouldn’t bump into him while he closed the restaurant. You are old and tired and so is your heart, it can scarcely bear the burden of yet another heartbreak.

You drew in a slow, steadying breath before replying.

“Hi Osamu, long time no see.” you try your best to beam at him, like nothing has touched you, like you don’t want to run away this instant, like you don’t want to scream at him and hurl all these vegetables at him because you hate him for shattering the last remnants of hope you had left in you.

Like you don’t love him at all.

You tend to buy more than necessary, just like you tend to let your feelings grow more than necessary, and then, then they stay there, growing and decaying at the same time, festering with pests and resentment.

“Yeah, because someone hasn’t been coming to my restaurant lately.” He remarked with a petty edge to his voice.

Well, you jumped into that one.

A nervous laugh leaves your lips, “I was just … busy. We got a few more dogs in the shelter and it’s been a little hectic.” your voice is barely a whisper, laden with the weight of your lies.

Coward, liar, ugly.

He nods in quiet understanding, picking a zucchini with a pristine surface, a stark contrast to your rotten life. “Take this one. What’re ya making?.”

You take the vegetable from his hands and place it in your bag, his kindness pressing against the walls you've erected around your fragile heart “I don’t know,” you sigh, “I'm trying to make some vegetarian lasagna, but I already know it's going to suck. I’m a terrible cook.”

“You can always learn, you know.” he counters, a playful smirk gracing his lips “I wasn’t born with a knife in my hand.”

You roll your eyes, pushing your cart forward. “I’m lazy. And I don’t have anyone to teach me in a fun way.”

“I could teach you. Although I'm not sure if I can do it ‘in a fun way’” he signs with his fingers, “you won't die of boredom, I guess?”

“I’m always having fun with you, Osamu.”  And it’s true.

“That’s crazy considering that you haven’t come to meet me in three weeks.”

“Oh god, you’re so petty!” 

“Hell yeah, I am!”

You stare at each other before bursting into loud giggles; his eyes crinkle as he looks at you and you try so hard to ignore the warmth of your cheeks.

(and the warmth in your chest).

You are not used to being loved but you are used to love, and you can’t help wanting to stay around those you love, can’t ignore the tugs of your heartstrings. You know it will only end up in heartache and you are already regretting what’s coming out of your mouth, but you can’t stop it.

“Well? Will you teach me then?”

He smiles, and his face is like the sun.

Reblogs are really appreciated!

Tag: @lees-chaotic-brain

[calliopefiction]

Misplaced

Misplaced is a fantasy romance IF wherein your choices not only determine your own fate, but that of an entire kingdom. Let me take you on an adventure filled with both whimsy and tragedy alike.

The current public demo goes up to the end of Chapter 8.

The demo on Patreon goes up to the end of Chapter 9.

The Story:

For decades, the human kingdom of Gaiapeia has been in conflict with the fae living in the surrounding lands. There's no end in sight - in fact, an outright war seems more likely with each passing day.

You are the child of Lady and Sir Grahm, a noble family who has been serving the crown for generations. Eager to follow in your father's footsteps, you have been training for years to become a knight worthy of being Prince Az'Lean's Champion - his right hand, his closest confidant, the one who protects his life from the growing danger of the fae.

When the time finally comes and you are chosen for the position, it's a dream come true. You couldn't be happier, but just one day later on your 21st birthday, a terrible truth is revealed to you.

You are a changeling - a fae child that was smuggled into a human family with only one purpose: to gain the prince's trust and use it against him.

A war between humans and fae is slowly but surely brewing, and the outcome depends entirely on your choices. 

Will you choose a side or try to make peace? 

Will you embrace what you are or reject it? 

And who will you let in on your secret?

Features:

Customize the appearance of your MC, play as non-binary, female, or male and romance whoever you like however you like, including the option of asexual or queer-platonic relationships.

Enjoy the story without having to worry about stats - you will be a competent knight no matter what. There is no failure or success, only different choices and their outcomes.

Shape your personality, and your trustworthiness, with your actions. How other characters feel about you will change depending on how they perceive you.

Pick a side early on, play the long con, or refuse to make a choice at all. There are multiple split paths that will feature the same romancable characters - but their relationship to you might vary greatly (including villain romances).

Romance:

Vynn (nb): A fellow knight and your best friend

Unlike you, Vynn isn't a knight by choice and doesn't care much for fighting. They'd much rather be a bard if they could, seeing as they love playing the lute, spinning epic tales, and generally being a source of levity. They are fiercely loyal and good-natured, though there is that bit of resentment that will never quite leave their heart.

Az'Lean (m): The prince and the one you are sworn to protect

At a glance, Az'Lean is the very picture of a fairytale prince: charming, chivalrous, and powerful. He is an excellent fighter, loves animals, and prefers to be treated like an equal. Anyone who cares to look will soon notice the darkness lurking beneath that shining exterior, festering ever since the death of his mother.

Maeve (f): A powerful dryad and your teacher on the ways of the fae

Maeve is usually playful and soft, though she can get eerily intense at times. As much as she cares about decorum and courtly things, she finds joy in the simplest pleasures and easily turns into a giggly mess. For all her humour, you can never quite tell if she is being serious. Sometimes it feels like she's just playing with you.

Thianne (f): A sorceress and one of Az'Lean's most trusted advisors

Thianne is intelligent and hard-working, though sometimes at the expense of her own well-being. Although she comes across as abrasive and rude, she is always willing to help those who need it. Her dry sense of humour and brutal honesty have endeared her to just as many people as they have made her enemies.

Lester (m): A half-fae and servant in the castle

As with most half-fae, Lester's presence isn't entirely welcome, and his reasons for being here seem deeper than he lets on. Lester is known for his mischief and his crude humour, often pulling pranks that border on malicious. Despite the way he presents himself as laid-back and uncaring, it's clear that there's a lot he isn't opening up about.

Warnings:

This story contains potentially triggering content. There will be graphic depictions of violence, death, discrimination, body-image issues, mental illness (including panic attacks, suicidal thoughts and paranoia), discussions of genocide, war, and terminal illness. 

Discretion is advised. More warnings might be added at a later date.

Support:

Thank you so much for showing any interest in this project at all! If you would like to receive biweekly update posts, participate in polls, and get access to bonus short stories, consider supporting me on Patreon.

[planetsano]

☆ 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 : you don’t want god to be the man in your life.

☆ 𝗯𝗲𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗲 : heavy sacrilegious themes, feelings of resentment towards religion, reader is a nun, hiormi is a high preist, vaginal sex but in second person, blood mention, rosary, crosses, prayer, power imbalance dynamics, cream pie, addiction mentioned.

☆ 𝗮𝗿𝘁 : fckmanji on x.

The rosary clenched around your clammy, little dainty hand was with such intensity that it dug into the skin almost drawing blood. The beads press into your flesh, leaving indentations as if the act of prayer itself is etched into the very fibers of the hand. With every subtle twist and turn, the your veil gradually begins to slide off your head exposing a glimpse of your tresses.

He hopes you know— he hopes you know that your breathless, almost incoherent prayers aren’t getting you any closer to the God you believe you’re praying to. Your efforts only serve to further the intensity that Higuruma’s cock rams into you. The sounds to him are profound; squelching and wet skin paired with almost muted clap of the impact every time his hips snap into you.

As far as Hiromi is concerned, the only God that you need is him and you’ll worship him for the rest of your life— he knows it because he’s the center of your world. He’s all you know. So when you lay beneath him praying to a “god” he’s long since stopped believing in, Higuruma knows that in your heart, you’re praying to him. For him to stay with you— to breathe life into you and the experience thrill of participating in something so sinful, degenerate and taboo.

You weren’t alive before him and you’re well aware of that. You devoted your entire existence to God when you gave him your vows— its what you learned growing up from family. They told you that it was the right path; that this would fulfill you and be your purpose in life, you’ll be happy and complete, but you’ve never been more.. miserable in your life. A symbolized devotion now felt like a suffocating shroud that consumed you. Each day became a struggle with the weight of a duty that contrasted sharply against the desire for a different life.

Resentment brewed within you, a gradual emotional upheaval fueled by the clash between your own desires and the demands of the Church. Each prayer became a reminder of your sacrifice, and every obedient act to please your sisters deepened the bitterness. The once accepted vows you were so set on making now provoked a simmering anger— rage. A resentment that festers beneath the surface like an evil, fueled by an unfulfilled longing for a life untethered from the confines of the convent.

Still, you were ashamed. You cloaked yourself in a facade of happiness, concealing the shame and guilt that lived within you. You feared judgment from both your fellow sisters, the Church and the divine, wearing a mask of contentment and suppressing your true emotions.

But Hiromi never made you feel that way. He made you feel good, seen, heard. He made you feel warmth and light in a dark pit of despair.

You often asked yourself if this is what love was or at the very least what it felt like. You asked Hiromi one day and his answer didn’t help much— “…Who’s to say what love feels like? It’s different for everyone.. It’s like an addiction, maybe— a craving that consumes us in ways we can’t always understand or explain.” You asked him if he’d ever been in love and you were only met with a gentle hand cupping your soft face upwards to meet his gaze and he responded with: “Something like that. Let’s get back before they all start to worry.”

An addiction was a resounding way to put it because that’s what you feel for him. You feel like an addict who needs their next dose or something will snap. You’re consciously aware that it’s bad— the relationship is wrong. He’s a drug that you have to put down but it’s the high that keeps coming back. You can’t recall how many times you’ve called him whether in tears or anger about his whereabouts and that you feel like you’re going crazy without him, relentlessly chewing at your nails and lips to hear any kind of reassurance.

You’re aware of what they say about addiction, that after so long you end trying to chase what it felt like for the very first time but it ends to no prevail. That it’s like chasing a ghost from the past, hoping to recapture something that becomes more elusive with each attempt. It’s only a vicious cycle of hurt and pain but you don’t feel that when you’re with him and in his presence. Hiromi knows he’s well on his way of creating a monster but there’s a part of him that feels a satisfaction unlike no other. Hiromi knows that he very well could be on his way of creating a monster, but there’s a part of him that feels a satisfaction unlike no other.

None of it matters because he feels like a cure. A cure to both for yourself and for him. He feels like the burden of pretending is finally dispelling, like there is hope at the end of a seemingly never ending tunnel. He sees the same light that you see when you look at him. But he wasn’t sure if it was love or his own sick and perverted fantasies.

“Yeah.. Say my name, please..” A low, guttural groan escapes Higuruma’s lips, a visceral sound of pleasure resonating between the bodies of you both. It carries the weight of a raw expression— the sensations engulfing him in that moment. He’s long shed any pride, unashamedly sinking into the depths of desire— a pussy too tight for its own good is the closest he’ll get to any divine. Begging is not beneath him; in fact, it’s a familiar plea woven into the fabric of his existence. The allure of depravity has become a comfortable companion with him. He revels in the depravity and perversion, finding a dark satisfaction in the forbidden. Each twisted indulgence becomes a source of pleasure and you were his main fix these days.

“Mhn—!” A strangled moan left your lips, your plump lips glossy with your saliva as your tits continuously bounced with every thrust. They had long since been exposed, a lacy under-bust bodice decorating you so perfectly. Your hands were clasped together still, rosary still in hand but any prayer of beg of forgiveness is lost on you. The coolness from the small metal cross that touches your skin almost burns and is an alarming reminder that He’s watching. “Christ..!”

“Close.. you’re so close..” A shaky breath leaves him and his brows furrow— he’s right on the edge and just needs a push. He just needs to hear you say it. Say it like it’s sacred word so he can replay it over and over again. He’ll do it until it feels too distant like a memory— until he comes back to you seeking the same solace in your cunt. “But that’s not my name. Is it..?”

“H—Hiro..mi! Oh my God.. I’m—” It couldn’t be helped anymore. Your walls wrapped around his shaft in rhythmic patterns, your own juices coming to form a white almost frothy ring around the base of his cock. You started to shake from the pleasure, your body’s involuntary response to it all. “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me..” Oh, but even you’re aware that he’s long since given up on you. The elation and euphoria plastered on your face in such a perverse expression was depraved— it was blasphemous in the sense that he’s aware of how free you felt acting on your own selfish needs and giving into the temptation that is lust.

The act of asking for forgiveness right now is disrespectful and almost disturbing. Hiromi can see that you’re deeply troubled and displaced in this life and it comforts him in the oddest way because he doesn’t feel alone anymore. He has someone to share this burden with. Although, he does wish that you would be honest with yourself in his presence. He wonders if asking for forgiveness for you was similar to him swatting something like a gnat that comes into his face: second nature. A reaction that’s seems to be ingrained into the human response and the mind. You both knew that you had been conditioned under the pretense of believing that this route in life was the right thing to do.

Higuruma fills you up to the brim, a risky choice considering the lack of condom but neither of you cared. His hips sputter and slip until he gives you one final thrust, his pelvis pressing firmly against you as he pumps you full of his seed. His hands hold the back of your knees, pinning you into a fold that makes you feel like your muscles are tight. He’s heavy and you almost can’t breathe but it felt good— it felt so good feeling him cum inside you because it felt like he was giving you everything he had. Every piece of him.

“He can’t hear you right now, only speak to me.” His forehead rests against yours, eyes locked in an intimate stare. You look at him with such wonder like a country soul looking at city lights and skyscrapers for the first time at night.

“You’re bleeding..” He states softly, taking note of your hand. You somehow managed to pop the wire of your rosary and the wire itself seemed to work its way into your palm.

“Hiromi..” You called for him softly, watching him take your hand and gently kiss your wound— small rivulets of blood sticking to his lips. “Am I the devil..?”

“No,” Higuruma brings your hand to his face to cup his cheek, eyes heavily lidded as he looks down at you. “You’re human.”

“Let’s run away.. the both of us.”

“In time.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hiii I know you’ve talked about Lilia and Silver’s relationship before but how about Lilia and Malleus’s? He’s one of Lilia’s “sons” too, the first! I’d like to hear how you see their father-son relationship.

cbjsbsjwjskdn So strange!! I feel like I haven’t really talked much about Lilia and Malleus’s father-son relationship even though I’m such a sucker for family-related drama… Well, now is as good of a time as any!

***Please note: there are spoilers for 7-68+ in the main story; if you are comfortable with late book 7 spoilers, then please proceed with reading below the cut!***

Book 7 has made it pretty evident that Malleus thinks the world of Lilia and is willing to go to great lengths to protect him. Their bond is something that has been alluded to many times over prior to this point though!

Malleus has mentioned that Lilia trained him when he was younger. He did have formal tutors, but it was Lilia who instilled survival skills in him and taught him lessons unable to be learned through just a textbook. We get to observe one such scene via a flashback, which shows the aftermath of one of Malleus’s fits. The castle and various staff members were encased in ice, and along comes Lilia to fix things. He offers Malleus a bowl of shaved ice and invites him to eat with everyone (as the cause for his anger in the first place had been that his grandmother was busy with her duties and could no longer make time to each with him as promised). Lilia reminds Malleus that someone like him has great powers, so he has to wield it responsibly—otherwise he could have lost many of the people he is now sharing this snack with. (This is a very valid lesson since Malleus was capable of magic—and thus harming others—right out of the eggshell; he once singed Lilia’s hair with his flames.)

Malleus reports that Lilia has cut his hair for him (despite Malleus probably being able to go to a formal expert or the court’s hairdresser). Lilia has also sung to him at night and even taught Malleus how to play instruments.

It’s not clear to what extent Lilia was involved in his liege’s life, because even though he is established as a caretaker to Malleus, it was also revealed that Lilia was apparently banished from the capital city so they’d have to arrange to meet elsewhere. It’s known that Malleus would sometimes visit Lilia and baby Silver in their forest cottage, but again the frequency of these visits is unknown (Did he, like his headstrong mother, sneak out against the wishes of the senators?) I’d imagine that Malleus is kept fairly busy with studies to prepare him to ascend to the throne, but from the way Lilia describes raising Malleus, it sounds like he was with him quite frequently: “I always know exactly where he is. After all, I have been watching him since he was brushing eggshell off of his head.”

To this day, Lilia serves a similar guiding role, often acting as the facilitator between Malleus and his peers, as well as continuing to be a mentor to him. Malleus maintains his standoffish and difficult to approach aura at NRC, so it is Lilia who encourages him to engage with his peers. He delivers a holiday card to Malleus’s new friend who has taken up residence in Ramshackle. He invites Malleus as his plus one to Silk City in A Firelit Sky, wishing for him to see more of the world—even when disaster strikes and Lilia cannot accompany him. He extols the virtues of understanding and bonding with other races both in the main story (book 6) and in vignettes (Malleus’s Dorm Uniform). He gives Malleus a formal invitation to his farewell party (like, envelope and all!), because he knows just how much that would mean to him. Lilia has seen how a country looks when it has been ravaged by war and hate. He knows how a heart can grow bitter and resentful if left to fester in isolation. So he works his ass off to try and ensure that Malleus, the future of his country, can lead it to an era of peace and love that Lilia only got to experience with the passage of time. It could also be said that Lilia places a big emphasis on Malleus as their “future” since Lilia already suffered the loss of two close friends, Malleus’s parents.

Lilia seems to think of Malleus as a capable leader and one of great character, though perhaps marked with inexperience and a lack of worldly knowledge (which is why he pushes for Malleus to go out of his comfort zone). Most notably, he tells Leona in book 2: “[… ] with that sensitive ego of yours? That so quickly directs all your petty anger at your retainers... Well, the idea of you ever contending with a REAL king like our Malleus—is absolutely laughable. Even if you COULD defeat Malleus, so long as that's how you choose to conduct yourself? You would never be fit to rule!”

At times, Lilia has the habit of treating Malleus like a child. Something he does a lot is reassure his prince that it is okay to feel a certain way (usually frustrated or angry) and that Malleus is not capable of hiding the truth from his keen eyes. Lilia usually encourages Malleus to be more honest with his emotions and to take the chance to act like the child he is and enjoy his school life. Malleus tends to not take to the former very well, reminding Lilia that he is not a child and that he understands the circumstances. Despite these claims, he to hold Lilia in high regard and trusts him a great deal. Lilia currently occupies his vice dorm leader seat, which is implied to be handpicked by the dorm leader. Furthermore, Malleus trusts Lilia to fulfill the dorm leader duties that he is not capable of or able to, as we see Lilia attending dorm leader meetings and leading the Diasomnia freshmen during orientation.

Lilia is a more lax than Sebek and Silver when it comes to monitoring Malleus. He is of the belief that their prince needs his own independence and to experience life without people constantly breathing down his neck. Malleus, as we know, enjoys solitude like his midnight strolls throughout campus. In Leona’s Union Jacket vignettes, he also discusses the freedom of going out in public without an encourage accompanying him. Lilia is able to easily read and understand Malleus’s feelings in this regard (though he is good at reading all of the Diasomnia boys).

Malleus still cherishes the virtual pet that Lilia gifted him years ago. He takes care of it diligently, even though he is constantly faced with the cycle of Gao-Gao Dragon-kun/Roaring Draco growing up and leaving the nest. According to Malleus’s Labwear vignettes, he considers the virtual pet one of his most important treasures.

The two are able to pal around with each other despite holding the other in such high regard. When Malleus and Lilia are placed on opposite teams for Beans Day, they find fun in roughhousing and relish in the challenge (not really paying attention to the fact that their sheer power and speed is on a whole different level than that of the other students). They also served as co-conspirators in Endless Halloween Night, something which upset the other students and they both apologized for. Mischief isn’t entirely off the plate for this duo!

Malleus grew up without his parents (and his grandmother often kept away by her royal duties), so it’s possible that he latched onto Lilia as a parental figure. He is shown to be protective of Lilia both in vignettes and in the main story. For example, in Lilia’s PE Uniform vignette, Rook is chatting with Lilia and indicates that he is interested in Lilia as his hunting quarry—but Malleus throws the ball meant for long throwing at Rook, just narrowly missing his nose. “Perhaps he suspected that you were picking on little old me,” Lilia suggests. However, the example I’m sure we’re all familiar with of Malleus being protective of Lilia is book 7… when he decides it would be better you force everyone to have happy dreams instead of accepting a reality that changes and forces you to say good-bye to your loved ones. Malleus explicitly states that he is taking these actions so he “doesn’t lose [Lilia]”. Indeed, it is Lilia deciding to drop out of NRC and retire to the Land of Crimson Long that was the impetus for Malleus’s blot to kick into overdrive. When Lilia “wakes” from the dream, Malleus is eager to keep him in it. He offers to come up with a new dream, desperate and intent on keeping Lilia trapped there.

Malleus holds a lot of weight for Lilia too. When Lilia is pulled into a dream world fastened by Malleus’s magic to guarantee a “happy ending”, Lilia dreams of… an era of war? At first, Silver and co. find this to be strange because war isn’t something you tend to associate with happiness. It’s not until far later that Silver realizes what the real “happiest moment in [his father’s] life” is: the moment of Malleus finally hatching from his egg. Previously, Malleus had been very picky and rejecting the magic offered to him by others, even his own grandmother. This led to a dire situation where he was at risk of dying in his shell, as a dragon’s egg needs infusions of love and magic in order to be viable. In offering up much of himself—including a chunk of his own lifespan—Lilia helped Malleus hatch. To Lilia, this was his happiest—not because he “loves” Malleus more than Silver, but because Malleus hatching as a result of Lilia’s magic is affirming to Lilia that he is capable of parental love. This was a concern he communicated to Meleanor before she parted from this world, that he wasn’t sure he could look after Malleus in her stead because he’s an orphan and has never experienced what it is like to be loved… so he can’t have the capacity to love either. Meleanor reassures him though! If Lilia can love her and Raverne, then surely he can also bring himself to love their child. All these years, Lilia has never thought himself capable of “true love”—not even when he finds an infant Silver later, abandoned in a briar covered castle. But in that moment, when Malleus hatched, a miracle happened, and that miracle was the result of Lilia’s love.

This brings me to one final point about Lilia and Malleus’s relationship: how self-sacrificial Lilia is. Lilia hides a LOT of information from his loved ones, including Silver and Sebek, and instead chooses to accept the emotional burden of knowing himself. He does it with good intention, not wanting his children to be hurt by the scars of the past, but in a way that closes the boys off from fully understanding where they come from and Lilia’s own emotions. This is behavior that continues into present day, including Lilia being in a rush to leave to spare his boys the pain of a prolonged farewell. (I talk more about this aspect of Lilia’s character here, so I would advise reading that if you are interested in this topic.)

To conclude, Malleus and Lilia both highly respect and care for one another. Their bond is a strong one, and that’s perhaps why Malleus is so determined to cling to it—Lilia is one of the few intimate and meaningful connections he has.

[soapoet]

How do they express jealousy?

requested by anon.

like & rb if it resonates ♡

01.

Shufflemancy: Gives you hell by All-American rejects

You might not expect this person to be as vulnerable and sensitive as they are. They appear very sure of themselves, may even have quite an intimidating presence, and don't let their emotions show externally. Until they are behind closed doors with their trusted allies, that is. When it is safe for them to break, they collapse. Jealousy is a feeling they are well acquainted with, and theirs is a battle between life and death. They hold trust and loyalty in high regard, and any slight against it done on purpose is met with an instantaneous crumbling of the tower where they keep and guard their beloved. They grow suspicious and anxious, and can delude themselves in finding enemies everywhere.

They grow resentful and begin a horrid cycle festering resentment and desperation to not lose their partner. They love you, they hate you, they deserve better, they deserve to suffer. And so it goes, round and round, and the wound is one only time can heal, but the scar will mark them forever. They can forgive, but never forget. Even if disaster is avoided and things go back to normal, the betrayal will forever haunt them and any future hiccup will make them suspicious or immediately be brought back to the past, and they will succumb to the fear of abandonment once more.

Without purposeful attempts to make them jealous, they are still akin a wolf guarding their territory. They keep a watchful eye for any potential threats and hold their partner extra close or go out of their way to showcase their commitment to their partner and their partner's commitment to them, often whilst staring threats dead in the eyes as an intimidation tactic and a way to silently yell "back off". I would sincerely advise everyone to never play games with their partners, but especially this one, as they've known the pain of neglect and betrayal closely throughout their life, and have unhealed wounds all across their aching heart and the damage you could do would never again heal and the commitment would bleed out to its inevitable end without mercy.

02.

Shufflemancy: Lost on you by LP

This person has a rather straightforward relationship with jealousy. Though they do not easily fall prey to it, if caught, they tend to spiral into a desperate act of self-improvement. Convinced that their tinge of jealousy is evidence of lack in them, they raise the standards they hold for themselves to even greater heights. Tunnel vision keeps them from seeing anything clearly and they hyper focus on their attempts to measure up to the perceived bar suddenly raised out of their reach. Because to them, jealousy so easily means they are not good enough, and as somebody already at war with perfection, they do not take it lightly.

Whether their jealousy is triggered on purpose or arise naturally, they instantly find themselves at a crossroads, and must choose which way to go. The strict duality of their mind in these situations keeps them from seeing the path which lies between the two, and they only debate between proving their worth or accepting defeat, wiping their tears as they take the road which strays from the one aligned with their partner.

They can appear quite cold when they simply choose to give up, as though the river of love suddenly runs dry and they decide that it, to them, is objectively the best to cut you or them loose when the two of you are hanging off a cliff and either one of you must let go. Even if they are upset they remain calm on the surface and do what they think is right. Behind them may lie many shipwrecks they abandoned when the leak appeared much too difficult to mend.

03.

Shufflemancy: Sinner by Trevi Moran

Oh boy. They will not openly admit to jealousy, but will meticulously eradicate any threat as though they're pest control. Few things get under their skin as they are at least outwardly very secure in their own self-worth and simply dish out stupid prizes to those who dare play stupid games. For some, however, I must say that they may actually hold themselves in this high regard and play the role of somebody big and strong as a ruse because they deeply fear the fall from their throne.

They could easily flip the script or rewrite it on the spot, altering the play in their favour. When slighted they quickly make sure the whole audience gets on their side and point and laugh at whoever triggered jealousy in them, now the villain of the tale they get to tell. Depending on how delicate the situation is they may instead move in the shadows and whisper in enough ears and shake enough hands to assure the eventual downfall and demise of whoever dared challenge them and their partnership.

I won't lie, for some of you I'd advise that you err on the side of caution because this can easily become toxic. They're very protective and may worship you and keep you safe from the wolves, but some can easily slip into maddening possessiveness, which is unhealthy. Their jealousy, although kept under lock and key, shows itself in a very cold, unaffected way which can be quite jarring to witness as their eyes feel hallow and suddenly speak to you as though you're a complete stranger. The worst of them may very well have angry outbursts when pushed too far and I hope you know you deserve better than that.

04.

Shufflemancy: Fred Astaire by Ghost the jukebox

This sure is somebody you may even feel outright compelled to attempt to make jealous, because they appear so unbothered and nonchalant as though they have no care in the world. And that is the truth of the matter, because from their perspective you are either commited to them, or you're not. They trust their partner to not play with them or allow any advances from others, and if that trust is broken then c'est la vie.

For some, this apparent lack of jealousy altogether can mean that they are open to non-monogamy, whether or not they themselves are interested in opening the relationship for their own sake. As an example, they could be open to their partner seeking fulfillment of needs they cannot tend to themselves. They are a good communicator and live by and follow whichever boundaries and rules have been set in their relationship and may be open to change should their partner have any suggestions. I wouldn't really fear unfaithfulness with this person solely due to how easy-going yet frank and honest they are.

If anything, instead of jealousy this person could quite literally suggest you chat somebody up, and their inquiries about other people some would be concerned about seem genuinely curious and are without malice or suspicion. They're trusting, though some of their loved ones may call them naive and wonder when the day will come that they get hurt as they don't quite understand this person's simple views. It's reminiscent of the time Aladdin said "do you trust me?" because to this person you or they either do or don't and that's that.

05.

Shufflemancy: Style by Taylor Swift

This person seems to have very little to worry about and seem sure in their own worth. So much so, in fact, that they may use jealousy as fuel for passion. They could feel excited and amused by jealousy as though it is a challenge for them demanding they rise to the occasion and prove just how worthy they are and claim their partner as theirs time and time again so that they may never stray.

They tread cautiously the fine line between playful and damaging, pushing the envelope in search of the sweet spot that triggers just enough anger to provide some friction. One need not worry much of their true intentions as there appears to be a permanent glint in their eyes full of lighthearted mischief as they simply desire for you as their partner to show them that desire earnestly, just the same as they do for you when you too decide to play little games to see the chemical reaction which follows.

It really does take outright betrayal for them to reach damaging levels of jealousy, at which point they don't go out quietly and make sure their feelings are known. Just to be sure the two of you are simply playing, they may inquire more candidly about the people around you or openly question their intentions, as though they are so very playful and appreciate the fun and games they are also a little territorial and need it known by all that the two of you are spoken for.

06.

Shufflemancy: Vampire by Olivia Rodrigo

Easily distraught, this person sinks fast and deep to the very bottom of the depths of agony when they feel jealous. They struggle with their worth and have an intense fear of abandonment which leads them down dark paths in their mind as they begin a search of how or why they do or do not deserve love and commitment. There in the depths of their undoing they easily come to find that rock bottom has a basement, which they crawl into to hide away in the assumption that what is theirs will be taken away and if what is theirs is going at their own accord they must then be flawed and wholly unworthy after all.

Their primary means of showing their jealousy is withdrawal, as they have trouble voicing these vulnerable feelings or may simply not know the right words to use to express themselves clearly. They may even fear that expressing jealousy will only make matters worse or invite retaliation of some kind, and thus say nothing at all, which invites resentment to fester.

Jealousy mortally wounds them, and I'd never encourage anybody to play games with people to begin with, but certainly not somebody so frail and fearful. This is somebody who would step in front of bullets for their loved ones, so any chance that those same people, and especially you, their partner, would in essence be the one to pull the trigger would truly destroy them.

[inqilabi]

Another thing that I have observed over the years is that, not a lot of people are good at relationships. As in they don't know the fundamentals of a good relationship. And with that it follows, that for some people this comes naturally. And for some people this is learned.

A lot of people don't seem to be good at communicating in relationships. Meaning that they will let a thing that bothered them fester until it grows into resentment. And they bring it up once the resentment is bubbling. And obviously, because it's pent up, when do they do bring it up, it's in an explosive manner.

So everyone at some point learns that relationships are about communication. And they tell you this wisdom. But no one actually gives you the details and the formula

Communication is about

1) frequency. So don't let this fester. Bring it up right away

2) type of communication. So positive and the negative. Ie., things that are working but also not working. The positive communication will be, "oh I loved [action], because [what it made you feel]. You are so [the unique attribute about your partner that led to this behaviour]". This is what is going to build connection regularly. Regularly appreciating your partner. And not just in a generic manner. But in an instance specific manner.

Or in the negative "when the [situation/issue], it makes me [feeling], and if this continues to happen i will [feel/consequences]". It doesn't attack the partner and views them an opportunity to rise to meet your needs. And focuses instead on the situation / issue and the effect on you. This is what will maintain the relationship. Prevent it from going down.

3) manner of communication. You should never say "you always do this" "you never do this". That is not an productive way of conveying concern to your partner. That is just attacking them as mentioned in point #2. The person who is being addressed also should listen and not get defensive or criticism. If one person has legitimately brought up a concern, and the other person says "no i don't do that " or "it's not that big of a deal" or "well you did this [unrelated other thing so long ago]", this is a cause for concern. Men often do the latter and imo it's a red flag. A man should be able to listen to your concerns and not feel attacked if you have brought it up in a gentle let's tag-team this issue manner. If a man does get defensive or start criticizing you instead, he has an ego or insecurity problem. Thats one of the things that will chip away at a relationship. Is defensiveness and criticism.

There's other things that maintain relationships like taking interest in your partners interest, when they ask you to look at something or share something with you - then you should take interest. There's many people who might ignore it or outright dismiss it (chips away) or some might simply acknowledge it (maintains), where are some might take an interest and ask you questions on the thing youve shared. Ask you where you learned about it. What you found interesting about it. How it made you feel etc (builds relationships).

Some years ago I wrote a post, which I can't find now. But I found it so surprising in couples that I had observed that a man would so often dismiss his partners attempt to connect. I remember the instance I noticed this - I was at a desi Eid bazaar. And a woman came to her husband who was sitting with their child, giddily told him that she had haggled the price of a cloth down by 20 dollars. And instead of being proud of her and appreciating her, he said something along the lines of "you could have gotten it for 30 off". And I saw the joy disappear from her face. And he chipped away willingly. So bewildering to me that you have an opportunity to connect and build, so easily handed to you - and in so many couples, they reject it. It's like someone offering you a couple of dollars for free in a long-term investment, and you're like - nah thanks I'm good. Maddening!

[squiddy-god]

Ode to a prideful knight

(Sebek zigvolt x reader)

Re-upload, anyways, this is done in a similar style to "captured" and "confessions to a Fae" this is like Knight! Sebek x noble! Reader. Reader is human sebek is down bad.

CW : simp, knight! Sebek, human reader, fem! Reader I think, fluff

2.8k

Tall was the knight who adorned himself in the crest of his king, whose blade forged of steel was an extension of his will and pride. Boastful was the knight whose old gold eyes sparkled with green as if moss on the forest floor. Noble was the night who stood back straight as the arrow that never misses, whose brow forever was set firm in a scowl.

Uncharacteristically austere was the knight for one born half to the blood of those who dance in circles under moonlight and sing with trills of trickery, the prideful, nobal, frigid knight stood at post by his king. 

Leafs and ferns lined the ground his boots touched as he marched through the forest. Fauna grew in spectacular color and mystic hues, even the cynical man knew not why his libs carried him through the trees as deep as he could venture and further still. It was as if a spell took hold and beckoned him to this place, ruins of mortal men swallowed by the weald that he grew in, statues grown with vines and tarnished with broken limbs. Crashing in his chest like thunder and beating like lightning his heart pulled him with a string towards flowers of thistle purple and coral pink. Soft petals that drape down and dance with the breath of the spring air.

They brushed against his soft locks of nyanza green and left cornsilk petals in their wake. Tranquility was steeped in the soft glow of sunlight that brushed so delicately acros his pale skin, but as if a stone was skipped in a calm pond the moment was broken when slitted pupils caught sight of such an enchanting image as your skin aglow with life. Sat atop that tall wall like a callow youth was the one that had so captured his gaze, burning intensely as the knight looked on but walked no further, not to the shallow pond that housed few rocks and the thick roots of a tree that grew from under the wall. 

“But what's the harm if I explore! The woods are safe, are they not m'lady?” you spoke, words like sweet morning dew, the woman you talked with sighed “it may be safe for now but you know of the unease that festers between those who live behind the thorns! So please i beg you come down” exasperated the woman pleaded with you and the knight cursed the fate so cruel to trap his heart in this meadow only to pluck his favorite flower. Yet you seemed to relent a final glance towards the forest and only a glimpse of his figure that you thought nothing of before you were gone. 

His breath fluttered in his lungs, had you spotted him? His unbecoming staring had the image of you seared into his blinking eyes, light of the spring sun giving warmth to your features. Old legends say that even those born to cynicism and stony resentment could become enraptured by bliss in but a glance. 

The beauty you held was unlike else he'd seen, a beauty so unique to the golden green eyes of the fae that- for a moment- he wondered if even you saw it in yourself as he did, but thoughts like this he pushed from his mind, his awestruck gaze returning to but a crocodile scowl as the knight himself returned to the wild thicket. But his love was fated to grow next to those violet roses that crawled up your tall stone wall. 

Fate was not in good spirits or clever humor he thought, how it brought his mind to you, a sight he could neither forget nor bring himself to accept. What dastardly spell had you cast with a glance?  The incantation you must have muttered when he layed eyes on you that spring day? A week had passed and here he was, the snap of twigs and the crunching of pine under his heel as he marched with renewed vigor to those hanging branches of pastel flora. 

Slitted pupils grew slim against the vibrant backing of his iris, rapidly he breathed, quickly he ran and even quicker he unsheathed his sword when the source of that scream was within his sight, a nor huntsman or wanderer was the man whose blade was taken up against you. “YOU THERE! DO YOU DARE TO DRAW YOUR WEAPON AGAINST THEM” what was he saying? He couldn't hear as blood rushed past his ears, a burning rage not concealed within pools of gold now bubbling and boiling over. Even as the rays of light hit his steel sword the unknown man cowered at a booming voice the tore baited silence. The knight had not raised his sword nor made any move to attack but the coward scampered off hurriedly threw filtered light and thick overgrowth.

“Thank you sir-” “YOU FOOLISH HUMAN” his voice boomed more light with annoyance than the rage which seemed quelled. “Tch what foolishness were you up to that elicited such a scream” he was worried, a thought he'd never truly admit. Your face held neither guilt nor shame, but was indeed painted with gratitude and security. “You have my thanks, sir knight, i simply wished to explore but found myself in errr…quite the predicament” brows creased and tension seemed to stiffen his broad shoulders. “I don't know who i can repay you”

There was no need. “Allow me to escort you home” your smile was enough repayment, allas those were words he could not utter to you. 

He came often after that, skipping the stone in the pond by the wall as he extended a hand to yours, asking your accompaniment as you swept flower petals from his hair. Would he confess that his body felt alight with glee at your touch, at the almost loving way your fingers gathered petals from his shoulders? The words sat uncomfortably in his mouth, jaw clenched and lips pressed to a thin line when you drew near, he truly was a crocodile. 

“Oh knight~” your voice sang as you leaned over the stone wall just out of his grasp as always. And just as always he stepped without hesitation or pause, onto the engorged branches of the old tree that grew and whose roots sprawled into the meadow beyond the wall. You yourself stood on the plank of an old swing made when you were young, the shift of weight and unstable footing causing you to seek stability against the wall, and letting you reach over to greet your knight. 

Routine it had become to brush the petals from his hair and shoulders, and routine it had become to smile at the sight of such an uptight man covered in both the attire of a knight and the petals from soft flowers. “Have you heard the talk, sir knight?” he sighed “do not attempt to play coy with me, what are you getting at human” you feigned hurt, but as you leaned back into your dramatics your footing almost slipped. Your hands flew to the wall for stability but were caught but the knight, one hand holding you as the other firmly grasped your shoulder, the leather of his gloves where soft you thought, and the world seemed calm again. Soft trills of singing birds and the creekinging of roots were only marginally louder than the quiet breaths. 

“Foolish human, what am I to do with you? Come on now, over the wall” and you climbed the wall, not released from his grasp for long as he lifted you safely to solid ground.

His arms where strong as they seemed to hold you a moment in the warm sun, as if unable to move from the light, as if you where the sun itself the knight stood a moment longer before allowing you to nestle yourself on the grass between spiraling twisting roots and shaded by foliage of the same weeping willow tree. You sat and he stood, arms folded behind his back and feet together as if on guard for danger. “You were saying something?” he inquired. “Well, I wondered if you had heard of the competition in a week's time, for knights of fighters- heh really anyone who fancies themselves good with a sword.” glancing up at him his expression was not the soft one from a moment ago, but the one he always had. “I have no interest in the affairs of humans” you frowned and twiddled with a small blue hued flower by your side. “Really? It's a great chance to prove your skill or represent your lord, aaannnddd the prize is a kiss from someone of your choice-” his eyes perked up and it excited you “perhaps i could impress my lord!” oh how his heart boomed.could you hear it? The way it shaked and rattled in his ribs at the thought of your kiss, but he would take this to the grave with him, to let this human know of his affections was…no he couldn't, he would pretend that his spine did not shudder at the thought, that his palms did not grow moist with sweat as he felt himself wanting that prize. His pride, that damned pride of the knight would not allow him to fall, to fall so desperately in love with this human, but his pride would not let him lose, he would win this competition for the honor of his love and for the touch of your lips. “Oh, yes i'm sure he'd be very impressed if you won” 

Bright were the blinding rays that illuminated the dirt paths and vibrant colors of the cloth colored stands, strewn with the patterns of this kingdom in reds and greens and blues cheering crowds hollered at knights who prepared to fight. Up in high stands sat the king next to his own king malleus, standing alongside the king was his advisor and alongside malleus was lilia as expected. Next to the highest stands were slightly lowered stands where noble women sat and gawked in frilly petticoats and ruffles in spring hues, although like a blak sheep you stood out, sitting amongst them in simple clothing and a shifting uncomfortable glance around. He was curious as to why you sat with them out of place. 

He began to prepare, putting on the thick padded clothing and the cadmium green fabric over his head, the panels of fabric covering his back and front adorned with the crest he wore as a knight as well as the crest of his family. He fastened his belt around his waist loose and checked his sword, a blade without an edge as to not cause impairment

The haughty voice of the king flooded the open air, a man devoid of dignity and a fool of a king. True, tension and unease was rampant between the kingdoms since the time of the old queen and the king philip. “As you all have gathered here, your gratuitous and splendid king, me, hosts this tournament between knights and those who take up the sword! Besides the price of honor and gold, the champion shall also receive a blessing and kiss from the one of their choice” the fool of a king gestured towards the stands that you sat in with the noble women, “eligible noble women and the kingdoms beloved (y/n)” he laughed to himself as if this was a brilliant idea. “Have you anything to say to the competing knights and fighters?” the king asked. You glanced around the field as though your eyes were searching in vain for something you could not find, until with joy they landed on the figure close to the stands.

“Yes m’lord i do have something to say!” all eyes watched you as your figure leaned over the edge of the stands just far enough to almost reach the knight with tresses of feldgrau and nyanza green. He reached a hand up to yours, hardly bowed as to your outstretched one, but they were held together. “i already give my blessing to sir zigvolt!” you stated matter of factly, voice heard by all as whispers and murmurs sprouted like blackberry seeds. His face bloomed scarlet like spring carnations, the tips of his ears burning brighter in hue than even his pale skin. A prideful smile crept its way onto his face, chest inflating with confidence as he shot you a smug toothy gin. “I will win, with your blessing I will be victorious” as he turned away he paid no mind to the scowls and glares that followed the path he walked and saturated the air he breathed so thickly. 

Settled now from the shock of your statement the stands where envied with new life, howling and whistling cheers rang in the spring air and filled the ears of over confident knights and fighters.

Carried by wisps of wind, sand and dirt shifted and settled like dancing plumes of smoke around the footing of those who fought in the dirt flores arena. The world mattered not for the knight who stood tall and unflinching in the face of a steel blade thrust towards him. It was mocking really, the way he rolled his sinewy shoulders as if warming up, the lightning step of his feet that kicked up dirt and how the pommel of his sword struck his opponents center back. He was showing off, proving his capability in hope his love would praise his skill, and call him their knight. 

Another one defeated, dules passing by quickly as the knight's gaze became more intense, predatory as light cast the hard shadows of his strong features soft. To take up a sword seemed to come as naturally to the fae knight you watched as breathing, as being the same passionate yet sullen man you admired in your own secrecy just as he did. Even as he mounted a horse, confidence rolling off him in waves and floating like clouds to dampen the opponent in cowardice, he held an almost tangible pride, one that he wore on his shoulder and carried in his crest. 

You sat enraptured at the edge of your seat, palms flexing against the wood as your breath caught in your throat. Birds flap their bright wings within your stomach and you refused yourself to blink for the anticipation was too much. 

The lines of his head were creased in concentration, the long ple spiraling in green and white readied at his side, the way his jaw held firm and his lips pressed to a fine line, the way the cheers of the crowd faded to nothing more than a dull ringing in your ears as a grin split the heavens of your face and the knight opposite to the one you fancied was knocked off his horse. The hardened gaze that met yours held much more than pride and jovial victory, that old golden gaze held for only you a love that the fae had not harbored for another. 

You raised from your seat as soon as the cheers of victory brought you back from his gase, and you traversed down to the pit where your prideful knight dropped to his knee, gloved hands folded over his knee and head lowered to a bow.  

Gentle hands like flowerpetles cupped his face, and tilted it to meet your eyes. “Congratulations my valiant knight” you teased, yet with a touch soft as morning dew your lips fell to his hairline where nyanza green hair was slicked back, and there that touch of your lips lingered, and would continue to linger until he felt it again.

For love struck was the knight who kneeled to two, and prideful was the knight who held that image of you in his mind. Sturdy was the knight who held you in his arms when you fell not only for him but from that wall. Foolish was the knight, truly foolish was the knight who thought love would escape him, that it would not encroach on him like winding vines in such a fleeting moment. But even old legends tell tales of those mystic beings who dance in night time meadows and drink sweet cream and talk of magic amongst themselves, and who find love at a glance no matter how fleeting it may seem to those not blessed with the eyes to witness it. Yes prideful and foolish, and hopelessly in love was the knight who was blessed with those golden eyes laden with moss green. Blessed was he to have seen you sit on that tall wall, to watch violet roses bloom before him and foster those feelings of love. 

Blessed was that prideful knight to see the beauty you held, and blessed was he to love it, for he would always love what even you could not see. 

[bailadeluna]

team green: where there should be the open arms of affection and love, there is only duty, cold and bitter like steel on the tongue. from the guilt and shame of failing to follow the rigid rules, festers secrecy, lies, and resentment.

team black: where there should be order, words that should be heeded, and actions strategically followed, there is only desire- all consuming that it blinds you to what must be done for the betterment of others. from constant shortsighted follies, grow dire consequences, mistrust, and carelessness.

[wildflowercryptid]

florian's always struggled to make friends so he didn't really have any back in galar... uh, actually — it might be more accurate is that he USED to have one...

headcanon explanation + bonus under the cut!

like mentioned above, florian has always struggled a lot with making friends. while he's a kindhearted and friendly kid, he can come across as kinda intense to others, ( especially when discussing his interests, ) and that's led to him often being alienated amongst his peers. though he's grown used to being by himself and has learned to not care if others dislike him, he still hopes that he can find at least a few people to connect with outside of his family. it's a hope that's always been present, ever since he was growing up in wyndon.

of course, he wasn't the only loner amongst his childhood peers. around 7 years old, he found a friend in bede fee, who attended the same primary school as him. bede themself wasn't exactly the friendliest kid out there and often had spats with people who made fun of them for their family's low-income status, but florian managed to get them to warm up to him. the two got along pretty well and found comfort in having a friend that seemed to understand them, both being lonely kids who were often picked on by others. after a while, they became pretty much inseparable as they frequently played, read, and laughed together. to florian, it didn't matter that people picked on him just as long as he had bede there to be his friend. bede shared a similar sentiment... at least, at first he did.

admittedly, florian has a habit of resting on his laurels when it comes to things he doesn't have an interest in improving. ( it doesn't matter if he isn't as good of a battler as his sister, all he needs is to be strong enough to keep himself safe during field research. it doesn't matter if he's ostracized amongst his peers and looked down upon, he's alright as long as he has someone to call a friend. etc, etc. ) bede, however, couldn't keep themself from caring about their place in the pecking order. they were sick of others looking down on them, sick of others thinking they were better than them. they just couldn't understand how florian could stand people treating him poorly without getting angry. over time, frustration and resentment towards his attitude festered inside them. these feelings were only exacerbated by their struggles at home and being sent to the orphanage. while they would still call each other friends, their bond had definitely become strained.

everything came to a head when they were both 11 years old, when rose visited bede's orphanage and his acknowledgement caused a major shift in their personality. after all, someone that important seeing their potential surely meant that they better than their peers, right? they soon became much more pompous and rude in nature. florian still stayed close by despite bede's worsening attitude towards him, but it wasn't before long until all of their pent-up feelings came flooding out. their friendship ended with massive fight, with bede telling florian that they were sick of being weighed down by an " annoying pest " like him. while they expected for him to take their cruel remarks in stride like he always did with everyone else, bede couldn't help but feel a little guilty when florian ran off in tears. the two stopped talking after that fight and ever since then, there's always a worry in the back of florian's mind that his friends will eventually get sick of him like bede did. ( thankfully, the friends he's made since then have helped make him feel a lot more secure in their relationships. )

apologies for the long-winded explanation, here's the bonus i promised to make up for how sad this hc got :

the goofy ass side effect of coming up with this headcanon is realizing that they accidentally shaped each others' taste in guys rip