#and realizes that it's not just about her personal ambitions and that her talent can touch others... that she made this happen...

[onewordshy]

Wish I could bottle the feeling this gives me

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: My Consort Calls Me Shrimpy || Floyd Leech

You get isekaid into a novel where the perfect Empress got absolutely wrecked by the plot, and now you have to juggle a bland heroine, a traitorous consort, and a delightfully unhinged eel who’s oddly good at solving your problems.

Series Masterlist

You’re about three hours deep in line, squashed between a woman wearing an unsettling amount of dragon-themed jewelry and some dude intensely vaping in front of you. The line inches forward at the pace of continental drift, and you’re in no mood to be here.

You're here out of pure, misguided loyalty to your best friend, who’s practically shaking with excitement at the idea of meeting their favourite author—the world-renowned queen of girlboss fantasy.

In a valiant effort to distract yourself from your eternal boredom, you pull up her previous novels on your phone. Maybe, if you understood her work better, you’d understand why people would willingly spend this many hours standing on asphalt.

After skimming through some of her top titles, you can barely believe these are real book plots: Slaying the Patriarchy with My Stilettos? Lipstick and Blood Magic? Each one more ridiculous than the last, filled with protagonists who blast their enemies with a "feminine fury" and, honestly, you're just not buying it.

Why did I agree to this? you think, suppressing the urge to gnaw on your own hand out of boredom.

Suddenly, you spot a stray bird above—a pigeon, wobbling through the sky like it's had one too many lattes. You barely register the bird's existence until it lets out an alarming squawk and, in a tragic twist of fate, plummets from the heavens right towards your head.

In a perfect shot, it bonks you directly in the face, knocking you backward with an impressively dramatic flair. You spiral down, your vision blurring as you fall in slow motion, gasping.

In the last seconds of your consciousness, as chaos erupts around you, one solemn thought echoes through your mind: I hate pigeons.

And with that, you drift off into oblivion, serenaded by the panicked cries of your best friend and the distant wail of someone’s Lipstick and Blood Magic audiobook playing on full blast nearby.

You wake up, blink, and immediately realize that your bed is both way too luxurious and way too large. Rich, velvet curtains drape around you, shimmering with gold embroidery.

A chandelier overhead sparkles with enough jewels to fund at least three public libraries. The air smells like a mixture of incense, rose petals, and maybe faint hints of… burning tyranny?

Oh, dear God. You’ve been isekai’d.

Straight into that novel you were doom-scrolling through to survive the crushing boredom of line-waiting.

Your mind reels back to the summary you’d read. The heroine, a weepy maid with all the emotional range of wet toast. The consort, a charming traitor with “dreamy eyes” who betrays his own Empress for said toast. And then, of course, the villainess.

That poor, genius Empress who actually had talent and ambition, who could annihilate anyone with a flick of her wrist and yet was somehow destined to lose it all because of a love triangle involving a glorified housekeeper.

And now—you are that Empress. The Villainess Extraordinaire, Scourge of Kingdoms, War-Waging Prodigy, Mary Sue on Steroids… and now you're stuck in this tragic play of bad romance tropes.

You shoot upright in bed, taking it all in. Lavish room. Silk sheets. Jewels littered around like confetti. And then you notice a presence by your bedside. You whip your head to see… her. The heroine.

She's standing there, looking down at you with the wide-eyed wonder of someone who hasn’t yet discovered a single personality trait. Her face is soft, angelic, and you already know that beneath those doe eyes lies… absolutely nothing.

She's here to dress you, a task that apparently requires thirty minutes of excessive hair-braiding, enough layers to construct a mattress, and endless, mind-numbing conversation about the consort.

Oh, right. The consort. Your dear, disloyal boy toy who’ll soon be scheming against you. He’s probably off somewhere sharpening his cheekbones in a mirror, wondering if he can pull off “soulful yet traitorous” in the same expression.

The heroine starts tugging on your hair, a bit too enthusiastically for your taste. "Your Majesty," she coos, “Your consort was asking for you yesterday. He misses your attention."

You mentally scream. I'm running an empire, Susan! Who cares about his feelings right now? You're barely awake, freshly isekai'd, and trying to mentally tally your enemies, not exactly in the mood for his fragile ego.

And, technically, aren’t you the one in need of support here? Not the consort, who apparently needs a throne, a palace, and a shoulder to cry on every two hours.

"Oh," you manage to reply, voice dripping with an irritation that you pray she interprets as imperial grace. "Tell him… I’m thinking about military reforms."

The heroine’s eyes flicker in confusion. "Military reforms?"

"Yes. Reforms. Vital to the stability of our empire." You wave a hand, and she clearly has no idea what you're talking about. This maid was not hired for her intellectual curiosity, that’s for sure.

Then comes the worst part: her doe eyes start misting over. Great. You forgot. Crying is, apparently, her most crucial skill set. She clutches a sleeve to her chest, looking at you as if you’ve announced the arrival of a natural disaster. "Your Majesty… but what about your consort?"

You take a deep breath. Focus. How did this woman end up so crucial to the plot? What was it about her that was supposed to outshine an entire empire? It’s as if she’s constructed entirely from damp tissues and vague romantic inclinations. And this is the girl who’s going to take you down?

But you’re already devising a plan. You’ll keep tabs on her. Outwardly, you’ll play the role of the intimidating yet graceful Empress, while inwardly making sure that neither she nor the consort gets a single chance to stab you in the back. And as for the consort himself…

Well, when he finally arrives for his “audience,” you’ll be sure to give him the warmest, most menacing smile in your arsenal. For now, you’ll have to endure the heroine’s dramatic sniffles and the hundred layers of fabric she’s convinced you need.

As she fiddles with a particularly elaborate golden sash, you look at her with an eyebrow raised. “Tell me,” you say, feigning curiosity. “What would you do if the palace were to… burn down?”

Her face goes blank for a second. Then, she frowns and wrinkles her nose as if this question is somehow unsolvable. “Um… cry?”

Of course. Absolutely riveting. You sigh and try to look satisfied, which is hard when you’re mentally questioning how this woman has a heartbeat, let alone plot armor thick enough to take you down.

By the time she finishes with your dress, you've already come up with about sixteen ways to save the empire and seventy-two reasons why this love triangle is absolutely ridiculous.

In the mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourself. You’re the picture of beauty and deadly grace, an unstoppable Empress who could wield the fate of kingdoms.

And they want to reduce you to a footnote in the saga of this girl’s whimpering romance?

Well, that’s not happening. You’ve read the novel; you know how this story ends. And now that you’re here, you’re rewriting that ridiculous fate.

You try to keep a dignified expression, but inside, you’re screaming.

The entire reason you’ve gathered the harem is to graciously cut them loose and rid yourself of the ongoing melodrama. Because if there are no consorts, there’s no backstabbing love triangle, no tearful betrayals, and no doomed political coups.

You can practically taste the freedom already—so you clear your throat and begin, putting on your most diplomatic voice:

"Esteemed consorts,” you say, hands clasped. “Thank you for your service and devotion. You are now free to leave and may claim land and titles if you wish to remain in the empire.”

You pause, waiting for cheers or at least some relieved sighs. Instead, dead silence. You glance around and spot the heroine sneaking glances at the traitor consort, eyes brimming with pure unadulterated… something.

She looks like she’s five seconds away from throwing herself across a fainting couch. The consort looks at her for a moment and then back at you, entirely unimpressed.

Maybe they’re just in shock, you think, trying to keep it together. Maybe they need a moment to process the incredible gift of freedom you’ve just given them.

But then, from the back of the room, someone clears their throat—Floyd Leech. He raises his hand, a gleeful glint in his eye that makes your stomach churn.

See, Floyd was not a character that should’ve belonged in this novel. The man was unhinged. Slightly terrifying, if you’re being honest. He treated warfare like a casual hobby and had a grin that said I could absolutely cause problems on purpose.

And the worst part? Floyd was actually one of the few who stuck around in the original plot. After the Empress dies on the battlefield, he takes her body back to his home country, out of sheer love.

He's also the only one who got to call the Empress Regnant herself "Shrimpy" and lived to tell the tale. You'd swoon over the romantic implications if you weren't that same Empress who had bigger problems right now.

You steel yourself. “Yes, Floyd?”

“Can I stay?” he says, looking entirely too happy. “These other guys are boring, but you’re kinda fun to watch.” He stares at you like you’re some sort of exotic animal in a zoo. “Besides,” he adds, throwing an arm over a very uncomfortable-looking consort, “who’s gonna protect you if I leave? These losers?”

God help you.

Before you can even answer, the traitor consort steps forward, expression so intense you can feel it from across the hall. He clears his throat dramatically. “My Empress,” he says, taking a deep, tragic breath. “My heart is bound to you, like—like the tides to the moon. Like—”

In the background, the heroine lets out an audible, swooning sigh. Oh, please, you think. You’ve seen better monologues in toothpaste commercials. The consort glances at the heroine, clearly confused, then goes back to gazing at you with what he probably thinks is soulful longing.

Meanwhile, Floyd is grinning at him, shark-like. “Nice speech, buddy,” he says, clapping the guy on the back hard enough that the consort nearly goes sprawling. “But I think she liked mine better.” He leans in to whisper, loudly, “Besides, I bet you don’t even know her favorite food.”

The consort’s face scrunches. “Do you?”

“Nope!” Floyd beams, looking at you as if expecting some kind of reward. “But I’m gonna figure it out.”

The consort looks like he wants to protest, but before he can, another one of the harem—Lord Something-or-Other—steps forward, visibly shaking with emotion. He kneels, clutching a hand to his heart as if he’s about to propose.

“My Empress,” he says, voice wobbling with way too much sincerity. “Without you, my life is a barren wasteland. I would rather endure the endless, scorching sands of—”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Floyd groans. “Do you guys hear yourselves?”

“Can you not mock me while I pour my heart out?” Lord Something-or-Other snaps back.

“Sure I can. I’m multi-talented,” Floyd replies with a grin that’s somehow both playful and threatening. He leans against the throne, looking completely at home while you fight the urge to dive out the nearest window.

Now everyone’s in a frenzy. Every last one of these men—your so-called “consorts”—are lining up to deliver heartfelt soliloquies, tragic metaphors, and similes so flowery they might as well be a bouquet. You can barely keep a straight face as the next one steps forward, proclaiming that he would “gladly suffer a thousand winters if only to see her smile.”

As if on cue, the heroine wipes a tear from her eye, sighing dreamily. The consort she’s apparently in love with looks at her again, this time with an expression somewhere between pity and terror. But she doesn’t seem to notice, too busy whispering to herself, “Oh, how romantic…”

And then Floyd leans down and whispers in your ear, voice gleeful. “Y’know, if you let ‘em keep going, they might just start fighting each other for you. Free entertainment. Whaddaya think?”

You feel a headache coming on. “Floyd, please, I’m begging you—”

“What?” he asks, grinning wider. “I thought this was fun. C’mon, Empress,” he drawls, giving the title an absurd little flourish. “Let me stay. I promise I won’t let any of these guys stage a rebellion.” He smirks at the traitor consort. “Unless you feel like rebelling, huh?”

The traitor consort scoffs, bristling. “Unlike some of us,” he says, glaring at Floyd, “my devotion is genuine.”

“And boring,” Floyd mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.

You let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Fine, Floyd. You can stay,” you say, hoping that giving him what he wants will end this disaster. You’re immediately filled with regret as his grin widens.

“Awesome! And you know what? Since everyone’s so devoted, why don’t we all stay? Make it a real party.” Floyd tosses an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the death glares from half the room.

Now you’re stuck with fifteen poets, one unhinged eel, and a heroine who’s still making heart eyes at a man who clearly isn’t interested. And as you sit there, feeling your last shreds of sanity slip away, you think, This is going to be a very, very long reign.

You’re making your way through the moonlit palace corridors, trying to mentally prepare yourself for the… experience that spending the night with Floyd Leech is sure to be.

Mostly, you’ve chosen him because, unhinged or not, he’s at least the most loyal out of this whole ridiculous lineup. Plus, there’s a kind of chaotic charm about him, like a very large, very untrained puppy with fangs.

But before you can even make it to his side palace, you’re intercepted.

“My Empress…” It’s the traitor consort. You sigh as he blocks your path, looking like he’s about to burst into tears. He’s clutching his chest dramatically, as if he’s seconds from fainting, and his voice wobbles with pure tragedy.

“Do you not love me anymore?” he blubbers, eyes shining with tears. “Why do you never choose me? Have I done something wrong? Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve graced my chambers?” He’s practically sobbing at this point, clutching at your sleeves like some tragic hero in a soap opera.

You stand there, blinking. “Uh… dude. I… what? ”

He looks at you with the heartbreak of a thousand rom-coms. “I thought you cared about me. I thought I meant something to you…”

You’re trying to process what exactly is happening (and failing spectacularly) when you hear an all-too-familiar voice.

“Yoo-hoo~!” Floyd’s voice echoes down the hall as he appears at the other end, looking like he’s just won the lottery. He practically skips toward you, a grin stretched across his face, his shark-like teeth glinting in the moonlight.

“Shrimpy!” he calls out cheerfully, giving you an exaggerated wave. But his cheerful demeanor drops like a rock the moment he sees the traitor consort clinging to you, tears streaming down his face.

Floyd’s grin turns into a much darker smirk, and his eyes narrow dangerously. He tilts his head, sizing up the blubbering man like he’s something he might enjoy crunching on for a midnight snack.

“Oi,” Floyd says, stepping closer, voice dropping into a lower, much more menacing tone. “What’re you doin’, crybaby? Gettin’ all snotty in front of my Shrimpy? That doesn’t seem real respectful, y’know?”

The traitor consort pales instantly, his tear-streaked face going from tragic to terrified in half a second flat. “I—I was just…” he stammers, trying to find an escape route.

“You were just what?” Floyd grins, but there’s absolutely nothing friendly about it now. “You got somethin’ you wanna say to her? ‘Cause I could help you say it better, y’know.” He cracks his knuckles for emphasis, and you swear the traitor consort’s soul nearly leaves his body.

And you? You’re exhausted. Normally, you’re pretty sure the original Empress would step in, say something appropriately royal and dignified to diffuse the situation. But at this point? You’re too tired to deal with either of them, and honestly, watching Floyd scare this guy senseless is a little too satisfying. So you just sigh and cross your arms, waiting it out.

“Look, I— I didn’t mean anything by it,” the traitor consort mutters, eyes darting between Floyd’s unsettling grin and your unimpressed stare. “I’ll… I’ll just go…”

And before you know it, he’s stumbling off, practically tripping over his own feet in his rush to escape Floyd’s glare. You can still hear his sniffles echoing down the hall as he disappears.

Floyd watches him go, then turns back to you with an exaggerated pout. “He didn’t even say bye. Rude, huh?” Then, just as quickly, his mood switches back, and he gives you a toothy grin. “C’mon, Shrimpy! Let’s go. You’re finally here!”

And without another word, he loops an arm around you, practically dragging you the rest of the way to his palace. By the time you arrive, you’re half-expecting him to start a monologue or make a big romantic speech, but instead, he plops down on the massive, plush couch, pulling you down next to him with surprising gentleness.

“There we go! See? Ain’t this way better than dealin’ with crybabies?” He laughs, leaning back and throwing an arm over your shoulders.

You give him a look. “Do you actually scare all of them off on purpose?”

Floyd grins, showing all his teeth. “Only the boring ones.” He taps his temple like he’s sharing some brilliant secret. “Can’t have anyone else thinkin’ they’re more special than me, right?”

Honestly, you’re too tired to argue. So you just lean back, letting Floyd prattle on about his grand plans for “getting rid of the competition.” At least, you think to yourself, you’ve successfully survived another day of being Empress.

The banquet table stretches out in front of you, each seat filled by one of your fifteen consorts, who are locked in an elaborate battle of “who’s the cutest?” You watch, sipping your wine like it’s medicinal, as they coo, flirt, and — at least in one unfortunate case — attempt a juggling act.

A consort on your left even starts singing a heartfelt ballad he very obviously wrote himself. You silently make a note to ask Heroine if it’s possible to declare some sort of moratorium on public serenades.

Just when you think the evening can’t get any more surreal, the doors burst open. Floyd strides in, late as usual, with all the grace and subtlety of a pirate commandeering the dinner table.

Without breaking stride, he makes a beeline for the coveted King Consort chair, ignoring the man who’s been trying to occupy it and who now looks as if he’s about to faint.

Floyd’s “gentle” suggestion to move aside comes in the form of a rather forceful nudge, and the poor consort goes skidding two seats down, clutching his untouched plate of tiny hors d’oeuvres.

Floyd plops into the seat, throws his legs up on the table, and proceeds to grab a handful of grapes like he’s claiming territory.

Instantly, fifteen men start having what can only be described as a collective meltdown. One consort gapes at Floyd, cheeks puffing like an indignant chipmunk; another begins audibly hyperventilating. Somewhere on the far end of the table, a man has already shed a single, dramatic tear.

Your maid Heroine sidles up to you, wide-eyed. She whispers loudly, as if she’s sharing a forbidden secret, “Your Majesty! You’ve broken their hearts!”

You stare at her, bewildered. “How? By letting Floyd sit down?”

Heroine nods, lip quivering. “They think you’ve… chosen! That’s the King Consort’s seat!”

“What? ” You glance at Floyd, who’s now lying back, casually chomping on a drumstick he must have acquired from who-knows-where. He doesn’t seem perturbed in the least.

“Yes!” Heroine sniffles, pulling out a lacy handkerchief. “It’s the sacred chair of royal favoritism!” She dabs at her eyes, gazing at you with something akin to heartbreak. “And here I thought you were a romantic.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” You rub your temples, feeling a headache coming on. “I just wanted a quiet dinner!”

One of the consorts, evidently hearing this, begins to wail, “But why, Your Majesty? We loved you!” It’s clear he’s already going to be composing several tragic stanzas about this moment.

Then Floyd — who’s been watching this entire scene with the amused look of someone who’s just discovered he’s won the jackpot — clears his throat, aiming a rather shark-like grin at Heroine. “Hey, little miss servant girl,” he says, his voice sugary sweet with a terrifying edge. “Maybe stop making Shrimpy feel guilty, hmm? Unless you want to join ‘em in the Royal Seat Shuffle?”

Heroine squeaks, as if he’s just offered to turn her into a garden gnome, and stammers an apology, hands fluttering as she edges away.

In the silence that follows, you decide enough is enough. “Thank you all for coming,” you announce, giving your consorts a forced smile. “This has been… lovely. But we’re done for tonight.”

The consorts hesitate, as if they want to protest. But when Floyd gives them one of his very special grins — the kind that says he just might take a whole different seat next — they practically stampede out of the dining hall, leaving behind a trail of emotional debris: teardrops, wilted roses, and a half-eaten plate of pastries.

As the door closes, Floyd leans back with a smirk, throwing an arm casually over the back of his new favorite chair. “So, looks like Shrimpy’s all mine tonight.”

You chuckle, half-exasperated, half-relieved. “Well, seems you chased everyone else off.”

“Don’t be like that,” he purrs, clearly pleased. “You know, you’re different now. Last time, you’d have been practically begging those guys to come back.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Maybe I’m just too tired to care anymore.”

He leans in, gaze softening. “Nah. You’ve just gotten tougher. And it looks good on you. The new Shrimpy’s got a spine.”

You smile, almost despite yourself, as Floyd raises his glass, winking. “To the new Shrimpy: long may she rule.”

The annual Talent Showcase Extravaganza for the Empress’s Affections has begun, and your consorts are pouring every ounce of drama and flair they possess into their performances, each desperate to secure that exclusive week at the countryside villa with you.

Unfortunately, it seems that the traitor consort — Mr. ‘I-know-the-theme-because-Heroine-can’t-resist-my-cheekbones’ — is dominating the competition. He’s wowing the audience with a perfectly themed tapestry, and you can already hear the maid giggling over in his cheering section.

This calls for drastic action.

You glance over to where Floyd is occupying himself by tormenting a pair of unfortunate ministers with tales of his more “creative” fishing techniques. With a sigh, you snap your fingers. He looks over, feigning annoyance at being interrupted in what he surely sees as “Minister Horror Story Hour.”

“Shrimpy, what gives? This is the first fun I’ve had since I got here,” he says, hands on his hips.

You clear your throat. “Actually, Floyd, I need you to… win this competition.”

He raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “What, by doing some fancy painting or something? Boring. If you want something painted, Shrimpy, I’ll fish out an octopus to do it for me.”

You take a deep breath. “If you do this, I’ll grant you any wish you want. Plus… an extra reward.”

Floyd pauses, smirking as he steps closer, his voice dropping into an exaggerated whisper. “Any wish, huh? Dangerous promise, Shrimpy.”

You raise an eyebrow, undeterred. “You in or not?”

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he sighs. “Fine. But I’m not painting. I’ve got something much better planned. Just try not to faint in awe, yeah?”

When Floyd finally unveils his “masterpiece,” the room falls silent. Somehow, he’s cobbled together a mosaic made entirely out of shiny rocks he probably pilfered from the palace’s prize garden.

The piece is of you, looking bold and triumphant, wielding what can only be described as a “battle spoon” against some sea monster (you’re guessing it’s supposed to be a shark, but it might just be a rock that looked vaguely fish-like).

“Ta-da!” Floyd announces, throwing his arms out. “The Empress: Rock ‘n’ Roll Edition. I call it, ‘Shrimpy, Queen of the Waves.’”

Despite yourself, you’re mildly… no, very swoony. Somehow, it’s both absurd and… kind of amazing. Floyd’s grin is pure mischief as he winks at you. “Like it, Shrimpy? Don’t worry, I can make one for the garden too.”

But your moment is interrupted by a loud sniffle from across the room. The traitor consort, clearly irate at being outshone, is tearing up, looking at you with big, watery eyes as if you’re the villain in this scenario. Heroine looks one step away from bolting to his side, but he raises a hand, his voice trembling as he murmurs, “No, I only want the Empress to comfort me.”

You shoot a silent plea to the universe, practically chanting, “Please, mercy, mercy…”

Floyd, never one to ignore an opportunity, steps up, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Sorry, bud. Shrimpy’s already spoken for tonight. You’ll have to get in line. Oh, and try not to tear up over her rock portrait, yeah? Not all of us can handle the majesty.”

The crowd erupts in applause, one point to you and Floyd — and you’re pretty sure Heroine’s sulking in the corner, still staring longingly at the sobbing traitor consort, but that’s a future problem. For now, you’ve got a mildly unhinged art piece to hang up and a certain mischievous consort to thank.

It’s another late night in the study when you notice the Heroine, your ever-loyal (if not a little clueless) maid, lingering by the doorway, watching you with an odd expression. At first, you chalk it up to her usual eccentricities. But as the minutes tick by, she doesn’t move, just stands there with a faraway look in her eyes. Finally, you set down your work and gesture for her to come in.

“Hey,” you say gently, “what’s on your mind?”

She hesitates, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “It’s nothing, really…” Then, in a small voice, “It’s just… I never got to study like this.”

Your brow furrows, and as she opens up, the full picture starts to form. The Heroine, despite her noble blood, was barred by her father from studying—her dreams of an education crushed under his outdated beliefs.

She clung to the traitor consort, she confesses, because he seemed like an escape, even if a flimsy one. He was a nobleman with some level of authority, and for her, he felt like the only ticket to a different life.

Understanding sinks in. It’s not love she feels for him at all. It’s desperation, something almost like a distorted version of Stockholm syndrome.

She’s convinced herself he’s her only way out, though it’s clear as day that he doesn’t deserve her loyalty. The man’s barely got two brain cells, but he’s got freedom—and for her, he must have looked like her only way out.

The realization hits you hard, like finding out your favorite dessert is made with broccoli. No wonder she’s been swooning over that guy. She’s not “in love”—she’s just starved for any path out of her cage. Your heart softens, and you give her a gentle, if slightly exasperated, smile.

“Well, that won’t do,” you say firmly. “How about this? I’ll teach you myself. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll get you the education you deserve.”

Her face goes through a series of hilarious expressions, from shock to joy to the kind of wide-eyed, wobbly-lipped excitement normally reserved for puppies seeing their owner after a long day. And so, your lessons begin.

Over the next few weeks, you teach the Heroine to read, and she devours each lesson like a kid in a candy store. She’s throwing herself into her education with such energy, it’s like she’s forgotten the traitor consort entirely.

And you’re thrilled—partly for her growth and partly because it means your coup odds have just dropped by a solid 90%.

Soon, Heroine’s loyalty to you is ironclad, her former starry-eyed infatuation with the traitor consort completely extinguished. You’re so relieved you could dance, and, maybe more importantly, you realize that the kingdom’s other daughters deserve the same chance.

In a flash of imperial inspiration, you draft a new law requiring all daughters, noble or otherwise, to attend the academy. The state will foot the bill, so no one has an excuse to hold their daughters back.

Later that night, feeling unexpectedly sentimental, you return to your room to find Floyd sprawled on your bed, grinning like he’s just heard the world’s juiciest gossip.

“You look smug,” you say, arching an eyebrow.

“Nah, just… pleased,” he drawls, giving you that signature mischievous smirk. And before you know it, he pulls you into a surprisingly tight hug, his arms wrapping around you with unexpected warmth. “Look at my Shrimpy, changing the world one law at a time.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks despite yourself. “Oh, stop it,” you mutter, though you don’t pull away.

He chuckles, giving you an affectionate squeeze. “Nah. You’re doing great, Empress. I’m proud of you.”

You’re speechless. Floyd? Sentimental? But as he holds you, laughing at your stunned expression, you can’t help but feel a little…smitten.

You’re reviewing reports in the study, savoring the rare, blissful calm, when the double doors burst open like some villain from a badly written romance novel. There stands the traitor consort, dressed in what looks like…a suit made of loose, strategically placed peacock feathers, a sequined sash, and—oh, yes—face glitter.

He strikes a pose, does a dramatic hand flip, and announces, “Behold! My love for you is eternal, as boundless as the stars, and as bold as my outfit!”

You're thinking about ordering Floyd to chase him out with a chair, when you catch Heroine’s expression—somewhere between horror and volcanic rage.

With a fierce gleam in her eye, she steps in front of you, looking like she’s about to deliver an exorcism. “You…” she begins, her voice so cold even the peacock feathers on his shoulders look like they might molt in fear. “You miserable, egotistical, fashion-disaster-in-waiting!”

He’s stunned, blinking like a child caught sneaking candy. “W-what? Heroine, you used to help me with my plans!”

“Yeah, well, that was before I got a brain cell,” she snaps. “I actually know my worth now, and it’s definitely not tied to whatever fever-dream cape situation you’ve got going on.” She points to his glittering sash. “What, did you rob an arts-and-crafts store on the way here? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

He stammers, visibly shrinking, feathers quivering with fear. “Y-you were always there for me…”

“That was when I was too naive to realize you were the human equivalent of a trash fire!” She’s in full swing now, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, spitting out insults that would make the court jester blush. “Please, the Empress has standards, and you’re down there with questionable cabbage soup.”

He reels back, totally caught off-guard. By this point, you’re honestly not sure if you should applaud or slowly back away.

With a smirk, you lean forward and say, “Well, since you’re dressed for the occasion, why don’t you strut that ridiculous ensemble back to your own country?”

He opens his mouth, gapes like a fish, and finally closes it, completely defeated. Without another word, he shuffles out, feathers dragging behind him in a sad little pile.

The second he’s out of earshot, you sigh, look up, and thank the universe for finally sparing you from that headache. The Heroine just dusts her hands off, grinning like she’s just won the greatest battle of her life, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how terrifyingly competent she’s become.

Floyd has been hounding you about his reward for days now, showing up at all hours with the persistence of a cat at dinner time. You’re mid-sentence in a policy meeting, mid-sip at dinner, even mid-bath when you hear him shout from outside the door, “Hey, Shrimpy! Remember my prize? Don’t forget now!”

Finally, in a moment of resignation, you sigh and wave him in. “Fine, Floyd. What do you actually want?”

He grins, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that should probably have you worried. “Make me king consort.”

You open your mouth, ready to laugh and then say something like, “No chance,” but then…you pause. Because—why not? He’s loyal, he’s your particular brand of chaos, and honestly, the idea of using it as an excuse to disband the harem is almost too good.

You’d get to tell everyone you’d found the “love of your life” and keep your mornings free of peacock-feathered declarations of eternal devotion.

“Alright, Floyd,” you say, shrugging as if you just agreed to a dinner plan and not a royal title. “You’re king consort.”

For a solid five seconds, he’s frozen, blinking like he’s not sure if you just announced the best prank of the century or an actual royal decision.

Then, with a roar of laughter, he picks you up, actually tossing you in the air like a sack of grain. “SHRIMPY, I’M KING CONSORT! WOOOO!”

Ministers nearby practically leap out of their chairs in terror, and one drops his teacup with a spectacular crash.

“Oh, and by the way,” he says, setting you down but keeping a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t think I forgot—I still get that week alone with you in the countryside. Just you, me, and the great outdoors.”

You’d expected to feel dread, but instead…you’re kind of excited? Because it turns out, when there’s no glittered consort in sight, Floyd’s brand of mayhem might just be exactly what you needed.

You’re slumped on the throne, staring into the void as a minister drones on about the scandalous rise in scarf-wearing among the commoners.

The man is red-faced and foaming at the mouth as if he’s narrating the downfall of civilization itself instead of just… knitted accessories. With each drawn-out sentence, your urge to grab his own scarf and dramatically tie it around his face grows stronger.

“And, Your Majesty, don’t you agree that such… frivolousness undermines the dignity of the empire?” he sputters.

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, one mental toe dangling into the sweet abyss of existential crisis. How did your life get to this point? Did the previous Empress really deal with scarf politics? You contemplate just passing the crown to the nearest potted plant. Surely it couldn’t do worse.

Then, like a savior bathed in sunlight, Floyd appears. He slinks in casually, eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of glee and malice. He takes one look at Wedgeworth’s scarf-induced fervor and rolls his eyes. “Oh, I see the scarf issue is really eating away at the Empire,” Floyd deadpans, clearly unamused at the absurdity.

The minister stammers, blinking like he’s never been interrupted in his life. “Well, actually, I was explaining to Her Majesty—”

Floyd raises a hand. “I’ll take it from here, Lord Scarfington. Very urgent royal matters, wouldn’t want to keep the Empress from them, now would we, hmm?”

The ministers exchange horrified looks, but when Floyd locks eyes with them, his expression darkens into a gaze that could probably scare the teeth off a shark. Ministers shuffle out, muttering about “the sanctity of scarves” and how they “never liked those shellfish folk anyway.”

When you’re finally alone, you look at Floyd, and he gives you a grin. “Come on, Shrimpy, I’ve got a surprise.”

He leads you through a series of narrow, winding hallways you didn’t even know existed until you arrive at a small, hidden courtyard surrounded by high walls and shaded by some flowering trees.

In the middle of it is a picnic spread that looks… questionable. There’s food you don’t recognize: odd, glistening items that could pass as snacks in a very brave galaxy.

“I brought some delicacies from the Coral Sea,” Floyd announces, looking way too proud. “I even cooked some of this myself.”

You smile, hoping he means the less suspicious dishes, but as you take a bite of one of the “unique” items, you immediately realize your error. It’s a taste explosion, and not in a good way; you’re fairly certain you just ate something alive. Floyd’s already laughing, watching you try to hold back a gag.

“Oh, that’s rich, look at your face!” He claps his hands, doubled over with laughter.

But then you try the food he actually cooked, and it’s… it’s really good. Your eyes widen. “Floyd, you didn’t tell me you could cook!”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Guess you just have that effect on me, Shrimpy.”

As you eat, you feel the weight of scarf debates and mundane ministerial crises slip away. Floyd’s teasing you about your reaction to the Coral Sea snacks, you’re pretending to smack him, and somewhere between the laughter and the food, you realize you’re completely relaxed. You’re even… happy.

Then he casually picks up a pillow, eyes glinting with mischief. “Hey, Shrimpy,” he says slowly, “bet I can take you down.”

“Bring it, fish-boy,” you fire back, grabbing a pillow.

A feather flies. Then another. In no time, the two of you are engaged in a full-on pillow war, feathers floating through the air in chaotic puffs. You swing a pillow with all your might, narrowly missing Floyd, who dodges and counters with a playful shove, sending you sprawling onto the blanket, laughing so hard you’re almost crying.

In the flurry of feathers and laughter, you realize just how much you care about him. And as if reading your mind, Floyd suddenly stops, pinning you down, his face hovering just inches above yours. His usual playful grin fades into something softer, more serious, and you find yourself staring up at him, completely captivated.

You kiss him, right there, surrounded by scattered feathers and half-eaten snacks. “I think I’m in love with you, Floyd,” you whisper.

He grins, looking almost smug. “Knew you’d come around eventually, Shrimpy. You’re a smart one.”

You roll your eyes, laughing, and pull him into another kiss, feeling lighter than you have in ages. Whatever royal nonsense tomorrow brings, you know you’ve got him—and for now, that’s more than enough.

Vacation plans with Floyd start out so simple in theory, but the minute he said, “Countryside? Nah, Shrimpy, we’re going under the sea,” you just nodded because, hey, you did promise a reward. Plus, how bad could it be?

Bad, it turns out, is relative. Upon arrival, Jade, Floyd’s brother, gives you a grin that says welcome, poor soul. “So, my brother’s finally gone and gotten himself an Empress. How unexpected,” he says with a glint in his eye that suggests he’s got a bet running on how long you’ll last.

But you’ve barely survived Jade’s interrogation when Azul, Coral Sea’s resident business octopus, swims up with an entire briefcase of contracts and a grin that spells danger.

“Welcome, Your Majesty! I thought we might discuss a mutually beneficial agreement,” he says smoothly, his tone so charming you almost miss that the contract slides in a 50-year lease on your kingdom’s fishing industry.

“So that’s how it is here,” you think, snapping back to business mode. You haggle until both sides are happy, but the second you reach across to shake Azul’s hand, Floyd swoops in, sighing dramatically. He grabs your hand, practically prying it out of Azul’s. “Alright, Shrimpy, enough time with the fish dealer. You’re mine this week.”

Before you can blink, he’s thrown you over his shoulder like you’re a stray potato sack, striding away from an open-mouthed Azul and an utterly delighted Jade who looks like he's a minute away from bursting out popcorn.

By the time he hauls you to your guest room and plops you on the bed, his usual grin has given way to an expression you’ve only seen on annoyed cats. He’s holding your hand in a grip that could rival steel, not letting go even as he sulks like a kid who just lost his favorite toy.

“Floyd,” you say slowly, “is something wrong?”

He looks away, puffing out his cheeks, refusing to answer. It's downright adorable in an overgrown, slightly unhinged eel sort of way. You squint at him, reaching over to grab his face, smushing his cheeks together until he finally makes eye contact. “Hey, I can’t read your mind, Floyd. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He mutters something too low to hear, and you lean closer, arching a brow. “What was that?”

“You’re my Shrimpy,” he grumbles louder, still not meeting your eyes. “And the handshake with that fish scammer went on too long.”

It takes every ounce of self-control not to burst into laughter. “So that’s it, huh?” A laugh slips out despite your efforts, and his pout deepens, though his grip on your hand stays as firm as ever. “You silly eel,” you chuckle, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “As if anyone could match me like you do?”

That does it. His expression softens, the pout melting into that slightly unhinged, overly excited Floyd smile you know too well. “See, Shrimpy, that’s why you’re the only one for me!” he practically shouts before pulling you into a spin that has you clinging to him for dear life.

He kisses you again, and you’re so breathless you half-expect a storm outside to rise to match.

But it doesn’t matter—he’s too busy swearing up and down that he’s not letting anyone else get a “single fin” on you. And somehow, as you laugh together, it feels like you really are on a vacation you never knew you needed.

The ceremony for crowning Floyd as your King Consort goes all-out, much to your delight—and, judging by the expressions around the room, their absolute horror. The whole throne room is so packed with flowers and banners it might as well be a festival.

You’ve made sure that this is a spectacle the diplomats and ministers will never forget. After all, the more smitten you look with Floyd, the less they’ll try to “reason” you out of it. And if they have any opinions about your choice, well, they can keep it to themselves—or they can talk to Floyd.

As you lean in to place the crown on Floyd’s head, he’s giving you a smirk so bright you swear it’s practically a stage light. The second the crown touches his head, he dips you into a kiss that is equal parts “fairytale ending” and “scandalized gasp from the old guard.” The ministers are barely holding in a collective gasp. Someone clutches their chest like they might need medical attention.

Over on the sidelines, you can see Jade and Azul clapping way too enthusiastically for the room’s mood. Meanwhile, everyone else looks like they’re watching you deface a holy artifact. You pull back with a satisfied smile, fully aware of the whispers swirling through the room.

Now, to seal this newfound reign in your own… unique way.

You turn to the front rows where your now-ex-harem stands, looking various shades of awkward and confused. These “prizes” will be going back to their respective nations, and it’s about time. “Ambassadors,” you announce, your tone absolutely oozing sincerity, “I believe you’ll be taking back your… prizes. Enjoy.”

The diplomats exchange looks, clearly unsure if they should feel insulted or relieved. You give them a regal wave and watch as they shuffle out with the ex-consorts in tow, one of whom lets out a dramatic sigh loud enough to reach the rafters.

Just as the room finally starts calming down, you glance over at the row of your ministers—many of whom look like they’d rather have run off with the consorts.

These are the ancient relics of nepotism who have only ever accomplished growing their own egos and possibly a few money-siphoning schemes. You decide now’s the time to deal with them, too.

Smiling so politely it almost looks sweet, you say, “Ministers, thank you for your service. But I’m sure you’ll understand when I say…” You pause, voice dropping to an icy sweetness, “You’re dismissed. Please kindly fuck right off.”

Several of the men freeze, as if unsure they heard you correctly. One or two start spluttering, “But—Your Majesty—this is—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Floyd cuts in, grinning from ear to ear, clearly enjoying this far too much. “You’re free to go! You wouldn’t want to disappoint the Empress, would ya?”

It takes a second, but the room clears of protesting ministers soon enough. Then you turn to the waiting group of young scholars, women who fought their way up to the top on pure merit, many of them owing their presence here to your recently passed education reforms. “Welcome,” you say with a genuine smile. "Your interviews will be conducted tomorrow"

Their reactions are priceless. Several tear up on the spot, whispering thank-yous so heartfelt you nearly tear up yourself. One of them murmurs, “This is a dream come true. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

You feel a swell of pride. This is what you’ve wanted to see—a competent court, fresh talent, and the chance to make a real difference. Just as you’re soaking in the satisfaction of this triumph, Floyd leans over, clearly up to something.

“You’re done now, yeah?” he asks with a conspiratorial grin.

“Uh, yes?” You've barely said the words, only for him to suddenly scoop you up and throw you over his shoulder, entirely ignoring the royal dignity of it all. The young scholars stare, completely unsure of whether to salute or run.

“Floyd!” you half-laugh, half-scold. “You could at least let me walk out on my own!”

“Nah,” he says, casually strolling down the hall with you like you’re a sack of potatoes. “You’re mine now, Shrimpy. And besides, it’s tradition for the King Consort to carry his Empress, isn’t it?”

“I’m pretty sure it isn’t,” you mutter, but you wave cheerfully at everyone as you’re carried off.

As he strides out of the throne room, ignoring the horrified gasps and protests behind you both, Floyd grins. “Any more old men to fire? ‘Cause I’m having a great time.”

You shake your head, smiling. After all, you’re the Empress—who’s going to stop you now?

Your empire has transformed. The old guard, once weighed down by nothing but scarves and scandals, has finally given way to a bright-eyed group of scholars and ministers, most of whom—much to the old ministers' horror—are brilliant young women now leading the realm.

Among them is your ex-maid, the heroine herself, newly appointed as Minister of Diplomatic Affairs and already so intimidatingly competent that foreign diplomats quake just a bit when she enters the room.

And the grandest twist of all: you declare that your successor will not be by blood but by merit. The heir to the throne will be the sharpest, most capable mind in the empire, regardless of their birth.

You’re already giddy as you imagine the ambitious parents prepping their offspring for the grueling tests you’re planning—challenges you’ll design alongside your newly assembled council.

After hours of being regal and respectable, you finally get back to your chambers, ready for a night of blissfully ignoring politics. Floyd, your beloved eel, is already sprawled on the couch like he’s conquered half the known world, arms open and ready to receive you. You practically collapse into his embrace, sighing as you burrow against him.

“So, Shrimpy,” he drawls, smirking. “Fix the whole empire yet?”

“Almost,” you laugh. “At least I’ve retired the Scarf Parliament. That’s enough for today.”

You snuggle closer, closing your eyes, and for a second, you think back to the ridiculous, drama-filled story that threw you into this life. Maybe the original author had a point, or maybe she just really liked throwing you curveballs.

Either way, cuddled up with the love of your life while your empire flourishes, you can’t help but think, yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[millyh23]

Based on this request

Growing pains

Emily Fox x Reader

Word count: 3k

A/N : I tried my best to do it justice and got a little carried away my vape also died on me so I cannot be held responsible for how this flows. It is abit choppy I might come back and edit it one day 🤞

_________________________________________________

The campus buzzed with life as students rushed between classes, the air thick with the scent of autumn leaves and fresh coffee. You found yourself sitting in the corner of the bustling café on campus, a favorite spot for many. It was here that you first met Emily Fox.

You had heard of her—an up-and-coming star in women’s football, her talent already drawing attention. But it was her infectious smile and genuine personality that captivated you as she sat at a corner table, sketching out plays in her notebook, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Hey, are you always this focused, or is it just that impressive?” you joked, startling her out of her thoughts. She looked up, surprise morphing into a radiant smile that lit up her face.

“Thanks! Just trying to figure out my game plan,” she replied, her cheeks tinged with a hint of pink. “I’m Emily.”

“Y/n,” you introduced yourself, feeling an instant connection.

From that moment, you spent more time together, shared late-night study sessions, and discovered a rhythm that felt natural. Emily was vibrant and passionate about football, and you admired her determination to succeed on and off the pitch. You often joked that she was destined for greatness.

One evening, as you walked through the campus under the stars, you turned to her, heart racing. “Do you think we’re growing apart?”

Emily paused, her brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know… with everything you have going on, I just feel like I’m losing you,” you admitted, vulnerability creeping into your voice.

“Hey, you’re not losing me. I promise,” she assured you, her eyes locking onto yours with sincerity. “I want you to be part of this journey.”

With those words, you felt a surge of hope, believing that love could conquer all challenges.

As the months rolled on, Emily’s dedication to football intensified. She spent hours training, attending team practices, and preparing for matches that could determine her future. Each time she came back to you, excitement radiating from her, but you noticed the subtle shifts in her demeanor.

One afternoon, you found her sitting on the floor of her dorm, surrounded by scattered gear, energy bars, and notes about her upcoming matches. “I got selected for the national team camp!” she exclaimed, eyes sparkling with ambition.

“That’s amazing!” you replied, trying to mask the twinge of envy that crept in. “When do you leave?”

“In two weeks,” she said, her voice filled with determination. “I have to practice every day.”

You couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride for her but also a gnawing worry that she was slipping away. The more she succeeded, the more you felt like a bystander in her life.

“Emily, can we talk?” you asked one evening, your voice shaky as you sat across from her at a small table in the café.

“Of course! What’s on your mind?” she replied, her attention focused on you, but you could see the tension lurking in her smile.

“I feel like you’re so focused on your football that I’m becoming background noise,” you confessed, your heart pounding. “I want to support you, but I also need to feel like I matter.”

Her expression shifted, surprise and guilt washing over her. “I didn’t realize you felt that way. I’m sorry; I’m just so caught up in everything. I promise I’ll make more time for us.”

You nodded, hoping she meant it, but as the days passed, the distance between you began to widen. You found yourself waiting for her texts, counting the minutes until she could squeeze you into her busy schedule.

The breaking point came one rainy afternoon. You were both sitting in her dorm, drenched from the downpour outside, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken words.

“Emily, this isn’t working,” you finally said, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “I feel like I’m fighting for your attention, and it’s exhausting.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m trying! You have to understand how important this is to me!”

“I do understand, but you’re losing sight of us!” you shouted, the words escaping before you could stop them. Silence enveloped the room, the tension palpable.

“Maybe we just need a break,” Emily suggested hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

The suggestion stung, but you felt the truth behind it. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t want to hold you back.”

As the words hung in the air, you both knew it was the beginning of the end. You parted ways that day, hearts heavy with the weight of what could have been.

The following months were a blur of loneliness and heartache. Emily threw herself into her training, while you drowned in studies and late nights, each passing day a reminder of what you once had.

Friends encouraged you to move on, but the memories lingered, haunting your thoughts. You often found yourself at the café where you first met, nursing a cup of coffee, listening to other athletes talk about their dreams. Each story reminded you of Emily, the way she would light up when discussing her passion for football.

One night, as you sat alone, a familiar melody caught your attention. The sound of a sports broadcast filled the café, and you looked up to see highlights of Emily’s matches playing on the screen. She was a force on the field, her talent undeniable, and you felt a mix of pride and sorrow.

In that moment, you realized that while she was thriving, the emptiness inside you grew. You threw yourself into your own passions, each small victory a bittersweet reminder of what could have been. Yet, deep down, you both felt the pull of what you had shared, the love that still lingered beneath the surface.

Eventually, fate brought you back together, the spark still igniting the air between you. The years of heartbreak and longing had transformed into a deeper understanding of each other. Emily’s eyes held a new light, one that spoke of lessons learned and experiences gained.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, her voice soft yet steady. “I’ve learned so much about myself… and us.”

“Me too,” you replied, heart racing as you stepped closer, the distance between you feeling both familiar and foreign. “Maybe we can find a way to make this work, this time.”

As the days turned into weeks, you found your rhythm again, but the fear of losing each other loomed like a shadow over your budding connection. Just when things seemed to be stabilizing, Emily received a major national team call-up.

The news sent shockwaves through your relationship, igniting a whirlwind of emotions.

“I can’t believe this is happening!” she exclaimed one afternoon, excitement radiating from her. “I’ve been selected to train with the national team! This could be my chance to play in the World Cup!”

“That’s incredible, Em!” you replied, masking the anxiety that bubbled beneath the surface. “When do you leave?”

“They want me to start training in two weeks,” she said, her voice tinged with excitement. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted!”

You felt a lump in your throat. “What about us?” you asked, fear creeping into your voice. “You know how hard it was to be apart before. Do you really think we can handle that again?”

Emily’s face fell, the joy of the opportunity overshadowed by the weight of your words. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, her eyes wide with concern. “But I can’t turn this down. It’s my dream.”

You felt a mix of pride and dread. On one hand, you were thrilled about her success, but on the other, the thought of losing her again felt suffocating. “I want you to chase your dreams, Em. But what about us? What if this opportunity takes you away for good?”

The tension hung between you like a heavy fog, and you both knew that the stakes were high. You could see the internal struggle reflected in her eyes—a fierce desire for her dreams clashing with the love she felt for you.

“I’ve worked so hard to get here,” she said, her voice trembling. “But I don’t want to lose you either.”

In that moment, you both stood at a crossroads, the weight of your love and her ambition pressing down on you. It was a painful reminder that sometimes, love wasn’t enough to bridge the gap between two people with their own dreams.

As the decision day approached, the air between you felt charged with unspoken words and emotions. You both had been trying to navigate this new reality, but the tension was palpable. You caught glimpses of Emily’s excitement, but the shadows of doubt loomed larger.

One night, you found yourselves sitting on her bed, the room dimly lit by fairy lights. Emily was scrolling through her phone, showing you images from her recent matches, her face alight with enthusiasm.

“Look at this crowd!” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I can’t believe how far I’ve come.”

“I’m so proud of you,” you replied, forcing a smile as your heart tightened. “But… do you think you’ll have time for us if this all takes off?”

The question hung in the air, a fragile thread that threatened to snap at any moment. Emily’s smile faltered, and she looked away, her expression shifting. “I want to make time for us, but… I don’t know how. Everything is happening so fast.”

You reached out, taking her hand in yours. “I just don’t want to be the one holding you back. Your dreams matter, and I want you to chase them.”

Emily’s eyes filled with tears, and she squeezed your hand tightly, as if anchoring herself to you. “I don’t want to lose you either. You’re such a huge part of my life, but I’m terrified of what this could mean for us.”

Her vulnerability struck a chord deep within you. You could see the conflict in her eyes—the desire to succeed battling against the fear of losing the one person who had always supported her.

“Maybe we can find a way to make it work,” you suggested hesitantly. “I can support you, and we can communicate more. We can figure it out together.”

“Can we?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to mess this up again.”

As the days turned into a blur of training sessions and late-night calls, you both attempted to navigate the emotional landscape of your relationship. Each time Emily shared her excitement about the national team, you felt an ache in your chest—a mix of pride and fear for the future.

One evening, you attended a small match where Emily was playing. The venue was packed, and the energy was electric. As she took the field, you felt a rush of excitement and admiration. She was in her element, pouring her heart into every play.

Yet, as you watched her from the stands, a familiar pang of insecurity settled in. Surrounded by adoring fans, you couldn’t help but wonder if she would forget about you in the whirlwind of her rising fame.

After the game, as you both stepped outside into the cool night air, the weight of unspoken words hung between you.

“Did you see the way they reacted?” she said, her eyes bright with exhilaration. “I feel alive out there!”

“I saw,” you replied, forcing a smile. “You were amazing.”

“Thank you! I really want to keep doing this,” she said, her voice filled with passion. But as she spoke about her future, you felt a sense of dread creeping in.

“Em, what happens if you get too busy? If you’re away for games, will you even have time for us?” you asked, your voice trembling.

She looked taken aback, the excitement fading from her expression. “I don’t want to think about that right now,” she admitted, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I just want to enjoy this moment.”

The confrontation hung in the air, the joy of her success now marred by the fear of losing connection. You both stood at the intersection of love and ambition, struggling to find a path forward that wouldn’t tear you apart.

Days turned into weeks, and the tension only grew as Emily’s schedule became increasingly demanding. Late-night practices, meetings with coaches, and promotional events filled her calendar, leaving little room for your relationship.

You found yourself alone more often than not, scrolling through your phone, staring at the pictures of the two of you—smiles frozen in time, memories that felt like distant echoes. You missed her laughter, her warmth, and the simple moments you once shared.

One evening, you decided to surprise her at the training facility, hoping to rekindle the spark that felt dimmed. As you entered, the sound of whistles and chatter filled the air, but it wasn’t the same. This time, she was working, focused and driven, surrounded by teammates and coaches who spoke in jargon that made your head spin.

“Hey, Em!” you called out, stepping into the field with a hopeful smile.

“Y/n!” she exclaimed, her face brightening momentarily before shifting back to business. “I’m so glad you’re here! I’m in the middle of this drill—can I catch you in a bit?”

Your heart sank at the sight of her so engrossed in her work. “Sure,” you replied, forcing a smile. But as you stood there, watching her chase her dreams, a wave of sadness washed over you.

Time slipped away as you waited, the excitement fading into uncertainty. You felt like a ghost in her world, a shadow flickering at the edges of her bright future. When she finally finished, she rushed over, her hair tousled and eyes shining.

“I’m sorry! Practice ran longer than I thought,” she said, her voice laced with guilt. “I really wanted to spend time with you.”

“I understand,” you replied, trying to sound supportive. But the worry gnawed at you. “It’s just… I miss you, Em. I miss us.”

Her expression softened, and she took your hands in hers. “I miss you too. It’s just so overwhelming right now. I want to make this work, but everything is moving so fast.”

You both knew that love and ambition could coexist, but the reality of balancing both felt daunting. The thought of losing her to her dreams terrified you, yet the idea of holding her back felt equally unbearable.

As the deadline for her decision loomed closer, the pressure mounted. You both spent nights discussing the possibilities, weighing the pros and cons of her taking the national team spot.

“I want you to have this,” you said one night as you sat on the floor of her dorm, surrounded by her football gear. “But I also don’t want to lose you in the process.”

Emily looked at you, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “What if I take this deal and it works out? But what if it doesn’t? What if I leave and realize I made a mistake?”

“That’s the risk we take,” you replied, your heart aching. “But I want you to pursue your dreams. Just know that I’ll be here, waiting for you.”

The weight of your words hung heavy in the air. It was a bittersweet acknowledgment of the reality you both faced—a love that could either flourish or falter in the face of ambition.

The day of the decision arrived, and the tension was palpable. You both knew that whatever she chose would shape the course of your relationship.

As you sat together, Emily’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of the couch, her expression a mix of fear and determination. “I don’t want to let you go,” she finally said, her voice trembling.

“You don’t have to let me go,” you replied, your heart racing. “But you need to chase your dreams. You owe it to yourself.”

Tears streamed down her face as she looked at you. “I love you, Y/n. You’ve always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.”

“And I always will,” you promised, your voice steady. “But I need you to believe in us too. We can find a way to make this work, even if it’s hard.”

Emily took a deep breath, her eyes shining with hope. “Okay. I’ll take the spot,” she said, her voice filled with resolve. “But I won’t let it come between us. I’ll make time for us, no matter what.”

In that moment, you both understood that love and ambition could coexist. It wouldn’t be easy, but with communication and trust, you could navigate the challenges together.

As you wrapped your arms around her, the weight of uncertainty lifted, replaced by a shared commitment to face whatever came next.

With newfound maturity, you both took a leap of faith, ready to embrace the messiness of love and life together. You began to communicate more openly, sharing your fears and dreams in a way you never had before.

“I want to support your career, but I also need to feel like I’m important in your life,” you said one evening as you sat on a park bench, watching the sunset.

“I promise, I’ll make time for us,” Emily replied, her hand finding yours. “I’ve learned that balance is key.”

As the weeks turned into months, you both navigated the complexities of your relationship, learning to trust one another and communicate openly. The journey of growing up was never easy, but with each step forward, you discovered that love, in all its complexities, was worth fighting for.

As graduation approached, both of you stood on the precipice of new beginnings. Emily was poised to embark on her football career while you prepared for a future that seemed brighter than ever.

“I can’t believe we made it this far,” you said one night, sitting on the roof of her dorm, the stars twinkling above like a promise of hope.

“We did it together,” she replied, leaning into you, her warmth wrapping around you like a blanket.

With a newfound understanding of love and ambition, you both faced the future with open hearts, ready to embrace whatever challenges lay ahead.

“Whatever happens, I want you by my side,” Emily said, her gaze steady and filled with determination.

“Always,” you promised, sealing it with a kiss that tasted of hope and the promise of forever.

_________________________________________________

The End.

[pitchsidestories]

10 Things I Hate About You (2) II Alexia Putellas x Reader

Can be read before part 1

part 1 I part 3 I masterlist I word count: 2255

2017

Your first day as a player for FC Barcelona was about to start. With a deep sigh you entered the facilities. Overwhelmed by the amount of new impressions, you didn’t realize that another person stepped to you. You flinched in surprise when you heard a female voice say; “Hola! Are you new here too?“

“Actually, I am.“, you answered, turning around to the other young woman. She was blonde and wore a big smile on her face. She held out her hand for you to shake it; “Oh good. Hi, I’m Mapi.“ “Nice to meet you, Mapi.“, you smiled, taking her hand and introduced yourself. “Pleasure.“, she grinned. For some reason, her presence calmed you a bit. “Ready to meet the rest? They do have quite the talented squad.“, you asked. Mapi just shrugged; “That’s what I heard. But we wouldn’t be here if the coaches didn’t think we could keep up with them.“ “True.“, you had to admit, your nervousness almost gone.

“Hi, guys. You must be new here.“, another player chimed in who introduced herself as Aitana. The team mate next to her, named Alexia just rolled her eyes; “And already late.“ You gave her an apologetic smile; “Yeah, we got a bit lost at first.“ “But we’re here now.“, Mapi added, gesturing towards the both of you. You nodded; “And ready to play.“ But your enthusiasm was not well received. You could feel Alexias scrutinizing glance on you; “We’ll see about that.“

Another player, Leila, gave you an encouraging wink; “Ale is just worried one of you will steal her place.“ “That’s not going to happen.“, Alexia shook her head with determination. Mapi casually ignored her new team mates bad mood; “Yeah, I’m a defender so no worries, Ale.“ “I wasn’t worried to begin with.“, she snapped and turned around to make her way towards the pitch. You watched her with raised eyebrows, leaning over to Leila; “Is she always like that?“ “She’s different when you get to know her. Trust me.“, she assured you, laughing. Together, you followed her for your first training session with Barcelona. “I hope you’re right.“ Leila smiled confidently; “Trust me, I am.“

During the training session you could feel Alexias eyes staring intensely at you and you asked yourself why she did that. Was it true what Leila said earlier? That she was worried you could take away her position she already built for herself at this club. Anyway, you could not think about this observation for too long as you needed to concentrate on what the coach wanted to see from you and your teammates. Becoming a part of this special team was a childhood dream come true for you and you wanted to show him that he should consider you as part of the starting line. No matter what a certain number 11 thought of that.

After the training the coach wanted to speak to you and Alexia.” You too..”, he started. Alert to the tone in his voice you interrupted him:” Yes?” “What is it?”, the brunette woman added impatient. The older man cleared his throat: “I want you two to play together.” “Uhm you do.”, unsure you looked to the other midfielder. This was too much for Alexia, she didn’t like his idea at all: ”What?” “Yes but.”, the coach tried to intervene. Expectantly you waited for him to continue: “But?” “No, whatever it’s, it’s a no from me.”, the brunette shook her head. You clicked your tongue at her: “Wait, let him explain his idea first.” “Shut up. You just want playtime on my position.”, she hissed. Calmly you admitted :”Of course I want to play too.” “Then get in line.”, Alexia grumpily demanded. Determined you answered: “No.” “No?!”, the midfielder repeated in disbelief.

“Oh please, you’re not the only one with ambition and to whom this club means a lot. Besides you’re only a year older than me so stop being so full of yourself.”, you scolded her. Everyone knew her history by now, she was the young shining star of this team, and you tried not to be blinded by that fact, besides she only showed you her ugly side so far. Much later you’d realize how similar your two ways have been and what a wonder it was that your paths hadn’t crossed earlier. Suspiciously Alexia threw an eyebrow up: “If this club means so much to you then why did you join only now.” “I had some difficult injuries in the past but now I’m here.”, you swallowed hard. Drily the brunette commented without showing any empathy in her eyes:“I’ll feel bad for you later.”

You let out a huff and cocked your head; “Oh please, I don’t need your pity, princessa.“ “Call me princessa one more time.“, Alexia pressed through gritted teeth. But you didn’t let yourself be intimated by her. “Or what? Will your fake eyelashes fall off, princessa?“, you continued. Slowly, she nodded. Her smile was more a teeth-baring than an actual smile; “You think you can make fun of me? I’ll show you on the pitch, little one.“ “I’ll be ready.“, you answered and completely ignored your coach who looked at the two of you in exasperation; “You’re supposed to work together, not against each other!“ “Say goodbye to your career then.“, Alexia replied unimpressed. You crossed your arms in front of your chest; “Oh, I don’t give up that easily.“

“Girls!“, your coach finally called for attention. You looked at him surprised; “Yes?“ “You either play together or none of you plays!“, he threatened, his tone did not allow any discussion. Though, Alexia tried it anyway; “Wait. Are you serious? You can’t do that to me. I’ve been playing here for a long time already!“ “You heard me.“, he ended the conversation and left. Alexia barely looked at you as she followed him out of the room.

Sighing, you almost ran into Leila on your wait. “Do you want to get dinner with some of us tonight?“, she asked full of excitement. You needed a moment to understand the questions, your thoughts were still spinning around the conversation from a moment ago. “Oh. I’d love to but I can’t. My little sister arrived today.“, you shrugged apologetically, giving her a half-smile. Leilas face turned serious; “Oh. I understand if you want to show her around and stuff. But you can also bring her if you want.“ “Really? I’ll ask her.“ You pulled out your phone, texting your younger sister who replied within seconds with several Partying Face-Emojis. “We’re both coming.“, you told Leila with a smile. She clapped her hands happily; “Amazing. I’ll text you the address.“ “Great, I can’t wait.“

You and your sister were some of the first people at the restaurant. You were happy to see Mapi when she arrived only a few minutes after you. “Who’s that?“, she asked when she sat down. Her gaze fixed on your sister. “Oh, that’s my younger sister.“, you explained, gesturing towards her. She smiled at Mapi with big doe eyes “Hi, you must be Mapi.“ They shook hand across the table. “I am.“, Mapi confirmed, blood rushing into her cheeks. “Pleasure to meet you.“

“Marta, do you know if Ale is coming with Alba aswell?”, Leila asked her teammate casually. The older defender nodded smiling:“Yes, I think she said they wanted to come.” “Oh god, no.”, you muttered as you realized the notorious midfielder was coming too tonight. Confused Marta looked at you: ”What?” “Alexia hates me.”, you informed her. Amused Leila asked: “After one day here?” “Yes.” “That must be a new record.”, the defender laughed. From her you wanted to know: “Does she hate every midfielder who comes new to the team?” “No, she doesn’t.”, Leila answered seriously. Truthfully Marta added, not without a wink: “Alexia only hates the ones who she thinks will be her biggest competition.” “Oh really?”, you said not completely convinced by what they said. This could not be only the reason for Alexias’s hatred, right?

Playfully Aitana pouted: “I take that as offense.” “You’re still young Aitana your time to shine will come.”, Leila promised the young midfielder.  In a cheerful tone Marta told her:“ Don’t worry. They’re probably just too similar. That’s all.” “The similarities are creepy.”, Aitana admitted smirking. “I don’t see any similarity.”, you interjected. This did not stop the young midfielder from starting to count the things she thought you had in common with Alexia: ”The position, the younger sisters, the clear ambition to be the best, the early death of a parent.”  “Still that does not make us the same person.”, you remarked. A small grin was on Aitana’s lips as she concluded:  “Not the same but very similar.”

Suddenly the person they were talking about was standing at the end of the table and was throwing an apologetic smile at her teammates: „Sorry for being late but Albs could not decide what dress she wanted to wear.” Alba was poking the brunette with her elbow slightly into the side for her comment.  “As long as you’re here now.”, Mariona waved it off. “Exactly sit down, you’re lucky we started with drinks first.”, Patri told the arriving sisters. Alexia’s smile froze as she spotted you:”Drinks are the most important part of the evening anyway. Wait.. who invited her?” You could feel the temperature dropping around the table.

“Me.”, Leila answered who was in a good mood besides her teammates cool tone. She kept asking:“Why would you do that?” “Because she’s new and a restaurant visit is a great way to get to know the other teammates.”, the older woman replied nonchalantly.Alexia took a deep breath to collect herself and sighed; “Right. I’ll need more drinks than that if I have to spend the evening with her around.“ Her team mates didn’t disappoint. As the evening went on, they made sure Alexia always had a drink in hand. The later it got, the more relaxed she seemed to be. Mostly thanks to the alcohol.

Around midnight, Mapi leaned over to her, pointing a finger; “Oh, I know why you behave like that!“ “Like what?“, Alexia asked, scrunching her nose. “In front of her. You have a crush.“, Mapi explained, nodding into your direction. Alexia let out a high pitched laugh; “Don’t be ridiculous.“ “I’m not. You are!“, Mapi grinned back at her. With a smile, Alexia shook her head, eyes fixed on her team mate; “You know, Mapi, you’re pretty funny. I’d like you if you weren’t friends with her.“ The defender raised an eyebrow; “Excuse me? I’m very serious. And we’re both just new to the team.“ “But you already spend a lot of time with her, so… looks like we can never be friends.“, Alexia replied, taking a long sip of her red wine. Alba joined them, clinking her glass to Mapis; “Ale’s just joking. She already likes you, Mapi.“ “I think she does. I like her too.“, the defender answered, amused. “But you like her as well.“, Alexia complained, her gaze flicking to you for half a second. Her new teammate nodded slowly; “I do. She’s my friend too.“

There was silence for a while before a smirk appeared on Alexias lips again; “Speaking of crushes, you and her sister…“ Wide-eyed, Mapi cut her off immediately; “No. Absolutely not. Forget about it. You say you don’t have a crush, I say I don’t have a crush. We leave it at that.“ “But you’re clearly-“ “No.“,Mapi curtly but with certainty.“Okay, got it.“, the midfielder finally gave in. “Thank you.“ “You’re welcome.“, she laughed. “Do you want another drink?“, Mapi offered. “Yes.“ “Here you go.“ Alexia eyed the drink that Mapi had pushed in front of her with a sceptical expression; “Thanks.“

A few weeks after this first team event, things between you and Alexia hadn’t changed much. The loss in your first game of the season was not exactly helpful either.

Once again, the coach called you two back into his office. “What did you two think you were doing?“, he yelled. Taken aback by the sudden outburst, you plainly answered; “Playing?“ “That doesn’t work if you two keep ignoring each other!“ Alexia gestured towards you, clearly offended; “She’s just not fast enough.“ “I don’t want to hear anything! I never say this to any of my players but this time it is true. You two lost us this game!“ Intimidated you looked up; “We’ll win the next one. Promise.“ Decidedly, he shook his head; “No. I don’t want any empty promises. I want actions. You two will come early before training tomorrow and work on this!“

Startled Mapi looked at Alexia who stormed into the changing room:“Ale, what did the coach want from you two?” “He’s an idiot.”, the midfielder mumbled grumpily. The blonde tried to soothe the nerves of the brunette: “Ale.” “We have extra training together. Tomorrow.”, Alexia groaned exasperated.

Cautiously Mapi answered:” Actually, that sounds like a good idea.” “Oh, shut up, Mapi.”, the midfielder hissed. But this did not intimidate the defender at all:” You can pretend to hate her all you want but I saw how you look at her when she’s not watching.” “Have you ever considered getting yourself some glasses? Because you’re obviously not seeing right.”, the brunette sneered. Amused the blonde rolled her eyes:” Sure, Ale.” “Keep your mouth closed, Mapi. You might find it funny, but I can’t deal with her.”

“You’ll have to though she’s part of the team now.”, Mapi remarked with a knowing smile.

[mya-valentine]

Dances of Intrigue

Synopsis: In Sumeru, a spunky dancer, friends with Nilou, clashes with the serious scholar Alhaithim. After Kaveh challenges them to a dance-off, they unexpectedly bond on stage, breaking down their barriers and sparking a connection that hints at a deeper relationship.

The sun began to set over the radiant city of Sumeru, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple. In the heart of the city, the Grand Theatre bustled with energy as dancers prepared for an evening performance. Among them was you, a talented dancer with a spunky attitude that often drew attention—both positive and negative.

You had a close friendship with Nilou, the star dancer of Sumeru, who was always supportive of your dreams and ambitions. While you both shared a passion for dance, your personalities contrasted sharply. Nilou radiated kindness and grace, while you were more spontaneous and fiery, often unafraid to challenge the status quo.

As you stretched in the backstage area, Kaveh, the charming and somewhat reckless architect, appeared, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re looking fierce today! What’s on your mind, my spirited dancer?” he teased, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“Just thinking about how I’m going to blow everyone away tonight,” you replied, a smirk on your face. “Especially that stiff Alhaithim. He thinks he knows everything about the world of art and culture.”

Kaveh chuckled. “Ah, Alhaithim! The esteemed scholar who thinks he’s the ultimate authority on everything. You’ll have to give him a run for his money then.”

“Or maybe I’ll just give him a reason to loosen up a little,” you retorted, a glimmer of mischief in your eyes.

“Why don’t you give it a shot?” Kaveh encouraged, clearly enjoying the idea. “I’d love to see his reaction when he realizes that not everything can be explained through theory.”

Before you could respond, Nilou floated in, her presence a calming balm amidst the chaos. “What are you two plotting now?” she asked, tilting her head in curiosity.

“Just some friendly banter about Alhaithim,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “I don’t get why he has to be so… well, serious all the time.”

Nilou smiled knowingly. “He does have his reasons. But maybe you could find common ground. He’s not as unapproachable as he seems.”

“Not to me, he isn’t,” you muttered, brushing your hair behind your ear.

Kaveh leaned closer, his voice conspiratorial. “Why don’t you challenge him? Show him the world of art isn’t just about theory—it’s about feeling.”

“I like the sound of that,” you said, a playful grin spreading across your face.

As the performance approached, the atmosphere grew tenser with anticipation. You could see Alhaithim across the stage, deep in conversation with a few audience members, his posture composed, his expression unreadable. He radiated an aura of confidence, yet there was a hint of detachment that intrigued you.

Just as you were about to make your way toward him, Nilou placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Maybe take a deep breath first? He can be a bit intimidating.”

“Intimidating? Please,” you replied with a dramatic flair, though you felt a flutter of nerves. “I’ve danced in front of crowds. This will be easy.”

As the performance began, you watched the audience's reactions, the rhythm of the music pulsing through your veins. When it was finally your turn to perform, you stepped onto the stage with grace, your heart pounding in your chest. Every movement you made was filled with passion and fire, captivating the audience, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Alhaithim’s eyes were fixated on you.

Once your performance concluded, the crowd erupted in applause. You bowed gracefully, searching for Alhaithim in the audience. His expression was neutral, but you could tell he was analyzing every aspect of your dance.

“You did well,” Kaveh said, clapping you on the back as you stepped off the stage. “Alhaithim actually looked impressed.”

“Or just confused,” you retorted, catching sight of Alhaithim approaching.

“Ah, the illustrious dancer,” he said, his tone cool and measured. “Your performance was… unique.”

“Unique? Is that your way of saying you didn’t like it?” you challenged, crossing your arms.

Alhaithim raised an eyebrow. “I find uniqueness intriguing. It presents an opportunity for analysis.”

“See? Always with the theories,” you said, shaking your head. “Can’t you just enjoy it for what it is?”

“I can, but enjoying art without understanding it is like trying to dance without knowing the steps,” he countered, his voice steady.

“Maybe you should loosen up a little,” you shot back. “You might find you enjoy things more without all the rules.”

Kaveh and Nilou exchanged amused glances, sensing the tension between you two.

“Maybe a dance-off would help,” Kaveh suggested, a smirk on his face. “Let’s see if Alhaithim can keep up with you!”

“Absolutely not,” Alhaithim replied, clearly unamused. But the slight twitch of his lips suggested he was more intrigued than he let on.

“Oh, come on! Just one dance,” you encouraged, stepping closer, your confidence bubbling. “I promise I won’t step on your toes—unless you’re really bad.”

“Or unless you want to show off,” Kaveh teased, nudging you.

Alhaithim regarded you with a steady gaze, his demeanor unyielding. “I have no intention of making a fool of myself.”

“Then what’s the harm in trying?” you persisted, undeterred. “Just a little fun, Alhaithim. Dance like no one is watching.”

“You are persistent,” he noted, a hint of admiration creeping into his voice. “Fine, but I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

“Deal!” you declared, grinning widely.

As the music began again, you took Alhaithim's hand and led him to the makeshift dance floor. The other performers gathered around, eager to witness the spectacle. You could feel the energy in the air, a mix of excitement and anticipation.

Alhaithim’s movements were stiff at first, but you guided him, demonstrating a few simple steps. The crowd cheered, and you couldn’t help but feel exhilarated as you twirled and swayed, your spirit infectious.

“Loosen your shoulders!” you called out, laughing. “Let the music guide you!”

To your surprise, Alhaithim began to relax, his steps becoming more fluid. There was a spark in his eyes, a flicker of joy that made your heart race. As you danced, the tension between you softened, giving way to an unexpected camaraderie.

“You see?” you said breathlessly, your voice laced with excitement. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, a small smile breaking through his usual stoic demeanor.

As the song reached its crescendo, you spun and leaped, inviting Alhaithim to join you in a more elaborate routine. He hesitated at first, but then followed your lead, the crowd erupting into applause at the sight of the esteemed scholar dancing.

When the music finally stopped, you both stood there, panting and laughing, the earlier animosity forgotten.

“Maybe you’re not as insufferable as I thought,” you teased, nudging him playfully.

Alhaithim met your gaze, his expression softening. “And perhaps you’re not as reckless as I assumed.”

“See? We can find common ground,” you said, your heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with the dance.

“Perhaps we can,” he replied, his voice low, a hint of warmth in his eyes.

As the night continued and the atmosphere filled with laughter and camaraderie, you found yourself drawn to Alhaithim in a way you hadn’t expected. The dance had broken down barriers, revealing a connection that hinted at something more.

Kaveh and Nilou watched from the sidelines, satisfied smiles on their faces. Kaveh nudged Nilou playfully. “Looks like we have a budding romance on our hands.”

“Or at least a friendship that could lead somewhere,” Nilou replied, her eyes twinkling with delight. “I knew they would find common ground.”

With the stars twinkling above and the city of Sumeru alive with celebration, you realized that sometimes, the most unexpected connections could blossom in the unlikeliest of places. As you shared laughter and stories with Alhaithim, you couldn’t help but wonder what the future held for both of you—a dance of intrigue that had only just begun.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[twistiraki]

🎀Headcanons how Twisted Wonderland boys met you and what kind of family you'd have 🎀 Scarabia and Pomefiore

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗ TᗯIᔕTEᗪ ᗯOᑎᗪEᖇᒪᗩᑎᗪ Characters Kalim, Jamil, Vil, Rook, Epel x F!Reader Warnings none ‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

🦦Kalim Al-Asim

Y/n’s got introduced by Kalim's father as a suitable marriage candidate due to her wealthy family background, Y/n and Kalim began their relationship as friends. However, as they spent more time together, they realized their connection ran much deeper. Kalim's cheerful nature complemented Y/n's intelligence, and she completed him in ways he never expected. They fell in love for who they truly were, appreciating each other's dreams and ambitions, forming a strong and loving partnership.

Y/n and Kalim have a bustling and joyful household with currently five children. They are blessed with three boys named Wasim, Omar, and Amir, and two girls named Laiha and Almira . Currently, Y/n is pregnant with twin girls, and the family eagerly awaits their arrival. Kalim's genuinely friendly and cheerful nature makes him the perfect father, always ready to play with his kids and make them smile. Despite his occasional clumsiness, he is a loving and supportive parent. The family enjoys many joyous moments together, and Kalim encourages his children to pursue their passions, just as Y/n supports him in his role as the head of the household.

🐍Jamil Viper

Y/n and Jamil met at a lively party. A moment of frustration led to a one-night stand, but little did they know it was the spark that ignited in something more. They might not have been looking for a relationship, but fate had other plans.Y/n was pregnant. As they embraced parenthood, they discovered their connection. With each passing day, their hearts danced to the rhythm of love, and now, their little family was the most beautiful melody in their lives.

Jamil and Y/n have one bright and talented son named Malik. Y/n is the person Jamil trusts the most, and she understands his passion for dancing and his desire to show his true self. Jamil's feelings for Y/n run deep, and though he may be good at hiding them, she can see through his façade. They are a tight-knit and loving family, cherishing the time they spend together and creating beautiful memories.

🪞Vil Schoenheit

Y/n's first impression of Vil wasn't favorable. When Y/n first delivered flowers to Vil from her flower shop, they seemed like opposites. Vil found Y/n's dungarees and mud on her face a little amusingly messy, while Y/n thought Vil was a bit too vain and egoistic.However, as they interacted more while Y/n delivered flowers to Vil from her shop, they discovered their shared traits of hard work and ambition. Their initial animosity turned into mutual respect, and they began to like each other more. Vil surprised Y/n with flowers and asked her out on a date, forming a special connection between them.

Vil and Y/n have a daughter named Annalise, who inherits her father's beauty and elegance. Y/n appreciates Vil's effort in making their home a beautiful and comfortable place. He values Annalise's opinions and takes care of her with a motherly touch. Vil's forceful nature is softened by Y/n's calming presence. They are both loving and attentive parents, doting on Annalise and supporting her dreams.

🏹Rook Hunt

Y/n noticed Rook around town and the library where she worked, and soon, she found poems expressing his admiration on her desk. While Rook's initial presence felt eerie, he opened up about his feelings for Y/n, making her curious.  Amidst curious gazes and secret poems, Y/n and Rook's story unfolded in the most whimsical way. One day, Y/n found Rook standing smiling in her garden. Though she found it a tad creepy, his genuine confession of liking her melted her heart. As they spent more time together, Y/n couldn't resist the enchantment of Rook's affectionate heart, and she grew more and more fond of him.

Y/n and Rook have a dynamic family with three children – one girl and two boys. Their daughter is named Odette, reflecting the beauty and wonder that Rook is fascinated with. The two boys are named Orion and Atlas, each having their unique curiosities and interests. Rook's fascination with beauty extends to the curiosity he shares with his children, and they often explore peculiar interests together. Y/n's nurturing nature allows their family to grow and thrive. Rook is a genuine and loving father, always there for his kids and eager to encourage their passions.

🍎Epel Felmier

During a visit to Harveston, Y/n met Epel through the cousin, from the hairdresser's uncle, who was the neighbor of Epel's grandmother. When Y/n visited Harveston for a family visit, she had no idea that her heart was about to take a wild adventure. She met Epel, who was eager to show her around the town. But as soon as he laid eyes on Y/n, he was smitten! Attempting to be cool and flirty, Epel's accent slipped, revealing his true, country self. Y/n couldn't help but giggle, and her laughter became music to his ears. Their picnic in the apple garden became a delightful chapter in their story of sweet, countryside romance.

Epel and Y/n have two wild and energetic boys named Wiliam and Brody. Y/n appreciates Epel's dainty charm and his desire to be more manly. She encourages him to express himself freely and supports him in solving issues head-on. As parents, they embrace the challenges and joys of raising their boys. Epel's competitive spirit is balanced by Y/n's patience, creating a harmonious family environment where love and laughter abound.

You can find the other parts here! Hearstlabyul Savanaclaw/Octavinelle Scarabia/Pomefiore (You are here) Ignihyde/Diasomnia

[demon-defender]

It's really weird to think about how much Iruma changed Azz's life, and how he kind of saved him in a way??

Azz was a very talented kid growing up, so much so that other kids were intimidated by him to the point of not even approaching him. Hell, he didn't even have any adult role models, since his mother wasn't someone he looked up to and most of the other adults he interacted with worked for them. So he was essentially always "above" anyone he met for one reason or another.

Then he enters Babyls. At first, it's the same as always, he excels and impresses everyone, getting the title of top student on the entrance exam and getting to give a speech in the opening ceremony.

...Except he doesn't get to do that, actually. Turns out, the headmaster's grandson is going to give the speech (and this was seemingly decided at the last second). And what does this guy (who entered Babyls not by proving himself in the exam, but by simply being the headmaster's grandson) do? He flexes his magical abilities by saying an incredibly dangerous curse.

Who does this Iruma think he is, stealing Asmodeus's spot and having the nerve to act so proudly??? Naturally, he must challenge him to a duel to teach him a lesson and regain his status as the star student.

So they battle... Or Asmodeus does. Iruma just keeps dodging his attacks. This goes on for a while. Imagine being Azz, how insulting would it be to have a battle go on for like half an hour and not being able to land a single hit on your opponent? Even moreso since said opponent isn't attacking back?? I would've died

But anyway, it only takes Iruma one single move to knockout Asmodeus. If this had been between two normal demons, Azz would not have been able to live this down. But not only did Iruma carry him to the infirmary (which is probably a rare sign of kindness and respect for someone who won a duel in a single motion, especially in the netherworld), Azz now has someone to look up to.

After years of not even finding an equal because he's apparently so above anyone else, suddenly he has someone who's way above him. And hanging out and respecting Iruma opens the door to forming more meaningful relationships with equals. I think the best example of this is how, at first, he looks down on Clara, but spending time with her makes him realize that she's a wonderful person and he likes being with her!! He starts to talk casually with her and calling her by her first name, which means a lot from someone who values manners and formality as much as Azz.

Imagine if none of this had happened. If Asmodeus just ended up in the top class and still believed he was somehow better than everyone around him. We've seen how he started to stagnate when it comes to his rank in the original manga, so I can only picture him growing more stressed as it gets harder for him to go up the ranks and generally maintain this "young prodigy" image as he gets older. You know like gifted kid burnout but more literal because of the fire powers.

So no wonder he's obsessed, Iruma essentially gave him an ambition!

[camelspit]

PICK THE WOMAN THAT YOU WANT ELIMINATED!!

Master Cadence by @tw-5

Umber by @chronically-ill-psionipath

Tinker by @thefoxysnake

Esha Aria by @camelspit

Lady Galvin by @an-ungraceful-swan

Note! Definition of a sexywoman:

According to the sexywomanpedia, a sexywoman is "a character who shows the 'lanky suitman villain' tropes, is popular with wlw, and/or is highly divisive." Some factors to consider are morality (or lack thereof), overall mysteriousness, and strength (physical or abilitywise.)

Propaganda:

Master Cadence:

"she’s a linguist. she’s a woman in stem. she’s tired of everyone’s bullshit. she’s fruity as hell. her house is cool as fuck (a howls moving castle style boat-thing made of metal that she built herself because she didn’t want to live in the elven cities???? come on). she’s a MASTER. what more could you want." @let-them-sing-of-others

"she’s an academic. shes smarter than u. she hates on the council and she’s RIGHT. she hates sophie actually you know what she has a hater complex but in a hot way. i love her yr honour." @necromycologist

"she spent YEARS researching on ogres and their culture. idk about you, but i would try keeping her in my good graces because she KNOWS ABOUT DEADLY POISON. WHY ARE PEOPLE NOT TALKING ABOUT THIS. I WOULD SHIT MYSELF IF I CAME ACROSS HER IN REAL LIFE EVEN IF IT WAS IN A GROCERY STORE ON A RANDOM TUESDAY AND SHE WAS BUYING OREOS. FOR ALL WE KNOW, SHE COULD HAVE LOADS OF THAT IN HER HOUSE/ON HER PERSON!!" @corruption-exe

"ok not to be a lesbian or horny on main (<- ace) but HOLY SHIT i want her to step on me. this lady has intensified my sexuality crisis" (anonymous)

Umber:

"Shes an evil hot powerful shade that got killed in the book she got introduced in what more could you want" @thefoxysnake

"Umber (Redacted) is one of the women in the series that isn’t JUST psychological manipulator! She also fought! She broke bones (if I remembered correctly) and messes with everyone’s minds without even revealing her true name! She has a boyfriend! A BOYFRIEND. TRIX. She went through something ��the incident’ (mentioned in the latest book) and joined the Neverseen! She got Trix, her Pookie to be in the Neverseen as well 🥺. You can tell she was also a good lover how Trix was so sad over her death. KEEP IN MIND SHE DIED BEING CRUSHED, so for those who likes angst; there you go. She died in her mission. She was Tam’s mentor and an EXCELLENT fighter if I do say so myself. Who wouldn’t vote Umber? A girlboss with a sweet boyfriend and has murderous tendencies? 😔🎉 Vote for Umber PLEASE! I’M BEGGING YOU! PLSPLSPLSPLS 😭😭" @chronically-ill-psionipath

Tinker:

"she's trans! she's autistic! she's a mad scientist! she's everything you could possibly want in a woman!!!!!" @gay-otlc

"shes a mad genius she built a mad science castle she invented steampunk literally why would you not love her" @necromycologist

Esha Aria:

"shes sooo funny guys. she fucked with the system to get some dick and almost got away with it. she chose that dick over her daughter. she may be exiled but at least she has her man. morals and consequences mean nothing!!!" @camelspit

Lady Galvin:

"She's one of the greatest alchemists there ever was, and yet no one recognizes her for her talents. She's surrounded by people who will never understand or appreciate her, and because of that she tries to make their life hell. She has no ambitions, no future, no goal, and yet she doesn't break. She wears her cool ass capes and rules over detention with an iron fist, desperately searching for the control she lost when she realized her job wasn't up to her. She's an evil supergenius stuck in a children's school." @lizzie-dude

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

The Man From Y.I.L.I.N.G.

Chapter 11: "Fire & Water"

Things are getting significantly darker, but I swear there is a happy ending to all of this. Y'all know me 😂

--//--

JINLINTAI

As logic would dictate, Jin Guangyao begins at the beginning.

The first person responsible for the cruelties of Jin Guangyao’s life is, naturally, the father who sired him. No matter what had come after, no matter the choices of every other person in his life, the first sin that Jin Guangyao had ‘committed’ was being born the bastard son of Jin Guangshan, thereby sealing his fate before he’d even taken his first full breath to cry.

Jin Guangyao carefully dips a long, glinting blade into the concoction of refined upas tree sap he’d spent the night brewing and lays it aside well away from where he’s actively working to let it dry. He dips two others after it in quick succession, and a final fourth, just to be safe. While they dry enough to be sheathed, Jin Guangyao tidies up after his evening’s activities, diluting the rest of the poison with the water from boiling the bark of the same tree before dumping it down a rust-stained drain in the floor. By the time it reaches the river it’ll be perfectly harmless and untraceable, not that he thinks anyone will really look too hard into what could have killed Jinlintai’s masters. Whoever’s left standing in the aftermath will be too busy fighting each other for dominance in the days before Jin Zixuan returns to take his rightful place as the head of their operations, there won’t be time (or, he’d wager, the desire) for any kind of thorough investigation.

Still, Jin Guangyao hadn’t gotten where he is today by being sloppy.

When the knives have dried he sheathes them and straps them on with the confidence he’s had to fight his entire life to develop, and as dawn is just beginning to turn from deep blue-black into the hazy blue-gray of true morning he slips out of his own rooms, now armed and properly dressed, to return to his prowling.

For all the fuss he’d made about needing 48 hours to clean up Jin Guangyao’s ‘mess’, there’s no way Jin Guangshan himself has condescended enough to see it done personally. It’s really such a shame that Jin Guangshan’s ambition is so curtailed by clutching at his own shortsighted greed in one hand and laziness in the other. Jin Guangyao’s talents have long outstripped his miserable father’s, but then he supposes his filial piety has been something of a shackle around his neck for even longer than he’s known his father, so it’s not much of a surprise to find he’s finally outgrown him now that he’s decided to remove the weight of it.

Jin Guangyao walks through Jinlintai with his head held high and finds the time to send a quick, silent prayer to Meng Shi, an apology for failing as her son to carry out her dying wish — the only failure he feels he’s truly committed in this life. He’d nearly made it at least; he’d found his father and earned his way into living in his house, to being a valuable asset to him, to be considered (however unwillingly) part of the family. 

He just can’t do this for the rest of his life.

Perhaps her spirit would rest easier if he gifts her Jin Guangshan’s head on a platter. It’s not the most orthodox of offerings, but Meng Shi had always been an understanding mother. Maybe she’d understand that it’s the best he can do and forgive him for everything he isn’t.

Jin Guangyao muses on the question as he dodges guards sleepily walking their rotations almost as easily as breathing; after all, he’s the one who organized their shifts and their routes back when he’d first arrived. Madam Jin’s insistence that he do nothing save the work of a glorified secretary for his first few months in Jinlintai is paying dividends now, and he hopes she realizes her mistakes when it’s her turn for a visit.

He arrives at his first destination without trouble and is disgusted but unsurprised to find that he doesn’t even have to work in order to gain entry to his father’s lavish suite.

Jin Guangshan has long been infamous for his arrogance — in his business dealings, in his running of Jinlintai, in any and every way possible. Jin Guangyao, as his father’s unwanted right hand, has naturally seen that trait at play far more than anyone should have to witness, but never has it been clearer than this moment.

Jinlintai is a nest of ruthless, backstabbing snakes, and yet Jin Guangshan sleeps entirely unprotected. He doesn’t even share his quarters with his knife-happy wife, too fond of bringing prostitutes into his bed for her to stomach sharing a private space with her husband. Not that Jin Guangyao blames her, of course, though he still thinks it’s phenomenally stupid that neither of them seem to realize or care that this is a major gap in Jin Guangshan’s defenses.

The door isn’t even locked. Truly, Jin Guangshan is practically asking for someone, anyone at all, to slip into his room with the lightening shadows that herald dawn and slit his throat with a knife that’ll burn its way through his entire body before he’s done gurgling on his own blood. Jin Guangyao is careful not to touch the wetted blade glinting in his hand as he sits beside his father’s hip and ignores the man’s scrabbling at his own bloodied throat, his frantic wet gasps, the graceless thrashing of his limbs as the panic of drowning and the agony of the poison hit him nearly simultaneously.

He can see his own eyes reflected in the shining silver blade, black smudges in the dark dawn gray. He tilts his head until the splash of blood darkening the edge hides his eyes from sight, and only then does he turn to meet his father’s betrayed glare as he gasps through his final death throes and he thinks maybe he feels something like relief, though mostly he’s…numb.

This is not what he’d been raised to do.

Jin Guangshan thrashes in his bloodied sheets and Jin Guangyao remembers how many times his mother had told him, wistfully, sometimes with tears in her eyes, that one day his father would come back to Yunping and fulfill the promise he’d made to her. She’d told him that when he did come Jin Guangyao would need to be ready, to be the perfect son who would fit into his world.

Well. He’d become that, at least, though Meng Shi had never really known what world exactly it was her son would need to insinuate himself into. (He thinks, sometimes, that had she known the full truth she would have never asked Jin Guangyao to do this, but she hadn’t known and there’s nothing he can do to change that, so here he is.)

In his defense, he had become useful to his father as she’d instructed, he just can’t claim that he was very filial — not anymore. Not lately. Not when the tableau currently reaching its conclusion next to him is the fulfillment of far too many fantasies he’s entertained too many times to remember over the last few years.

Long gone are his desires to please his father, to be the perfect addition to his precious family business, to be useful to the man who abuses him at every turn, as his mother had wished for him to be.

His father has underestimated Jin Guangyao’s willingness to continue to roll over and show his belly. In his arrogance he’s forgotten that Jin Guangyao longs to survive more than he desires anything else, and with that no longer feasible under his father’s thumb then it’s Jin Guangshan who has to go, not Jin Guangyao.

Jin Guangyao sets the knife down beside Jin Guangshan’s crimson pillow and stands, dusting himself off and twitching his blood-spattered shirt straight as a pin before he leaves in search of his next target.

... -.-. . -. . / -... .-. . .- -.-

SUIBIAN - SOMEWHERE ON THE YILING RIVER

Lan Xichen knows that this is the height of foolishness, even without Lan Qiren’s parting remark to that effect still bouncing around his head. They know that Nie Mingjue has been compromised, it only stands to reason that Jin Guangyao has been as well. The sensible thing to do would be to leave them both to their fates, pawns that must be sacrificed to protect something far more important.

The problem is, Lan Xichen has never been very good at separating emotion and empathy from the necessary work that they do, which is why, prior to the Wens’ destruction of Cloud Recesses, he’d been quite content to keep himself at home and hone his abilities in ways that didn’t directly translate to people dying at his hands. In the normal course of things, it had been too difficult for him to forget that his targets didn’t exist in a vacuum; to put it out of his mind that someone, somewhere would miss them when they were gone, even the seediest and most miserable person he could imagine.

Wen Ruohan had forced him to change for the worse, as he had so many other people. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t do it with the torments in his Fire Palace designed to break the strongest of men, to make them forget who they are and what they should be in the service of what he needs instead — he’s a changed man and there’s no going back to what was. Lan Xichen has had to become hardened like his uncle has always warned him he must, though thankfully he (and Lan Wangji, who somehow managed to learn that lesson much more easily in spite of his rigid sense of morality) have both been too kind, or maybe simply too reticent, to tell him ‘I told you so’.

War changes a man, that much is true, and he accepted it — but it can’t change him in his very core, at least not in Lan Xichen’s case. He knows, logically, that the safest thing to do is leave his erstwhile partner-targets to their unfortunate fates and focus their energy on figuring out where things went wrong from within their own organization.

He also knows, logically, that his heart will never allow him to be so callous.

The speedboat he’d borrowed from the Jiangs’ fleet flies up the river at a clip that cools his cheeks and stings his eyes until he has to swipe tears away from the outer corners, and still he forges on as fast as he can against the current until the engine is whining and the water froths white in his wake long after he’s already gone.

In an ideal world (well, more ideal than the current situation), he would be able to force himself not to worry about Nie Mingjue for the time it takes to reach Jin Guangyao; he would feel unconflicted about who he chooses to fly to as fast as modern machinery can carry him; he wouldn’t concern himself if he’s betraying one to save the other and, worst of all, if his choice may mean that Nie Mingjue dies when he could have been saved had Lan Xichen only chosen to go to him first instead.

When Wen Qing’s distress message had come through and a course of action had needed to be decided upon, he’d said to Lan Qiren and Lan Wangji, “Wen Ruohan made Mingjue into what he is, he won’t be in a hurry to dispose of him,” with more confidence than he felt. “Jin Guangshan knows only how A-Yao’s competence suits him and his wants, he doesn’t understand how deadly his own son can be if pressed, nor that he is the one pressing him. We already know Mingjue has been captured and that Wen Ruohan will want to sharpen his favorite blade personally, but A-Yao has likely been overlooked and will not be closely monitored. He is the safer choice to stage a rescue for.”

His argument was logical and straightforward, and as such it was a solid reassurance that had given his family some peace of mind as he’d hurried away into unknown danger. But the logic of it sits like lead in his stomach, and every second he spends running further from Nie Mingjue is one he spends wondering if his not-quite-but-sort-of-fiancé is even still alive to hope for rescue or not.

Yet he knows that if he’d rushed to Nie Mingjue instead he would worry just as much for Jin Guangyao, constantly under threat and underestimated, a convenient target to be eliminated by the reckoning of everyone in Jinlintai. Even with Luo Qingyang in place to help him should the need arise, that’s no guarantee that she’ll actually be able to do so in time, considering she has her own cover to keep and should continue to do so even after the change in leadership in Lanling that Wei Wuxian is ultimately aiming for. He can’t truly count on her to save Jin Guangyao should he get into trouble, but he doesn’t even know if, after what he’s done, his help would be wanted —

Guilt, he decides, will just have to be his constant companion until he’s reunited with both of the men he’s developed feelings for far faster than (almost) anyone could have anticipated.

(“I realize this is all a bit pot-kettle-black and all, but it would probably be best if you didn’t sleep with them, Lan-da-ge,” Wei Wuxian had said to him when he’d come to East Yunping to give him his assignment. Like a fool, Lan Xichen had replied, with utmost confidence, “That won’t be a problem.” And while of course he hasn’t, not in the way his brother-in-law had meant it, there’s no denying that the feelings — the desires — are very much there.)

It’s a relief to finally be forced to set such distressing thoughts aside in favor of the undeniable present when the glittering spires atop the hulking mass of Koi Tower loom out of the blue-black predawn, glittering with sporadic clusters of lights and the occasional shadow of sentries making their rounds amongst the flared roofs and the layers of balconies and open-air catwalks as he drags the boat down to a crawl and drifts near-silently upriver, eyes trained on his goal nearly to the exclusion of all else.

“Hey.”

Lan Xichen is far too disciplined to yelp, but when he turns his startled gaze on Jiang Wanyin, just barely visible in the wan light, his friend has already raised his hands in surrender, palms out at shoulder height.

“What are you doing here? What’s wrong?” He drops his hands when he can see that Lan Xichen has recognized him and begins preparing to moor their boats together half-hidden in the reeds.

“There’s a rat in Yiling, Mingjue has been captured. I came to..Well. I was worried about A-Yao, and we’d had no word,” he reports as he pulls his craft alongside Jiang Wanyin’s, catching the rope the other man tosses to him to tie their prows together for a quick anchor.

“I haven’t heard anything since he went in, not even a shout,” Jiang Wanyin replies, looking more troubled than his usual perpetual frown makes him seem. “His cousin decked him when he got up there and had some guards drag him inside, but we’d planned for that. Mianmian also hasn’t given a signal that things have gone to shit.”

Lan Xichen knows that it’s as likely as not that things are going according to plan, but it’s growing more and more difficult to cling to his logic and rationality when he must face the very real possibility of losing both Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao in one night, before he’s even gotten a chance to properly apologize for deceiving them.

“You said Chifeng-Zun has been compromised?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s A-Qing?”

“Uninjured and on her way to Yiling as we speak, perhaps even already there. She’s safe.”

Jiang Wanyin exhales sharply with a nod, the only moment of visible relief he allows before he turns on his heel to look up at Jinlintai, assessing.

“I’m guessing you’re going in there.”

“Yes,” Lan Xichen agrees; there’s no point in lying, even if he were willing to do so.

“Do you want backup?”

“Did you bring Zidian?”

Jiang Wanyin snorts and ducks down to fish his whip out from the footwell beneath the wheel. He cracks it once out over the water to test its snap, startling a few waterbirds into flight from the marshy reeds a little further down on the banks. Lan Xichen darts a glance up at the ink-smudge figures walking their rounds, but none of the guards seem to have taken notice of the noise.

“Ready when you are.”

That seems to be something of an understatement when taking into consideration the 7-foot bullwhip Jiang Wanyin is currently coiling back up between his hands with the ease of years of training with his late mother’s signature weapon, but Lan Xichen lets it pass without comment. After all, he’s far more interested in finding Jin Guangyao as soon as physically possible, and so he simply jumps down into the ankle-deep water they’re moored in and sloshes the few yards to shore, Jiang Wanyin cursing and grumbling behind him about his nice shoes squelching in the mud as he follows.

His grumbling fades into silence as they climb the hill together, wary of putting a foot wrong or rustling too loudly through the underbrush and drawing unwanted attention to their movement as they move closer to the range of the sentries.

“You’re late. Or maybe right on time, depending on what you’re here to see,” a voice says out of the shadows just as they’re approaching a gap in the fence that surrounds the nearest section of the multi-tower complex. For the second time tonight Lan Xichen nearly jumps out of his skin and is saved from showing it only by his many years spent comporting himself with all the dignity of a Lan.

“Mianmian if you’re the rat I have no problem breaking your legs,” Jiang Wanyin growls at Luo Qingyang when she comes melting out of the shadows, dressed in her Wei black-and-reds rather than the Jin uniform she should be sporting.

“I’m only a rat if I’m allowed to jump ship, Jiang-gongzi,” she says with a little shudder and a glare over her shoulder up at the Tower. “This place is about to boil over like a hornets’ nest and I don’t want to be here when it happens if it’s all the same to you.”

“What do you mean? Where’s A-Yao?” Lan Xichen asks, fear and impatience itching under his skin. In spite of all of his comportment lessons as a boy he can’t help but fidget restlessly with the need to do something now that he’s here and in a position to help if someone would only point him in the right direction.

“Should be finishing up any minute. He’d already gotten Guangshan and the Madam when I checked about half an hour ago, should just be Zixun left to take care of. I was just about to go knock a few heads together so he can make a clean getaway when he’s done.”

“I’ll help with that, Xichen you wait for him out here,” Jiang Wanyin orders, and just like that Luo Qingyang hurries off with Jiang Wanyin in tow, the pair of them melting into the deep shadows between the buildings as the east begins to brighten with true dawn.

Lan Xichen waits a few tense minutes until he hears muffled grunts and the quiet thud of bodies hitting the nearest walkways overhead before he emerges from his hiding spot to loop around the main tower and begin climbing the stairs to the central courtyard. He keeps an ear out for any alarms or shouting to indicate that he’s been spotted, but none come.

The morning is strangely silent as he climbs, without even so much as a bird call to interrupt the low burbling of the sluggish river below. Lan Xichen measures his breaths with his steady tread up the stairs that feel never-ending, and when he finally reaches the landing he turns in a slow circle to survey what he can see of Lanling from such a lofty vantage point.

It’s got nothing on the views of mist-shrouded peaks from his old home in Cloud Recesses — or on Yiling sprawling out from the base of the mountain that contains the Burial Mounds — but then again Koi Tower only sits on a foothill of the range that rolls through Yiling before it dips again into the flat marshes of Yunmeng. Still, the view is beautiful in its own way as the sun rises over the plains below and gilds everything gold amongst the pale blue morning mists.

Lan Xichen turns back around to face Koi Tower at a signal deeper than conscious thought — the scuff of a shoe, a sharp intake of breath, registered and reacted to before his mind has fully caught up with what it could mean.

Jin Guangyao stands still as a statue at the end of a path that leads around the building into the gardens, and Lan Xichen worries for the space of a heartbeat that the blood spattered across his neck and face is his.

“A-Yao–” he chokes and steps towards him only to stop short when Jin Guangyao backs away from him, a graceless sort of stumbling half-step. Upon closer inspection it’s clear that there’s no way the blood is his when his skin beneath it is otherwise unblemished, but in the next moment Lan Xichen realizes that’s the least of his worries. Jin Guangyao’s eyes are a little wild, open so wide that Lan Xichen can see the whites all the way around, and Lan Xichen fears that to do this, to do as he’s been asked and kill the family he’d pledged his life to, he may have had to go somewhere Lan Xichen can’t follow.

He raises his empty hands in a clear sign of surrender, but it doesn’t stop Jin Guangyao staring at him like he’s seen a ghost. Lan Xichen can be patient though, now that he’s in sight, and so he stands as still as Jin Guangyao is and he waits.

Waits.

“Xichen-ge?” Jin Guangyao finally asks, a hesitant croak that Lan Xichen would very much like to never hear again.

“I’m here,” he soothes and sees some sense return to Jin Guangyao’s gaze, though he remains wary. Lan Xichen can’t fault him for that. “I was worried about you.”

Jin Guangyao blinks and, after a moment of visible dithering, steps closer with what looks like conscious effort. Lan Xichen flicks an anxious gaze over every part of him that he can see but besides looking a bit pale and holding that sort of nervous, cornered prey-like energy, he seems fine. (As fine as one can be under the circumstances, at least.)

There’s no polite or tasteful way for Lan Xichen to ask if Jin Guangyao has succeeded in murdering those of his family he was sent to eliminate, but he supposes that the evidence really speaks for itself. 

“Mingjue’s in trouble,” he says instead, and Jin Guangyao’s gaze sharpens further, his eyes narrowing as they dart northward for a moment, though of course there’s nothing to see from here.

“What happened?”

“He and Wen Qing were betrayed, we do not yet know by whom. She has returned to Yiling, but we’ve lost all contact with him. We believe it likely that Wen Ruohan will be attempting to re-indoctrinate him if he has not already killed him.”

“Da-ge is too valuable to kill,” Jin Guangyao dismisses, like to think otherwise is nothing but foolishness. Lan Xichen finds himself soothed by the fact that their instincts in this are the same. “Men like Wen Ruohan don’t cast aside a useful tool like him so easily, he’s still alive. He has to be, we just have to go get him.”

Lan Xichen breathes a silent sigh of relief; he still doesn’t know if Jin Guangyao will ever forgive him for what he did, but if nothing else they can at least work together to rescue Nie Mingjue, can’t they?

Still, even if they can it wouldn’t be right to do so without at least trying to make amends. “A-Yao…I’m so sorry.”

Jin Guangyao blinks and startles ever so slightly, little more than a curious tilt of his head, the movement too sharp to look entirely natural.

“Oh?”

“I never meant to hurt you.”

Lan Xichen feels his breath catch in his chest when Jin Guangyao’s expression cracks, just for a moment, into something…tender. It’s gone between one blink and the next, but even before he speaks it’s enough for Lan Xichen to know he’s been forgiven.

“I would have done the same, in your position. And…I understand. We all do what we have to.”

It’s a curious feeling, to be forgiven so easily by a man he knows trusts no one. It’s tempting to ask if that’s changed, if perhaps he might have earned the privilege of Jin Guangyao’s trust despite his own choices — but every minute they spend here is a minute they are not helping Nie Mingjue, and now that Jin Guangyao’s success is certain the urge to fly north is an inescapable need thrumming under his skin.

“Thank you, A-Yao.”

Against all odds and expectations, Jin Guangyao smiles, small but genuine with the sweetest hint of the dimples in his cheeks. 

“We should leave for Qishan,” he finally says after a few moments with another worried glance northward. “Da-ge is useful to Wen Ruohan but if he’s been caught red-handed attempting to kill him then he’ll have tipped his hand and proven he’s not nearly as obedient as Wen Ruohan thinks him to be. He’ll have pulled out all the stops to try to break Mingjue again.”

Suddenly feeling inadequate, Lan Xichen offers, “I have a Jiang speedboat.” It won’t be enough to get them as far north as they need, and sailing back to Yiling just to find other transport would be an unbearable delay. Thankfully, Jin Guangyao shakes his head immediately and gestures back in the direction he’d come, deeper into the complex.

“We’ll take a jet from here straight to Qishan, I just prepared one to fly to Yiling in case Jiang Wanyin was forced to return on his own without me but there’s more than enough fuel to get us all the way to Nightless City.”

“Flying? I can help with that!” Luo Qingyang calls; Lan Xichen turns to find her and Jiang Wanyin both running across the courtyard that connects the main complex to the buildings to the west with the particular haste of the closely pursued. “Time to go!”

“What have you done?” Lan Xichen asks, startled by the grim determination on Jiang Wanyin’s face and the tight-lipped worry on Luo Qingyang’s as they come to a stop that nearly vibrates with tension.

“Oh, you know, just stole some stuff, did some extra damage…Let’s talk about it in the air,” Luo Qingyang smiles, eyes wide, just as something explodes rather spectacularly from the direction they’d come running from, and finally there comes what Lan Xichen has been expecting since he’d arrived — shouting and the pounding of boots running to the source of the disturbance and, consequently, them.

“I’ll get the boats back to Yiling, Mianmian will fly you to Qishan,” Jiang Wanyin says just before they part ways, him racing headlong down the stairs towards the river and Lan Xichen following his other two companions on autopilot, his hand suddenly caught in Jin Guangyao’s as the man tows him along through the unfamiliar maze of Jinlintai.

“You certainly know how to make an exit, Miss Luo,” Lan Xichen shouts as they run amongst the chasing patter of erratic gunfire and he smiles a little when she shoots him another manic grin over her shoulder.

“Only when I hate somewhere as much as here!” she shouts over the boom of another explosion behind them — there’s no time to look and see where. “No offense, Jin-er-gongzi.”

“None taken, believe me,” Jin Guangyao replies, gentlemanly and sardonic at the same time.

They make it to the Jin hangar before the guards can catch up to them and, as promised, find the hangar doors thrown wide open and one of Jin Guangshan’s personal jets ready and waiting to peel out onto the runway. They race up the stairs to the door and Lan Xichen, boarding last, kicks the rickety staircase away hard enough that it rolls a few feet before it tips over, useless, as Luo Qingyang throws herself into the cockpit, the engines roaring to life instantly under her hands. Lan Xichen drags the door shut and joins her to assist in their getaway, though all she does is hand him a thick folder embossed with the Jin insignia and a computer disk in a soft blue plastic case to free her hands for take-off.

Luo Qingyang wastes no time getting them into the air just as a handful of Jins come skidding into the hangar to open fire at them, bullets glancing harmlessly off the body of the plane as they jet past.

Luo Qingyang is more than confident enough in the pilot’s seat that once they’re safely in the air Lan Xichen slips out of the cockpit to tuck the folder and the disk safely between the wine cooler and the wall of the galley on his way to join Jin Guangyao staring blankly out the window at the clouds racing by.

This jet is significantly more comfortable than the fighters they’d sent Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue to Qishan in, and as Lan Xichen settles into the indulgent comfort of a buttery leather seat across from Jin Guangyao he takes the time, finally, to look him over to his heart’s content and reassure himself that he’s truly uninjured, that he’s alive, and, most importantly, finally free of his father’s particularly cruel hatred.

Still, hale and hearty as he may be, there’s blood smearing on his cream-colored seat, and there’s finally time to do something about it. Without a word Lan Xichen leans back far enough to snag a cloth napkin and a bottle of club soda from the galley to wet it with and, thus armed, slides to his knees between their seats to start carefully cleaning someone else’s blood away from Jin Guangyao’s pale throat.

Jin Guangyao jerks a little, startled, but otherwise stays still to let Lan Xichen tend to him, nearly a mirror of when he’d allowed Lan Xichen to bandage the wound he’d received at the Jiangs’ warehouse. It feels as if they’ve lived an entire lifetime in the day that’s passed between then and now, and a glance at Jin Guangyao’s eyes hints that he may be thinking along similar lines. Certainly that night his eyes had held the same guarded vulnerability, the apparent disbelief that anyone would want to take care of him in this way, but also the desire to find out if he can have it anyway.

“You did well, A-Yao.” Lan Xichen folds the napkin to a fresh corner with which to begin cleaning some specks of blood from his cheek, gently, gently to avoid pressing too hard against a mottled bruise blooming across his jaw.

“You don’t know that.”

Lan Xichen hums, gentle disagreement, as he turns Jin Guangyao’s head an inch or two for easier access with a featherlight fingertip under his chin.

“I do, because I know that A-Yao always does his best, and that it is always significantly better than anyone else’s best could hope to be.”

Jin Guangyao visibly swallows and turns his head again to return to staring out the window with a sort of misty-eyed, focused intensity, lips pursed around whatever it is he clearly doesn’t want to say. Lan Xichen allows it, of course, and continues his careful cleaning until his hands are stained pink, there’s not a spot of white left on the napkin, and Jin Guangyao is biting his bottom lip hard enough that it’s turned pale under the sharp press of teeth.

“I have an idea for rescuing da-ge, but I don’t think he’d like it,” Jin Guangyao says when Lan Xichen stands to return the soiled napkin to the galley. 

“His survival is paramount, his comfort with the method secondary,” Lan Xichen replies, though something anxious twinges low in his belly. He squashes it with effort and a reminder to himself that no matter what else happens, he would trust Jin Guangyao with not only his own life, but the lives of anyone and everyone he cares about as well. He’d said as much to Lan Wangji and he’d meant it.

Jin Guangyao is silent for long enough that Lan Xichen finishes cleaning up and returns to his seat to face his partner, now bearing little evidence of his night’s activities save for the dark circles under his eyes and the patches of deeper black on his clothing where blood has soaked through and dried into the fabric. When he settles, Jin Guangyao glances at him out of the corner of his eye, nervous and not even bothering to hide it.

“If he hates me when we’re through, whose side will you take?”

The question aches to even consider. Lan Xichen finds himself uncomfortable with the lack of a clear answer, his own conundrum from a mere hour ago turned around again and repeated before he could solve it once himself. In the end, though, there’s really only one answer that Lan Xichen is capable of giving no matter how difficult it may be to put in practice, should it become necessary.

“I would find a way to choose you both. Anything else is untenable.”

Jin Guangyao hides a yawn delicately behind one wrist and shoots Lan Xichen an apologetic glance (that is, of course, completely unnecessary).

“How long to Qishan, Miss Luo?” Jin Guangyao calls towards the cockpit.

“Hours yet, Jin-er-gongzi! Midday maybe, could be later if the wind in the mountains doesn’t favor us,” she shouts back over the thrum of the engines.

“Get some rest, A-Yao,” Lan Xichen coaxes. “I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

It’s remarkably reassuring when, with no further prodding, Jin Guangyao simply nods and takes his words — his comfort — at face value. He turns to curl into a little ball on his seat and promptly falls asleep like that, facing the rising sun and the clouds shrouding the ground from view, looking more peaceful than Lan Xichen has seen him yet.

... -.-. . -. . / -... .-. . .- -.-

SOMEWHERE

There are voices nearby.

Nie Mingjue notices this through the murky sludge of his thoughts and promptly forgets it again until the next murmur snags his wandering attention, though there’s no way of knowing how long that actually takes.

He thinks, as he slowly begins to surface from..wherever, that something somewhere might have gotten a little fucked up. He’d followed Wen Qing into the tunnels that connect the hangar to Nightless City, that much he remembers. Long, unbroken walls of steel and concrete, flickering bulbs stretching for miles in both directions, nothing else but the sound of his boots, his breathing, the soft clatter of his guns in their holsters.

And then, he winces as the memory slams into him like a freight train —

Shouting.

Bullets flying close enough to whizz past his ears before shattering the concrete mere inches behind his head.

The thudding of dozens of boots on concrete, the lights dropping red with the whooping of sirens.

Fists banging on steel doors that won’t open and his feet pounding, pounding, pounding, running down hallways that seem to have no end. An endless maze under a mountain, burning red red red, trapping him, dragging him back under —

He’s been here before. His mind slides sluggishly between half-remembered escapes, running, running, running, and falling,

falling,

falling—

“He’s awake.”

The words come, clear as a bell. Nie Mingjue clutches them, a lifeline thrown to him in the whirling, nauseating rush of drugged memory threatening to pull him under and keep him there, caught in the rapids until he drowns in them.

A sharp crack across his cheek snaps him out of it with a gasp that shudders in his aching chest. He doesn’t dare to look down to try to remember the cause of the aching — in his periphery he can see that he’s been stripped naked from the waist up with dark bruises blooming under his skin already, and he highly doubts that his weapons have been left anywhere even remotely accessible.

Of course they haven’t been. Now that he’s coming around towards lucidity he wonders how he ever thought coming here, now, would land him anywhere else. 

This is, after all, Wen Ruohan’s Fire Palace, and the only one allowed tools with which to inflict injury are Wen Ruohan and his “doctors”.

Nie Mingjue breathes, sucking in lungfuls of iron-thick air and choking on the stench of rotting blood that permeates the walls, the floor. He always leaves here smelling like it, the tang of it in his hair and in his nose for days after he’s kicked the brown dust of it off his feet.

“Hold him.”

Nie Mingjue fights on instinct against the hands that clench around his wrists but before he can do anything more than snarl and flinch they’re not hands, they’re straps of leather biting into his flesh and crushing his bones, and his thrashing does nothing at all to stop the glint of a silver needle disappearing into his neck. 

Within a few too-quick heartbeats his body is burning, flames roaring through him in time with his rabbiting pulse. He’s lost in it again, unable to think beyond the flames licking under his skin and burning away every piece of him that dares to exist under Wen Ruohan’s tyranny.

It fades after a brief eternity, and when sense returns Nie Mingjue finds himself straining against his restraints hard enough to bruise, ankles and wrists aching in the dull way of too-tight manacles, and fighting hard for each breath that feels like fine shards of glass in his throat.

“Again.”

He barely has time to mumble a furious, “No!” before there’s another pinch in his neck, another wave of unbearable fire, as inescapable as it has been for nearly all of his life.

For a while, he’s sure he’s never known anything but this at all.

There’s no way of knowing how much time has passed since the first injection when he regains control of himself again, but the pain radiating through every nerve in his body has at least burned away the last of his confused lethargy and left him horribly clear-headed, everything sharp-edged and gleaming with the aura of a migraine he’s too overwhelmed to truly feel like he should.

His restraints loosen enough for him to be sat up by rough hands under his shoulders, and he’s unsurprised to find himself face to face with Wen Ruohan — the pair of them have sat here, in these exact places, far too many times for their old song and dance to change now.

“Mingjue, Mingjue,” Wen Ruohan chides in Nie Mingjue’s mother tongue – an insult from that mouth, here like this. “How many times must I remind you of your place in this world, hm? Your stubbornness will soon outstrip your usefulness to me; you’re going to force my hand and there will be no one to blame but yourself.”

Nie Mingjue takes great pleasure in clearing his mouth of the blood from his swollen, bitten tongue by spitting it right into Wen Ruohan’s eyes. He takes even more pleasure in having goaded Wen Ruohan into swearing as he swipes the back of his hand across his face — almost enough to make the consequences worth it.

Almost.

“Childish. Again.”

Nie Mingjue’s voice cracks around his shredding vocal cords as he screams loudly enough that it reverberates off the dingy tile on all sides, echoing back to him even through the roaring inferno of his heartbeat.

Time moves strangely, sluggish fits and starts that limp towards lucidity and yet somehow eternities pass in minutes, everything about Wen Ruohan just the same as it was before whenever he’s able to open his eyes again, even if something else has changed. Doctors in their white and red coats come and go, slipping through his fingers like minnows following a current he can only attempt to stand against. Wen Ruohan sits sneering at him, ordering unseen hands to torment him, and Nie Mingjue uses every remaining ounce of his unbroken will to not lose himself in it completely.

When he resurfaces enough for conversation he’s once again flat on his back, a leather band tight across his forehead and his manacles cinched as tight as before to pin him to the steel table more suited to dissection than the repose of anyone living.

“He’s awake.”

Nie Mingjue closes his eyes against the halogen glare of the lights overhead and can do nothing to stop the tears born of exhaustion and frustration that leak from the corners of his eyes to run down his temples into his hair. (Sometimes he thinks that the worst thing he can be in this life is awake.)

Quite as if their conversation had only paused for seconds (though Nie Mingjue is…reasonably sure they’ve been at this for at least a day or two, perhaps more), Wen Ruohan tells him, “You’ve been betrayed, Mingjue.” He says it with an audible air of indolence like he’s lounging back in his chair, a bored emperor sitting in his throne hoping torture might make his life a little more interesting. “I would usually assume that I wouldn’t need to tell you by whom, but it seems in this instance your foolish desires have clouded your judgment so thoroughly you can’t see the snake twining around your own ankles.”

Nie Mingjue breathes through the fury searing its way through his abused veins and glares at the ceiling despite the blinding light overhead. Of course Wen Ruohan believes Nie Mingjue has been betrayed — wasn’t that the whole point of Lan Xichen’s plot to deliver them to the Yiling Laozu? His plan hinges on Wen Ruohan believing that Nie Mingjue has failed him! He reminds himself that this is precisely what they’d intended, that this must be his punishment for failing rather than for betraying Wen Ruohan and returning to beard him in his own den which is the only explanation as to why he’s still alive in this fucking hellhole—

Unless Wen Qing lied to them all and led him straight to a trap she was perfectly positioned to set—

Or—

“Xiandu,” a smooth, mellow voice says and as hotly as he’d burned a moment ago Nie Mingjue feels his blood turn to ice in the next.

He stares up into the light overhead until he can see the filaments of the bulb, the glare of it filling his vision and leaving dark afterimages behind his eyes that he can’t blink away. The table he’s strapped to is folded in half with a screech of rusted metal, his head still secured in place so that he’s forced to sit up and face Wen Ruohan whether he wants to — is able to — or not.

His vision swims with pain, fatigue; the dark blotches the light had left behind hide the owner of the second voice for a long moment, but even without seeing his face, and even considering the relatively brief time their paths have aligned, Nie Mingjue would know him anywhere.

“Oh, you really weren’t expecting this at all, were you?” Wen Ruohan sneers. Nie Mingjue works to keep his breathing even while his vision clears against his will, and when he can see again he meets wide, dark eyes in a pale sweetheart face, a cruel smile he’s never seen before dimpling Jin Guangyao’s cheeks.

“He’s far too shortsighted for someone of your intelligence, Xiandu,” Jin Guangyao says smoothly, dispassionate and looking down his nose at Nie Mingjue in the particularly haughty way of the Jin. “Is such a blunt tool really worth the effort of sharpening?”

Wen Ruohan chuckles and it makes Nie Mingjue’s skin crawl, the easy back and forth, the way Jin Guangyao’s expressive eyes are full of disdain, the way Wen Ruohan is stroking Jin Guangyao’s hand laid on the arm of his chair with just his fingertips, somehow more salacious and proprietary than outright groping him would be.

“Perhaps not,” Wen Ruohan muses. “Perhaps his usefulness lies in entertainment, particularly if your idiotic father truly intends to give you to me.”

Jin Guangyao smiles again, dimpling and sweet as he sidles closer to Wen Ruohan. “My father was eager to be rid of me and I of him. My loyalty lies here.”

Nie Mingjue jerks once in his restraints, unable to stop the urge to at least make an attempt to get free and, if he’s lucky, loop his hands around Jin Guangyao’s skinny throat to squeeze the miserable life out of him.

But of course Nie Mingjue can never hope for luck.

Being betrayed by Lan Xichen when they’d thought Wei Wuxian to be their enemy had hurt, but somehow this is worse. He’d worried about Jin Guangyao, done what he could to comfort him, felt some small hint of his relief when his younger brother had been unexpectedly returned to him safe and sound. He’d been given an easy escape but he’d stayed with Jin Guangyao when his survival was uncertain, simply because he couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving him to face his fate alone.

Nie Mingjue had trusted him, against all the odds.

Jin Guangyao clucks his tongue in disapproval and steps away from Wen Ruohan’s side to approach Nie Mingjue and he jerks again, leather creaking and metal rattling as he fights to keep his eyes trained on the target his hands ache to crush.

When Jin Guangyao is close enough to touch, he strokes the back of his knuckle down the curve of Nie Mingjue’s cheek, and though Nie Mingjue tries he can’t even turn his head enough to attempt to bite the offending finger off at the joint.

“Mingjue,” Jin Guangyao chides, warm and patronizing, “has Xiandu finally succeeded in breaking your mind? You’re little better than a rabid dog like this. Perhaps I should let you follow in your father’s footsteps and simply put you out of your misery.”

Wen Ruohan chuckles with what sounds like genuine amusement, twisted as he is, and Nie Mingjue bares his teeth in a wordless snarl.

“Patience xiao-Jin, don’t you want to make it hurt?”

“Can he even feel pain if his mind’s too broken to string two thoughts together?” Jin Guangyao muses, a philosophical question that makes Nie Mingjue’s blood boil, enough that he finally finds the right muscles to spit blood at Jin Guangyao’s feet.

“This is your doing?” he snarls, clumsy on the bite-swollen tip of his tongue. “After everything—”

“Ah, he speaks at last! Truly remarkable after three doses of your Fire poison, Xiandu,” Jin Guangyao taunts with another caress down the side of his face, punctuating it with the tap-tap-tap of a fingertip under his chin, the drag of a single nail down the center of his bare, bloodied chest.

“Mingjue is far too resilient for his own good, he’ll need another few doses to calm down enough to be taken back to his cell. You and I have plenty of time to play together.”

“Mm so it would seem. Ah — careful Big Red,” Jin Guangyao tuts when Nie Mingjue jerks in his restraints again. “No damage unless I say so, don’t spoil our fun.”

“You fucking snake!” Nie Mingjue spits, venomous and bloody at Jin Guangyao’s feet. “Traitorous bastard, I should have drowned you in the river when I had the chance!”

Nie Mingjue registers the sharp crack of flesh a moment before his exhausted body catches up enough to realize it was Jin Guangyao’s knuckles across his cheek, and fresh pain (clean, honest pain, not the insidious venom of a needle under his skin) blooms red and black across half of his face.

“Disrespectful and arrogant, I would expect nothing less. Have you already forgotten who dragged whose half-drowned ass out of that water, you ungrateful—”

“Enough.” Wen Ruohan’s voice is sharp as a knife between the ribs, impatient for the first time Nie Mingjue has heard since he was captured. “I’ve no interest in your petty squabbling. Come here to me, Guangyao.”

Jin Guangyao turns and Nie Mingjue closes his eyes against the sight of him settling down primly on the arm of Wen Ruohan’s chair like he belongs there, like he’s some…pet for Wen Ruohan to play with.

He doesn’t want to know how many times his own brother has sat in that same spot, forced to play coy and meek to attempt to appease Wen Ruohan’s appetites long enough to survive. And yet Jin Guangyao goes to him willingly, sits at his side and lounges back, indolent, comfortable in his position. Nie Mingjue opens his eyes after a too-long moment of murmuring he can’t quite hear to see Jin Guangyao has turned to sling his legs over Wen Ruohan’s lap and bent down to speak directly into his ear.

“…even better poison than your Fire,” Nie Mingjue hears as Jin Guangyao sits up again to reach behind himself. “If you’ll allow this humble one to demonstrate, Xiandu. A thank you gift, for taking me in unexpectedly, hm?”

Wen Ruohan, smug and satisfied, simply smirks as he waves an indulgent hand, apparently in the mood to be generous to his newest torturer.

Nie Mingjue can’t take his eyes off the blade glinting in Jin Guangyao’s hand, carefully withdrawn from a sheath hidden in the small of his back. It’s long, he notes first, and obviously razor sharp where the thinnest of edges catches the glare of the single light over the table.

“It’s a hunting poison,” Jin Guangyao practically purrs as he turns the blade casually between his clever fingers, never straying from the hilt. “Harmless now while it’s dry, but once he’s wounded with it, and the wound exposed to air…” Jin Guangyao trails off meaningfully with a little smile, a tilt of his head. Wen Ruohan stares up at him where he’s perched just a few inches above him and Nie Mingjue’s lip curls with open disgust for the display.

Wen Ruohan tips his head to the side ever so slightly when Jin Guangyao stops spinning the blade long enough to press the flat of it to his cheek, a mirror of the way he’d caressed Nie Mingjue’s face, and Jin Guangyao’s smile takes on a strange edge, tilting higher at the left corner of his mouth.

“It’s faster than your Fire, I’ll admit, not much use for making him continue to suffer; but it’s quite effective for my purposes.”

“Your purposes,” Wen Ruohan repeats, amused. He tilts his head a little further and leans back, arm slung almost casually around Jin Guangyao’s hips to nearly pull him all the way into his lap. “And what would those purposes be? Revenge?”

“Mmm you could say that,” Jin Guangyao laughs, light and lilting.

His fingers blur and Nie Mingjue barely sees the moment he plunges the knife straight through Wen Ruohan’s chest.

Shock makes his entire body slacken and he can only watch dumbly as Jin Guangyao springs back from Wen Ruohan’s clawing hands, can only stare and stare and stare as his jailer — his tormentor, the bane of his existence — dies choking on his final breaths, hands curled uselessly around the hilt of Jin Guangyao’s knife like he’d intended to pull it out but simply died first.

“Mingjue, look at me.” Jin Guangyao is in front of him, bent at the waist to bring them eye-to-eye in an attempt to catch Nie Mingjue’s gaze. “Da-ge!”

Nie Mingjue sucks in a rattling breath and tears his eyes away from the corpse in the chair across from him with herculean effort.

“What the fuck was that?” he manages to ask, but Jin Guangyao doesn’t spare him the time to answer.

“I’m going to free you. If you kill me Huan-ge will be terribly upset with you, and be advised that he’s armed.”

“What the fuck did you just do?!” Nie Mingjue shouts. He strains against his manacles again until his right hand is freed and he can reach out to finally, finally get his fingers around Jin Guangyao’s throat and squeeze —

“Mingjue!!”

Jin Guangyao meets his gaze steadily and curls his fingers around Nie Mingjue’s to try to loosen their grip as Lan Xichen bursts into the room, a frisson of high-energy anxiety to cut through the murderous rage turning the edges of Nie Mingjue’s vision red. Every outburst he’s had (or nearly had) since the beginning of this mission has nothing on the fury raging through him now, and as Lan Xichen finishes removing the straps holding Nie Mingjue in place all he uses his freedom for is getting his other hand around Jin Guangyao’s neck as well.

“Mingjue stop it!” Lan Xichen shouts, sharp in his ear and cutting a narrow path through the haze. “Put him down, you’re killing him!”

“Good,” Nie Mingjue grits out between bared teeth, but between Jin Guangyao prying at his fingers and Lan Xichen’s unnerving strength yanking at his wrist he’s forced to drop Jin Guangyao the few inches he’d lifted him off the floor. The moment he’s free, he crumples, coughing and crawling weakly backward out of range as Lan Xichen steps between them.

Nie Mingjue is left with no choice but to focus on the other man, their even heights putting him in just the right place to see the steel in Lan Xichen’s gaze, the tense set to his jaw, the color high on his cheeks and his pupils dilated with what looks like pure adrenaline.

“He saved your life, Mingjue! If you kill him now you will find yourself answering to me, and I promise that you do not want to. Control yourself, we have to go.”

Nie Mingjue snarls and takes one step forward only to be held back by an iron bar across his chest – it’s not an iron bar, it’s Lan Xichen’s forearm pressed against him, but it certainly feels like iron, hard and utterly unyielding to the point of bruised aching as Nie Mingjue strains against him just to keep his feet underneath him.

“I will not be parted from either one of you, Mingjue, so control yourself, and we will all make our amends later! We have a job to finish.”

Nie Mingjue forces himself to take a deep breath in and hold it, his jaw aching with the force of his clenched teeth and his hands shaking where he’s got them fisted in Lan Xichen’s sleeves as if he’s going to force him away, though they both know he isn’t capable of doing so. Not now. He closes his eyes for a moment against the sight of Jin Guangyao’s eyes peeking over Lan Xichen’s shoulder, wide and afraid and innocent, with none of the cruelty Nie Mingjue had seen! No one is that good an actor, but there’s no trace of malice in him now, only concern and fear.

He’d seen it, but his mind is only barely his own and he knows that no one will trust what his eyes are telling him.

Not even himself.

Even still, Nie Mingjue isn’t buying the doe-eyed innocent act for a second, but Lan Xichen is right. They have a job to finish, and Wen Ruohan is dead. He opens his eyes again to find some of the ferocity has left Lan Xichen’s expression to be replaced by relief, and without sparing a thought for why he does it Nie Mingjue grabs his face between both palms to pull him into a kiss that’s more teeth than anything else, rough and demanding to try to burn through some of the energy he isn’t allowed to expel by strangling Jin Guangyao.

He feels like he’s fracturing, every emotion he could possibly feel flashing through him with no warning, everything dialed up to 11 and leaving him shaking with the need to do something, anything, to vent it.

“We need to go, Huan-ge,” Jin Guangyao calls from near the door. Lan Xichen returns one final brutal kiss before he withdraws and takes Nie Mingjue’s hand to tow him out of the room, through the labyrinthine hallways of the Fire Palace with a sense of purpose in his steps, a sense of direction. He doesn’t ask why Lan Xichen knows his way through the maze, he doesn’t ask why he trusts Jin Guangyao to lead them to safety rather than another trap, he doesn’t ask what happened or how long it’s been since he was captured, or why there’s no one here to stop them as they escape.

All he can do is follow, and when the tunnels begin to slope upwards he hurries along behind the others into fresh, clean air that doesn’t reek of anything but the faint whiff of sulfur-sharp smoke that clings to everything in Qishan.

They stop short at a few sharp claps from somewhere ahead and to the left, and when Nie Mingjue looks up it’s to find Wei Wuxian sitting on top of the wall that surrounds the Palace, one foot popped up on top of it and his elbow resting on his bent knee as he claps slowly, almost mocking, and offers them a little half-bow.

“A spectacular show from all of you, really. Well done,” he says, his voice colder than Nie Mingjue has yet heard it. “And now, I believe it’s my turn.”

[paradox-n-bedrock]

Hey! I saw throughout some of your tags that you got to see both Macbeth and The Enfield Haunting! (to which I'm insanely jealous, please hand over your memories to me at your earliest convenience!) What did you think of them??

Oh hi!!

The Enfield Haunting was enjoyable. Reviews for it have been overly harsh, for the most part, and I think part of that might be the genre bias horror often faces. The dialogue is clunky, particularly in the beginning, but I can say it's a fun show if you're a Conjuring, Enfield Poltergeist, or general haunted history fan. It presents the supernatural influence vs troubled children aspect in a balanced way, as is necessary for this plot. It also builds tension rather effectively once it gets going, while letting Catherine punctuate it with moments of lightness and her usual impeccable timing. There are some really good parts where a theme seemed to come together of this overwhelmed woman dealing with a rotating cycle of overbearing men (invasive investigators, infatuated neighbor, disrespectful ex-husband, and the poltergeist, of course) making nuisances of themselves in her home while she's just trying to push through each day without losing herself or her children to their collective unhappiness. If the theme had carried through more cohesively, it would have been a strong play. Unfortunately, I was left yearning for a bit more of that story, as it gets messy and lost maybe two thirds of the way though when the focus shifts to the investigator. But mainly, Catherine is so, so talented. She carries the whole thing on her back, with some help from the young actress who plays a very creepy Janet. It's hard to take your eyes off of her as Peggy, even when she's harried and anxious or reacting in furious silence to the action happening on the other side of the stage. She just... draws your gaze. And when she steels her spine to stand up for her family and her space, she's positively luminous. Plus there's an unexpected delight in a couple of scenes where Catherine sings Only Wanna Be With You--very sweetly, just a bar or two--and my heart felt like it was going to fucking burst. Hello, her voice... I need her to do another musical, preferably one we get a soundtrack to.

And she's so kind at the stage door. It was a two show day and she had a con the next morning but she still took the time to speak to every single person that was waiting there.

__

Macbeth, I wasn't carrying even the slightest hope of seeing but then I was able to get a standing ticket in my cart while on the flight there (though I had to let it go) and realized my years of stalking concert presales were about to come in handy. Ironically, my partner was the one who did snag the tickets two days later. I... actually ended up with a first row seat, though she was in the standing section. But that's just me rambling about the process because I still can't believe it worked out the way it did.

I'm not even sure what to say about the show itself. The whole cast is phenomenal. The production is conceptually very cool. The audio tricks they play with the witches--via a headset for each audience member and the eerie sense of movement and foreboding conveyed by bilateral audio--plus the starkness of the empty white stage and simple dark costuming just work. The contrast of the blood when David is centerstage, distressed and panting as he washes it away, feels poignant rather than pretentious. He's captivating the whole way through, but especially then, when he temporarily strips away the ambition along with his stained clothes to reveal the broken and guilty thing underneath. There's nothing like how DT delivers Shakespeare--the meaning flows out of him as naturally as the words themselves and it's incredibly approachable without losing any of its gravitas. The dynamic between the leads is atypical in a really lovely way. David's Macbeth and Cush's Lady Macbeth come across more like codependent partners and ruthless accomplices than a greedy but hesitant royal and his calculating wife egging him on. He looks to her for support rather than a push to kill Duncan, and the adoration between them is palpable, even as they each deteriorate in their own ways. I walked out of this show feeling so deeply affected, it was like a religious experience.

(Macbeth also feels very gender, which shouldn't be a surprise to anyone who's a fan of DT's Benedict, though this is obviously in a very different way. As does Malcolm, played by Ros Watt--who's non-binary--and Ross, played by Moyo Akandé. I adore the whole cast, honestly.)

[ifjgh]

Second girlie, is my silly little Roller Disco Queen, Patricia Molloy.

Here's some basic info! <3

Goes By: Patty Nicknames: Patty, Clover DOB: Jan.10th, 1958 Age: 20 (Until her B-Day) Gender: Female, but isn't big on labels (She/Her) Sexuality: Bi/Pan Ethnicity: Irish Occupation: Student (Health and Medicine Major), Two Possible side-jobs Socioeconomic Status: Middle Class, never really had to worry about money, but isn't exactly the richest girl on the block Place of Birth: Cork, Ireland Family: Father's a respectable farmer, while her Mother's a stay at home type. Doesn't really get along with them though, she's happy to be a whole country away from them to say the least. Height: 4'10“ Weight: 125 lbs. Disabilities: None (?) besides being too short for things (Opposite problem as Manzo) Fashion Style: Clowncore, but in a good way, Flashy Roller Disco Queen, with added minimum safety gear Coordination (or lack thereof): Probably the most coordinated out of the Main 8, mostly because she's rarely not on wheels outside of class, girl's got balance for days Personality Type/Trait: Entertainer - Spontaneous, Energetic, Enthusiastic, Never a Boring Moment with her, Cheerful Introvert/Extrovert: More of a mix, but leans towards Extrovert most of the time. It really shines through when she's out on the rink Intelligence: Average, gets good enough grades, and knows enough to get by, but she excels in Street-Smarts more then Book-Smarts Self-Esteem: Slightly Above Average, She knows she's a Roller Disco Superstar and no one can even touch her skill, but she doesn't put herself above anyone in anything else (she can brag about one thing as a treat, otherwise she'd feel like an asshole) Hobbies: Roller Skating, Dancing, Singing, Thinking Up/Drawing new outfit designs and looks, Drinking, She'd try anything to keep her mind busy Skills/Talents: Autonomy, Ambition, Roller Skating, Creativity, Singing, Good at Standing-Up for Herself Loves: A good drink, Roller Disco, Up-Beat Tunes, Trying New things Phobias/Fears: Getting trapped in the same place forever, Conformity, Never Ending Boredom, Loosing her Reputation at the Rink, Lucya freaks her out a little (it's all due to vibes) Angered By: People who underestimate her, Short jokes by other people (unless they're really funny or she's the one saying them) Pet Peeves: Being the last person to know about something, Uncleanliness, Unreasonable people Obsessed With: Roller Disco, doing anything to stave off boredom really Bad habits: Talking over people (usually she just doesn't realize it), her priorities are kinda scewed (usually Roller skating takes up her highest priority), not the most concerned with safety, a bit of an Adrenaline Junkie Desires: True Freedom, Finding out who she is through exploring and trying different things, something or someone stable that she can rely one that isn't just Roller Disco Flaws: If she had to choose between Roller Disco or Saving someone's life, she'd choose Roller Disco. Wanders around aimlessly a lot, kinda of an outsider (still accepted by the group, but she doesn't feel like she quite fits in) Secrets: Second most likely to kill someone and get away with it. Feels like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders, and can't share that burden with anyone. Her disdain for her life back home. Not the biggest Disco Music fan. Regrets: That she couldn't ”fix“ her family, and instead kinda just, up and left them. Not giving it her all in school, despite her decent grades, she feels like she could, no should, do better. Accomplishments: She has her picture framed at the Roller Rink, and a few trophies from some of the past Roller Disco competitions, has had some request to design some outfits and got paid for it (other Roller Disco Fanatics probably) Languages Known: Fluent in Gaelic and English, and has picked up on Swedish (from being BeeDee's Roommate) and some Afrikaans slang (from hanging out with Shelby)

(Things are subject to change the more I get things fine tuned, I've also kept some things secret for the time being. - Crow <3)

Bonus! Basic Profile Sheet, for funsies! X

[paulineagain]

For this week’s writing exercise, I sat down to imagining “girlness,” I was drawn to a very young character in my WIP: the daughter of one of the heroines. I imagine her here a little older than she is in the current story. She is disabled, realizing her asexuality and understanding that her status as a “natural child” will always mark her in early 19th century America. The standards that set her apart aren’t going to dismay her, though. Embracing our personal differentness without saying we’re sorry, especially for women and girls, is also a way to break the rules.

Thank you for including me – and all of us – in this opportunity @bettsfic and @books. It has been a great opportunity for me to dive deeper into so much that I love about writing.

Being born unable to hear came with a lot of rules. She knew that instinctively, never being told. Smile when people’s lips moved, even though they make no effort to be understood. Avoid nodding. They might be asking for something you cannot or will not give. Stick to your own, if you can. They make accommodations for you, and you for them.

The school for the deaf was far away. It was on a river, but nothing like the one back home, and the people were as cold as the weather. Dyed in the wool Protestants from Puritan ancestors, they wore their collars high and their expressions sour. Nothing like the people back home who she knew, again instinctively, her teachers thought of as indolent and lazy. Easy words of misunderstanding and dismissal.

She was called Joy here, even though her name was really Joie. The teachers corrected her with the signs for J-O-Y when she wrote her name in French at the top of her parchment. She would have to cross it out and write the hated letters given in terse movements of fingers gnarled by hard scrubbing and a lack of moister. These women seemed to have no joy, and she was often surprised that they could even spell the word.

Knowing another life, full of people who loved and accepted her for who and what she was, did not soften the hard edges. She came to the school at age ten and now, two years later, she counted days rather than months. Her mother, with a heart in the right place, said that five years away from all she loved would be enough. Seven, though, would be better. Joie wanted out now, and if her mother knew what they told her here she might agree.

Women could not, according to her teachers, achieve more than hearth and husband, home and children. They drilled this into her and her eager classmates. These girls, for the genders were separated in and out of class, giggled and passed notes about boys. Joie didn’t see the attraction. Boys were fine to talk to, and run after in a game of tag. Some of her finest friends were boys but Joie didn’t understand why girls fussed over them. Most of all, she knew she never wanted to marry.

She avoided telling anything but the most obvious when asked about her family, too. The people at this place would mock her for a mother who was a sea captain, an aunt who practiced medicine and a father she did know. Their rules said everything about her family was upside down and sideways. Everything about it was incorrect.

Her own ambitions, also unspoken, were wrong too. Joie dreamed of making her own way in the arts. Her love of portraiture bloomed here, perhaps the only thing that did besides the climbing roses on the shady side of the girl’s dormitory. She hoped to make a life for herself with her talent, and to one day say she had painted every rich Creole lady and praline seller back home. They all held their own fascination, and deserved a place in posterity.

Like the roses that chose the difficulty of a different path in the shade, but managed still to bloom in profusion each year, Joie imagined thriving. Against the odds, and all the rules, she saw herself thriving on her own. Like her mother who could aim and prime a cannon and her aunt who could save lives with surgery, their Joie would succeed. Just five more patient years, and the rules would all but be forgotten.

[bookwyrm35]

My rant about how complicatedly beautiful Locklyle is:

(Disclaimer: this was written at 3 am and I tend to get weirdly poetic in the wee hours. 🤷‍♀️ Just so you know.)

Let us begin with our components of this ship: Lucy Carlyle and Anthony Lockwood. Lucy comes from a home practically devoid of love. Her father is gone, her mother might as well be, and every sister (save possibly Mary) has left her life completely. When she went to London, she was searching stability, shelter and yes, she got that but she also got so much more. She found a family. She found friendship. She found love.

That, in my book is such a vital part of any relationship. Before you are anything else (not more because romance is not above platonic, but simply different), you must have friendship. It might sound cheesy or a little weird but it is true. And it was true for them.

It is important, when analyzing Lockwood and Co. characters, to remeber that Lucy, as much as we love her, is an unrediable narrator. She tells us what she notices and nothing more. As the books go on you can see her dwelling on Lockwood's description, going into more detail of how he looks, how he acts, she even starts to catagorize his smiles. It's slow and she'll never be caught dead admitting it, but you can see how her attraction to him grows and for once I love it. One, because the girl doesn't even notice and two, because it's natural. The pace they move at can be seen by others as miniscule and tortuous, but to me it is right. If there is to be romance, let it be done slowly. Let it be shown at the pace of opening spring and with the steps of shaky feet.

Turning to her counterpart in Lockwood, the first thing I would like to address is his focus. His ambition and drive, though seemingly strictly personal at first, is another vital thing I think plays into the masterpiece that is their relationship. He (for reasons you know if you've read the books) is laser focused on doing his job as an agent and doing it well. His country is plauged by a scourge and he will stop at nothing to alleviate the pain is brings. His whole life since...well, spoilers, has been devoted to fighting the dead, removing their spirits and doing it with flair. But then... along comes this Listener, this girl named Lucy, and everything changes. Suddenly he finds himself with his attention spilt, his once single mindedness gone like it never existed. For the first time in so, so long he thinks about something outside the Problem. This is all speculation, mere drivel on my part, but I truly belive that Lucy changed Lockwood in a way no one else could. She grounds him, gives him a reason to live beyond the next case. She becomes like his sun, a beacon of hope and light he can always turn back to.

I've heard people say that Lockwood fell first but Lucy fell harder. I think that fits. Though we don't see it clearly through Lucy's eyes, from the moment they met, Lockwood would do anything for her. Even when he barely knew her, he gave her his childhood room, a place in his home, his agency and his heart. He never pushed her to talk about her past, never took her Talents for granted, always tried to make sure she felt she belonged. He won't realize until much later, but I think he fell for her before she even accepted the job.

What about Lucy though? Why do people say that she fell harder? I can't say much, don't want to give away anything to those who have yet to read the books, but just know that she would do anything, anything, to keep Lockwood safe. Even if it meant torture and pain and loneliness beyond belief, if she thought it would help him-she would do it. She loves him so much, and she doesn't even realize it.

But does this devotion, the immediate connection make void the point I just made about things needing to be slow? No, because of the ever important detail of their ignorance. It is this inability to make that connection that I find so endearing, even nigh amusing. Anyone else could have told them they love each other, but the fact that they can't see it is delicious to me. It makes them act like fumbling fools, but they're teenagers. What do you expect? Their world is dark and dreary and full of death, but they have each other, and to them that's enough.

I think another reason I love Locklyle is because they never delude themselves into believing they're the only two people on this earth that matter. Never is there a moment where they shut out their friends in favor of being with the other. George (and later a few other characters) are so dear to them, and you never doubt that. Lucy and Lockwood have a special connection, that cannot be denied, but it is never put above thier friendships with others. Like I said before, romance is not more. It is simply different.

[divination1330]

Gonna ramble about fandom on this account, because who cares. Warning, really long post

I’ve liked the (mostly created by the fandom due to a lack of material) ship between Shiro and Adam for ages. Like, ever since I found out about it. And it’s for one huge reason. I am going to try and focus on source material and what I know about space, because my headcannons are all over the place.

I’ve wanted to be an astronaut my entire life, and having someone in my life who would stick out loving me through that dream is probably my greatest hope.

I’ve also got someone in my life who is like that. Who matches me for my talent and my heart but overall doesn’t have any aspirations like mine. They want to settle down and just have a mechanical engineering job that pays enough and that they enjoy (and a lot of pets). Their extracurriculars aren’t high stakes, they aren’t chasing grades for their future, but they still push themselves. They still demand the best from themselves that they can, and I do the same thing.

We’ve never had unhealthy competition. We’ve always tried to push each other and lean into each other’s ambitions and interests, but they have supported me in this dream without any doubt. They’re fully expecting to have to deal with the stress of me going to space.

I also never want to put them through that. My current aspirations already take me away from them so much. What will that do to my partner and my best friend in the years to come? Will I want them to move on, find someone who actually has their feet on the ground?

I like the fact that there was a breaking point between Shiro and Adam, despite how it seems like Adam was the closest person to Shiro. We hear nothing about Shiro having a family outside of mentoring Keith, and possibly his work with the Holts, if you want to count that. Adam is still the only person to call Shiro by his first name, and they were nearly married. From the photo in the background they flew together as well. As an aviator that drives me up the wall. The protective instinct that I’ve seen pilots have for each other, and the reckless streak, is so interesting (that’s an entire other topic about what the personalities of pilots means for Voltron, and for Shiro in particular).

You bet your ass Adam was at the end of his rope. I like to see him as a parallel to Haggar in the same way Shiro was a parallel to Zarkon. Haggar’s search for knowledge corrupted her and tore her apart. She was selfish in doing so. She refused to let the people she loved die, and let it drive her to insanity. Adam was a teacher, not a scientist. His job was about sharing knowledge. What did Adam do when someone he cared about endangered their life in a way higher than the risks that they had ever taken on together?

When he realized that Shiro was inevitably going to an environment that speeds up muscular atrophy and osteoporosis for a long term mission with a minimal crew and is extremely taxing on mental health, which from the scraps we know about Shiro’s illness and personality is probably highly dangerous on several accounts, he let go.

He decided he cared about someone enough to let them go and preserve his own sanity, because he could never control them. You bet that hurt. He wouldn’t hold on to someone and do horrible things to try to work against someone’s own autonomy.

(PS: I’m really interested in Shiro’s personality in regards to being something uncontrollable. He’s the guardian of the air, to his knowledge his life is incredibly fragile, he’s the definition of astronauts being medical experiments and extremophiles, he’s a model student, he’s going to be young forever until he isn’t and he’ll lose everything that makes him part of the garrison, he’s a born leader and an incredible strategist, he’s built his own family from people he met at a military school, he commits insubordination, he’s the garrisons youngest pilot of a long-term mission, he decided to mentor a kid who stole his car, he managed to become a symbol of hope to the blades while in what could have been his lowest moments, he’s faced with a kid pulling his rank to make a decision and immediately makes it a team effort, you’ll never catch him taking a break, what?)

That’s what I think is the illustration of the very start of the difference between Zarkon and Shiro. Zarkon nearly tore reality apart and refused to let Haggar go at the expense of so much. Before Shiro ever went to space, he was on both sides of that decision, in a way. Would he stay because someone who had such an impact on him loved him, or would he continue with his mission because he might be the only one who can do this.

Zarkon abandoned his team and his service to Voltron for someone he loved beyond anything. Haggar abandoned everything in her search for knowledge, believing that Zarkon would do anything to save her.

Shiro and Adam both serve the morals of the Garrison, what has become their home. They both study flight, and engineering, and what lies beyond the atmosphere. They have been there for each other since what seems like the start. Adam looked at all the risks and knew he could never try to make a decision for Shiro, but he also wasn’t able to stand by and watch while he hurt himself. Shiro looked at his options and believed that he was the only one able to pilot the Kerberos mission the farthest manned mission the Garrison had ever conducted. They let each other go because they loved each other. They loved each other because of those same reasons in the first place. They wouldn’t be who they are without those traits, those values.

At the end of the day, Adam dies because of those same values. He defended Earth, and probably did the exact same thing Shiro would have done. They were just both like that. Selfless, and very aware of what Earth means.

But what if he made it?

How would that pan out?

I can say this. Through all of it, my partner feels like the only person who truly gets all of this. The ambition, the sacrifices, the strain. I also hide stuff from them when I don’t want them to become too worried, at least till it blows over. Especially with flight involved, or space accidents. I’ve cried on their shoulder about some of this, and they also feel like my only haven some days.

Shiro comes back, and the one person who gets him is fighting the same fight Shiro is. Adam is in danger and taking the same risks Shiro is, and the problem is he isn’t special, not like the paladins, and now the universe really is at stake. What decisions would Shiro make? Especially since they broke up? How much have they both changed?

What if Shiro has to choose between his universe and the universe

And what does he do in the wake of losing his body, his illness, and nearly his mind. He’s lost a limb all over again. His tormentor is his savior, and also someone who lost everything so long ago. He’s coming back home after at least six years, and he can only really remember two, but is it really home? He’s not dying anymore, and now he really has to think about surviving the war and having a life. He’s not expendable anymore, and he’s not in the feild with the paladins he swore to protect. As an Admiral no less, and pilot of a sentient war ship. He lost Black, and gained Atlas.

Who is he going to? Everyone depends on him, everyone has expectations for him.

Who wouldn’t understand all of the things that happened, but understands him. Would he even deserve that person anymore

What does Adam think? Here’s someone who changed his life, through friendship and love and death, who’s now back. The sky was their graveyard, and now it’s their battleground. And he knows more than anyone about them. He knows the way they fly, fight, strategize, everything. At least, the way they did it before they disappeared. How are they still alive? Have they changed? Is he even remotely in their orbit anymore? Does he deserve to be?

At the end of the day, I think Adam would be the only one to see Shiro for who he really is during those last months of the war on Earth. A man with the universe on his shoulders, who is more unsure of his place in it than ever. I also think Adam would be the first person to help him let it go. After all, they used to do everything together. Garrison classes, flying, work, why not this?

Maybe having two people so intrinsically intertwined, who chose each other for who knows what reasons, and chose the universe because they loved each other, was the only way to reverse ten thousand years of war from one selfish decision. Maybe it took two people accepting they could never change each other, and would never want to, in order to change everything

Yeah, sucker for space context to Voltron and extremely dynamic relationships. Fun fact, took me and my partner years to date each other after I first asked them out. We were best friends for ages before they responded by asking me out after my initial ask years before.

Well, this is a fandom account now I guess. Get ready for the brain rot

[inamindfarfaraway]

Perhaps the funniest League of Legends character interaction that's also highly plausible in-universe, thematically appropriate and emotionally charged is Rell and Veigar teaming up.

They’re both extremely magically strong and skilled. Rell controls metal, a product of the earth from which she can directly rip ore. Veigar draws his celestial magic from the stars.

They both have dark, tragic backstories: because of their magical talent, they were taken into custody by powerful, corrupt Noxian authorities, isolated, abused and forced to use their magic harmfully for a long time, at least relative to their respective lives. This traumatized and broke them so much that they now see inflicting pain as the only thing they’re good at, even capable of. They have no friends. They've never known or have forgotten what it feels like to be loved, joyful or carefree. All they were left with once free was so much guilt and grief and so much power. From that, they have forged new identities - roles to play - built around singular, combative ambitions that they cannot imagine lives or futures beyond. Rell identifies as a gritty, edgy antihero, having noble intentions but using brutal, destructive and downright gruesome methods. Veigar identifies as a villain, but is good at heart despite not comprehending this himself.

They’re both currently roaming around the Noxian countryside in order to find and defeat as many powerful, corrupt Noxian authorities who mistreat people as they can. Rell does this to make the guilty pay for their crimes and liberate and protect the oppressed. Veigar does it to replace the authority and prove that his evil is greater and cooler than theirs, but in practice doesn’t really bother hurting anyone innocent and just ends up making the guilty pay for their crimes and liberating and protecting the oppressed.

They’re both connected to Mordekaiser, and would be primary enemies of him holding personal grudges if his plot about trying to dominate Runeterra is ever developed. Rell was such an important project for the Black Rose because they hoped that she would be able to defeat Mordekaiser. He embodies everything she stands against. Mordekaiser was Veigar’s captor and abuser, responsible for who he is today. Rell can manipulate metal; Veigar wields incredible cosmic magic; and Mordekaiser is a magical suit of armour, so if anyone can finish him off, it’s these two working together.

Rell is practical, pragmatic, cynical and consumed by bloodthirsty, vengeful rage. Veigar clings to and imitates an immature ideal of Villainy, fashioning his outfit after Mordekaiser’s stereotypical fantasy evil overlord aesthetic, his behaviour after all the most theatrical tropes that archetype can be associated with and having very dramatic and flashy magic, but inwardly lacks the cruelty (not to mention dignity) to back that presentation up.

They both want the Noxian people to respect them as a threat. Rell has wanted posters and become widely feared by the elite army less than a year since her escape. Veigar has been ‘conquering’ for centuries and is still not taken seriously.

Their respective magic colours are yellow and purple, and the rest of both of their colour palettes is grey, silver and black.

Everything about Rell is played completely straight. Almost everything about Veigar is played for comedy.

Rell could come across a village that Veigar has seized and accidentally benefitted, like Boleham in his story on the website, and try to challenge him. Or they could both arrive to kill the same tyrannical warlord at the same time. She realizes that he is a) really bad at being bad, b) just a silly little guy and c) an extremely useful asset to her quest.

So she directs him at the Black Rose and they go and utterly fuck Noxis up while helping the downtrodden. There's so much comedy to get out of their contrasting personalities and perspectives. Rell always acts like the protagonist of a grim, action-packed young adult dystopian series and Veigar is standing right next to her emanating campy children's cartoon villain energy; they both think the story is a different genre and the acting and tone should reflect that. This premise is hysterical with the proper execution.

But it isn't just funny! They can genuinely bond and learn, or in Veigar's case remember, what loving and being loved is, and begin to process their trauma and help each other cope with their C-PTSD and be kinder to themselves and have fun and become fulfilled. And then kill Mordekaiser, whose return is one of the subplots. And then live happy, safe, peaceful lives together, because they were never meant for all this violence.

Other subplots besides Mordekaiser include LeBlanc, Rell's mother and the Black Rose's operations; the wider Noxian politics they tie into; Samirah hunting Rell; Annie also wandering around Noxis causing trouble and eventually getting adopted by Rell as a little sister (they deserve it); maybe the story of a Yordle who knew Veigar before and thus can supply some of his backstory that he's forgotten, a 'normal Yordle' foil to him; and generally lots of Noxian and Yordle worldbuilding and lore.

While I'm talking about Veigar, here are my ideas for a redesign of him, because his design is... not that great:

As yordles are generally animalistic or at least furry, he strongly resembles a black cat, with gold eyes with slit pupils and a dark purple nose. Black cats are associated with the supernatural, magical arts and misfortune, they're bad omens to some, but they're also fluffy little babies. He is covered in fur. You want to scratch his checks. You want to kiss his little forehead. He's so adorable and he hates it. His large pointy ears, visible under the brim of his hat, move to signal his emotions for more expressive animation. They both have notches, which help him look pitiable and allude to his past as a prisoner and victim of abuse. He has big 'weathered street cat hissing and growling at you when you try to pet it because it's reflexively afraid of people and shows that through aggression' energy.

@ohnoitstbskyen's idea in his "What's the deal with Veigar?" video that Veigar's face (his cute kitty face!) is never fully in the shadow of his hat despite him trying to look mysterious and ominous is brilliant. He’s very lively, since he acts like a classic cartoon villain who’s so excited and gleeful about being evil, so he has a habit of jostling his hat or lifting his head to reveal his whole face and then hastily pulling the hat back down.

His robe no longer has the spiked metal hem and is of a soft, loose, flowing fabric. It’s dark indigo with silver sparkles all over it like he’s wearing the night sky, in homage to the stars he draws his power from. Except the beautiful pattern is interrupted and partly obscured by a leather belt - not spiked and black, a bolder and more ‘evil’ colour than brown and a Noxian colour - with a tasteless spiky silver buckle that clashes with the stars. I love what TB Skyen said about the armour and spikes working best as a parody of Mordekaiser’s aesthetic, so I want those aspects to look tacked on and out of place. To feel wrong. Inadvertently on Veigar’s part, but deliberately in a meta sense. Between the robe, his big purple wizard hat matching his nose that also makes his body look smaller and cuter and the black cat associations, you’ve got a perfectly good yordle celestial mage design; but the influence of Mordekaiser is intruding on it, corrupting it, even. That is the clear conflict of this design. While the robe is comfortable, the armour doesn’t appear to be. This impression is helped by it all being at least a little oversized, because Noxian armour doesn’t come in yordle size and therefore Veigar has cobbled his together out of scraps he scavenged (I mean, he STOLE, how wicked) and he isn’t really a great blacksmith. His boots aren’t clown shoes or anything, but they’re big enough that his attempt at an imposing villainous stride is awkwardly clunky. They could have black leather straps on them to hold them tighter than their metal fasteners will allow. His spiked pauldrons were cut out of human ones and still jut out too much, one of them having an irregular shape that gives him a dash of Noxian asymmetry and marks him further as a flawed imitation of a fantasy supervillain. The message that he’s incompetent at something and did it anyway out of passion, perhaps not even realizing his mistakes or at least too proud to acknowledge them, makes him come across as comedic and yet an endearingly earnest, hardworking underdog, and adds to the surprise of his genuine incredible cosmic power - he couldn’t learn to smith properly before forging his own armour, but he can command the energy of the stars to smite you? Yeah. That’s Veigar. There’s one silver ring around the base of his hat that has five spikes on it, thick, long and evenly positioned so that from above, they form a star shape. Specifically, an inverted star with one spike pointing directly forward. Symbolism! His belt buckle could also be an inverted star to establish that as a motif of his; it’s spiky, but more personal and iconic than just spikes themselves.

Moving onto Rell... she has her sigils. I don't know why she doesn't in her model or artwork, they're such a crucial part of her character design! Her biography and short story both bring them up. There are even bare sections of her arms, which would only make sense if her sigils were visible in them because it's impractical and she's so averse to vulnerability, but the sigils are missing? What? Why, Riot? So yeah, in my redesign she has sigils right down both her arms. A few more recent ones are on her back (symbolic of her betrayal by her family, the Black Rose and the government). They're always hidden, even in her lighter armour on horseback, as she's deeply uncomfortable around the concept of being exposed and seeing them herself. We and Veigar only see them in dramatic character exploration scenes when a) she feels safe enough to take her armour off, b) she needs to due to injury or to hide her identity or c) someone else damages or removes her armour. Taking TB Skyen's advice again, her outer armour and therefore horse are spikier and less polished and regular, products of her undiluted heartbroken rage in the moment she destroyed the academy. They're highly distinctive, almost organic-feeling and definitely don't look like the work of a smith.

[seththemountain]

The Power of Rejection

I've had several rejections over my lifetime, whether from failed potential relationships, my work not being accepted by a publisher, the constant bullying I went through growing up, or any other point where I was not welcomed. Through the heartache and pain, I've found an inward power.

When did I find this power?

A couple of months ago, my best friend, a woman, declined to have me as her partner and instead decided to pursue another man. This has been a common occurrence over my lifetime. Admittedly, when I was younger, I did not handle it correctly. I was the archetypal "Fedora," if you know your internet lore. I would winge and cry to the woman on why she didn't pick me, begging for her affection. However, in the past few years, my usual strategy, once rejected, has been simply walking away with no begging involved. Even though I would walk away, I lacked a key ingredient. That being the ability to love the man I am without retreating into other people's attention. When my best friend rejected me, that rejection was utterly different. I had come to the realization of just how high value I had become over the years. My ambitions and work with school, my current machining career, community involvement, writing, and content creation have made me independent, enduring, and dedicated. After this last rejection, I saw the need to be no longer desperate and that I needed to have peace of mind. 

How does someone find this power?

It is not enough for rejection alone to give you the power I have. You can be rejected your whole life, but if you take no time for mental and spiritual inventory, you'll continue to be pathetic. To become powerful from rejection, I had to ask myself who I wanted to be as a man. I had to begin work on a purpose beyond myself. For me, that is working towards becoming a Renaissance man. I want to be accomplished as a scholar, writer, machinist, graphic designer, and content creator. As I have learned through my last rejection, that great purpose was only the first step. I had to learn to become content with being alone in my mind. A lesson I am still learning. Many people, including myself, have tended to run away from this notion. We run to potential relationships as an escape from ourselves. Even those with the whole world at their command can fall into this trap. I had to become my second-best companion, just below the Lord. I had to start taking better care of my physical health. I had to spend intentional alone time to enjoy my presence and to mentally and spiritually heal. I tend to do this through prayer, meditation, walking, and journaling. I do realize my inward power now because of the rejections I've gone through. I've seen the high value in myself, and I embrace it. I know I don't need to worry about not finding love because I know that as long as I stay true to my course, everything will work itself out. 

Key Takeaways

After a rejection, write in a journal about the event, what role you might have played, and where you are mentally. Come up with an action plan to heal.

If you lack a greater purpose in life, begin to journal about what person you want to become. What would you like to accomplish? What talents/skills do you want to go all the way with? 

Write down what ways you can love yourself. Maybe you need to have a better skincare routine, be better at what you eat and how much you exercise, or begin to have a more spiritual life.