#and trying to find the motivation to keep on going for like

[chiso]

Exercise burns WAY too little calories to beat a bad diet, that is very true. I also lost the weight I lost (which his 20kg since summer 2023) through diet alone. Perhaps I did SOME exercise if you count the physical strength and steps you HAVE to do when you walk around in a warehouse, but I was "fat" back then even while working there before, so I don't think it made that much of a difference.

Ofc it's fine to stay happy and learn to love yourself as you are, I just know that I for myself couldn't and I find myself way more attractive now that I lost weight and for anyone who is like me and wants to shed some kgs without a horrible diet that ends in a yoyo- I'll add what I did under here, btw this is for no profit at all, I just want to help fellow people unhappy in their skin and I thought for WAY TOO LONG that losing weight is impossible, when it's actually not that hard.

It's annoying af, I know, but calories count. Get an app that calculates your daily need of calories. It needs your height, age and weight to know the right number. Once you have that, you can extract 100-300 kcal from that total and make this your goal to eat less of that every day for a few weeks, you'll see the weight WILL get down. The scale will sometimes stay the same weight for weeks though but if you keep going you WILL see the change!

Additional to step 1- 100-300 kcal we sometimes take in just with a sweet drink or a snack. It's not that hard to eat less of it and you can still get full! You can google low kcal meals that you can eat lots of- A personal tip from me is eating thin wraps (the thinner the less kcal) with salmon or other protein fillings- since protein makes you full AND is necessary for weight loss and muscle gain. BTW don't you dare to eat less than that, it WILL hinder your weight loss, we need a certain amount of calories to work!!!!!!

Protein, you have to eat enough protein a day for this all to be lasting. I read you have to eat your bodyweight (kg) in grams of protein in a day. For example, back when I was 60kg, I had to eat 60g protein a day. But also don't beat yourself up over it if you don't get that amount daily, I didn't either, just try to whenever you can, and it'll help!

ADD your workout. I had an app that also counted my steps and automatically added the kcal I burned to my daily kcal app. It motivated me to move more because 10k steps is like 100kcal and that was 100kcal I could eat more even WHILE dieting.

Cheat meals. Important: MEAL not day, every Saturday or Sunday I had a cheat meal, sometimes even smth as big as a burger on TOP of my usual daily intake. It helps your metabolism and body to stop thinking you're starving (which makes weight loss slower) so it's not only helpful in case you're starving to eat more (bc ngl it WILL be hard until your stomach has shrinked a lil but you can do it if I did bby) but also helps your diet physically fr! So do these!!! Reward yourself for your hard work

"So does that mean I will 4ever have to count calories?" God no, I did it for over a year until I was sick of it myself. I went from 68kg down to 49kg, when I stopped counting I gained again ofc, but I still know now what contains how many calories and know by heart what I can eat and what I shouldn't. I am 52kg for months now and I don't gain anything more and even if I would, I would know now how to lose it again if it gets really bad. THAT WAS BASICALLY already it. I know not every day will be easy and sometimes you WILL mess up. The trick is not to beat yourself up over it and keep going! Wearing the cute clothes you always wanted to wear will be SO rewarding and worth it, at least it was for me. Disclaimer that I never had children, don't have diabetes, and am in my early 30ies so idk if this will work for everyone but it did for me, and if this just helps one soul my job here is already done!!

Me: Exercise does not cause weight loss. This is a fact that has been demonstrated so robustly in research that even doctors, who hate and fear evidence, are grudgingly starting to admit this.

Someone reading that post: Cool, but have you considered that exercise leads to weight loss?

Me: I am going to eat you

[baocean]

make up - jj maybank

(gif credit to @devilsmenu)

jjmaybank x kook!reader

summary: after jj hooked up with your best friend, you wrote both of them off. it’d been easy to ignore the both of them, until you came face to face with him.

warnings: sex baby, spitting, swearing

you were sure there was nothing more that you hated than jj maybank.

you never give into the stereotypes of pogues vs kooks, but you couldn’t help but despise that blond pogue.

sitting on a couch at the random house party with your friends, you weren’t even sure why kooks and pogues tried to party together, it never ended well.

sarah cameron walked by with john b, hand in hand, sarah’s free hand waving at you as they passed.

mya, maria, and alex sat with you, talking amongst themselves as you stared at him over your drink.

his blond hair was in his face, shaking back and forth as he laughed. he was talking to one of his friends.

like he knew you were looking at him, his eyes flicked over to you.

you rolled your own. adverting your attention back to your friends, trying so desperately to not look back at him.

but you were done with him, for good. after he got with your best friend, even though you both agreed you weren’t going to hook up with other people, you cut them both off.

the entire island knew you hated jj and that he hated you, but behind closed doors, the quiet sweet nothings and hours wrapped in his sheets told different stories.

he had called you close to a hundred times, texted you twice as much.

you were done. so, you wouldn’t look back at him.

jj hadn’t been there for more than an hour before he was getting into a fight with some kook.

you got up to see what the commotion was about, groaning when you saw jj lay a punch on the guys face. so typical of him.

and somehow, he found you in the crowd, smirking like crazy at you, right before he got hit again.

you didn’t even flinch, because you’ve seen this jj too many times to count. the no good, nasty side of jj.

he spit blood, laughing as he grabbed the guys head and brought his knee up to hit him again.

the kook went down, not getting back up right away. a few people ran to check on him, you just stared at jj.

the arrogant smirk on his face dropped when he saw the look on your face. you turned and walked away.

you headed up the stairs to the second floor, looking for a bathroom to get some space from everyone.

“sweetheart, where you going?” his voice insighted something close to rage in you, motivating you to keep walking.

“don’t ignore me.” his voice was closer, much more demanding now.

it was hard to, even if you had been doing it this past week. everytime he texted you or called you, you wanted to answer. but he hurt you, so you wouldn’t.

“fuck off, jj.” your voice was harsh as you opened a door, finding an empty bedroom, deeming it good enough.

“oh, don’t be like that, sweetheart.” he cooed, a laugh following. you knew he’d walk into the bedroom with you, closing and locking the door.

“can you not take a hint? i don’t want to fucking talk to you.” you finally turned, almost surprised to see the state of his face. there was blood coming from his nose, a bruise already forming on his cheek, more blood coming from his mouth.

“don’t care. i want to talk to you.” he shrugged.

“well, you look like shit. let me fix you up first.” you shot at him, hoping it would falter him.

of course, it didn’t, not much did. “my girl gonna take care of me? how sweet.” he was so bitter, but so addictive.

“i’m not your girl. get that into your head. just can’t stand looking at you.” you gave him a mean smile, huffing as you walked into the connected bathroom.

he followed you in, watching as you fumbled around with things under the sink, grabbing a cotton pad and running it under the water.

“come here.” you words were laced with annoyance.

this happened too often. it’d only been a week since jj hooked up with your now ex best friend. you were still familiar with this scene. him coming to you, covered in bruises or blood. whether it be from his father or some random kook. he’d come find you, you’d take care of him.

“so bossy. just the way i like it, sweetheart.” he tittered. you wished you had some sort of alcohol instead of water, to sting his wounds.

ignoring him, you dabbed off the blood from his mouth, wiped away off his nose.

“you hate me now?” his demeanor dropped, looking at you in the way he only looked at you when he was really upset.

“always have, especially now.” throwing away the cotton pad, you went to wash your hands.

“i’m sorry.” he sighed.

“you’re not, you just want to hook up with me.” turning back to him, you shook your head, then laughed.

“i do, i won’t fucking lie. but i am sorry. miss my favorite girl.” he reached up to play with the ends of your hair.

“oh, who’s your second favorite? pia?” you laugh at him.

“look, that was a mistake. really, i fucked up. i know.”

“glad you figured that out.” you pat his shoulder, heading out of the bathroom.

“sweetheart, please. give me one more chance. i won’t mess it up, i won’t.” jj grabbed your arm, pleading with you.

you sat there for a second, contemplating. you hated jj, but you missed him. you hated being alone these past few days, after being so familiar with calling jj over.

“fine.” you rolled your eyes, not letting jj’s celebration affect your features.

he pulled you into a hug, before quickly drawing back and kissing you.

his hand came up from your waist to your face, gently rubbing your check with his thumb.

“i missed you, sweetheart. went a whole week without talking to my favorite girl.” his hand on your cheek slowly wandered down to your neck.

“make it up to me then, maybank.” you bit at him.

that was the confirmation he needed, and you were on the guest bed almost immediately.

his lips kissed down your neck, down your collarbone and shoulder.

his fingers fumbled with the straps of your top and bra, pulling them down together. his lips connected with your nipple, sending you shooting foward.

his left hand rolled your other nipple between his fingers, looking up at him through his lashes.

that was almost enough right there, screwing your eyes shut from the feeling.

he left you, your eyes popping open as you groaned. “sweetheart, i will treat you so good after this but i’ve waited a week to fuck you.”

you rolled your eyes as his fingertips dipped under your waitband and pulled your shorts down.

his rough hands ran over your thighs, giving you shivers.

“god, been thinking about this for days.” jj groaned. you were about to let out a sarcastic comment, but were cut off by jj pushing into you, bottoming out.

your hand flung to his bicep, mouth wide open. he steadied his pace, rapid and hard. his hand hooked under your leg, pulling it up to give him a better angle.

it was all so much, feeling him everywhere, because he was everywhere.

his free hand grabbed your chin, your eyes opening just in time to watch jj spit into your mouth. he smiled, tapping your cheek as he continued his pace.

“fuck j, so good.” was all you could manage.

he brought his hand up to your hair, caressing your head and pushing back your hair. he always did this. something so sweet and gentle as he fucked you so hard it would hurt in the morning.

with some force and a whole lot of strength, you flipped the both of you over. jj looked surprised at first, before quickly falling back in and grabbing your tits as you rode him.

your hands were on his chest, riding him hard, focusing on pleasuring yourself, not caring about jj.

you hit your high, crashing on top of him as you came, not being able to hold yourself up.

“fuck fuck sweetheart i’m gonna cum.” jj’s eyes closed, a sour face falling onto his features.

“go ‘head baby.” you cooed, his hands tightening around your hips. he came inside you, his moans filling the room.

he twitched underneath you. you held each other for a moment, before jj flipped you over again.

he kissed down your chest, stomach, down to your legs.

“what are you doing?” you questioned, your hand sliding through his hair.

“i told you id make it up to you,” jj snickered, his hands pushing your thighs apart, “so let me make it up to you.”

[starrynightarchive]

luffy saved sanji, nami and the entire crew in a way. everyone knows this. everyone talks about this. but what people don't talk about enough is this: luffy saved zoro too.

now here's the thing right. zoro might not have had any ongoing struggles that were keeping him up at night. no one might've harmed him physically or mentally for a long time. the last wound of his that never closed up right is kuina and that happened a decade ago. in many ways, he's fine. he is. is he?

the thing about zoro is that before luffy, he has been running on spite. on anger and determination and sheer fucking will. and i must say, spite is an excellent motivator. but it's also really fucking tiring. it's hard to make it stay because ultimately, you run out of fuel. your body was never made to house that much anger. fire burns bright, but it burns. and zoro has been burning for a long time.

this is how he keeps the fire going. this is how he stays spiteful, angry, hurt. he digs into the wound kuina left at nights he finds himself sagging under the weight of the responsibility he carries. he pushes his fingers into the flesh (you promised kuina) and twists (you told her you'll become the world's greatest swordsman) and he bleeds.

(you promised.)

enter: luffy.

I'm going to be the king of pirates, he had announced and zoro had felt a pang of longing because that was his dream. luffy wasn't carrying a life someone else couldn't live with him. he was not running on all things red and furious. he beams, bright and sunny and so incredibly real that zoro wants to avert his eyes and says, do you want to fight them with me or do you want to die here?

of course he joins his damn crew.

here's the thing right. luffy saved him not from his enemies, not from his own mind. he saves him like this: rubber arm wrapped around his waist and flinging him around. sheepish laughter that follows a shamelessly unapologetic sorry, zoro. he saves him like this: he lets him walk into the jaws of death when he challenges mihawk. he doesn't stop him. because he will never stand between him and his dream. because he is so certain he will get back up. because he is so certain of his strength, of his tenacity, of him.

the first thing zoro says after kuina defeats him for the last time is, kill me. because he has tried so hard and it still wasn't enough. it would be a honourable way to go- to die trying to achieve your dream. but after mihawk cuts him up, he doesn't say, kill me. he cries. he cries and he says, i will never lose again. is that okay with you, king of the pirates?

he makes an other vow, this time it's to a boy he barely knows. and he knows he will keep it, because he is waiting for him. he thought zoro would come back. and so he would.

luffy saved zoro by straightening the fingers that have been clenched into fists for a long time. he tells him he will achieve his dream. he tells him he's the best and he says it like it's just another fact, another truth of the universe. luffy saves zoro by showing him that it's so much more fun to chase something because you love it, see?

now, wado doesn't feel like chains weighing him down. it just feels like the comfort of an old friend. now, he burns brighter than ever but not with spite. his fire is warm, now, just like his captain. he has his nakama to protect. he has a love that waits for him outside of this dream that seems larger than life.

luffy saves zoro by holding his hand and dragging him out to the sea with that wild laugh of his, saying, look! isn't this so much better?

and it is. it is.

[ask-codeearasure]

STOP LEAVING THIS SHIT IN THE TAGS I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD DUDE

This is the kind of shit that wakes me up from the afternoon sluggishness, the mindset of "fuck everyone I'm not going to work today and everything is shit".

Jesus Christ I'm gonna get you one day. I will make myself an idiot sandwich when I do. I will make you understand the brainrot you curse me with, the dull sense of fascination I feel about these faggots, stages and headcanons and all.

It has become a great point of borderline-obsession for me to imagine Stage 1 and Stage 2's complicated dynamics with Color before they finally both understand he's got no ulterior motives. Then they turn against each other full-force because Stage 1 is a wuss with attachment issues.

I think it would be funny if Stage 2 is the Stage that starts trusting Color first, no apprehensive questions asked, and then Stage 1 starts having a fucking conniption over it, like they don't understand what the fuck #2 is doing or why so they automatically assume the worst when really #2 is just happy to finally have a guy that doesn't treat him like the odd one out or try to alienate him over premeditated assumptions.

#1 recognizing Color is safe and trustworthy is the equivalent to strangling themself to not fuck up the one good thing they have going for them while #2 would appear to just accept it, like a simple "okay" while he's constantly making calculations about the what-ifs anyway. They're both paranoid, but #2 picked up the habit of scheming so he always has a semblance of a plan if anything goes wrong while #1 constantly obsesses over the potential of everything going to shit, not so much how they'd react aside from breaking down, running away, and maybe finding a way to finally die.

Color gives #2 basic fucking respect then goes beyond that as they keep interacting and #2 finds he likes that a lot actually, only for #1 to try and sabotage their relationship through their paranoid bullshit.

And like, I'm not saying #1 has no reason to be this way, they do, it's all just popping up at the wrong time where these behaviors and habits aren't necessary anymore.

#2 is bound to get pissed at #1 openly at some point. He just wants to be around his pookie and chill, no bloodshed needed, and the constant hot-and-cold, yes-and-no, will they-won't they, push-and-pull attitude #1 resorts to makes him realize that maybe, just maybe, he's gonna have to invest in a notebook to start communicating with this bitch thoroughly. Cause his main man, his one trusted guy being pushed away is not doing them any favors and he wouldn't know what to do if Color had enough at some point and just left like #1 seems to want.

So they have this back-and-forth for several months while Stage 3 is the one actually chilling. It gives no fucks about the other two imbeciles, it's enjoying every minute it spends with Color, but may or may not scream when #1 or #2 try to switch in.

...imagine what a blend of #2 and #3 would act like. I think they'd be extremely clingy to Color, maybe hug him with their entire body and stay like that even as he's moving around doing his own thing, but retains the #2 behaviors of studying everything that piques their interest and not responding to much emotional stimuli, and all while they're heavily dissociating. Once separate, neither of them remember where they got that information but just accept it.

ANYWAYS I hate these fucking people, I should stick them in the pear wiggler and lock the door behind them.

#2 I believe, while he's trying to do better through his bond with Color, still has manipulative habits compulsively. He knows he has an issue with that but the problem is he doesn't recognize the hows and why's. But #1 does and reacts the completely wrong way in getting anyone to notice the signs. They are set in fucking over #2 when what #2 actually needs is a clear reference in how he can change these behaviors.

He really does value Color, all of them do, but he feels like at this point in time he's the only one actually being productive about it and that's gonna be another reason why he's so infuriated with #1.

He's trying to get better for his own sake, taking notes and observing Color's needs as well so he can stick by him more effectively. If only #1 stopped destroying those notes under the pretense #2 still thinks of Color as a jumbo-sized lab rat and not the most reliable ride-or-die in existence.

I am waiting for the time #2 finally snaps openly and Color receives a rant about #1 being a bitch while he's stuck in sleep paralysis. That would be one hell of a way to find out yo boy's got suppressed issues he's struggling to sort out himself.

-- Sarco

the way stage 1 handles the other stages and advises others to the same is just both hilarious and sad

“Yeah no don’t trust me when im like that. im sure being told that everything i do or attempt to express is just me manipulating and lying won’t have consequences”

“oh yeah just kill me when im like that. what? I tried to defend myself against being murdered and killed when I was like that? gee golly im just so insane and crazy and violence is all I know you simply must kill me”

“what? hiding this part of myself and trying to suppress and resist it and pretend it doesn’t exist has consequences in that it will only make itself more know the more I resist?..I need to hide all evidence of its existence even more! In fact you should kill me before i ever become like that!”

like is it any wonder you feel so threatened in other stages when you actively turn others against you and encourage them to dehumanize and demonize you, thinking you’re doing anyone any good

[fluxweeed]

hi i'm a grouchy old hag muttering to myself in my hut in the woods

1. not everyone finds it hurtful to find out that people are discussing their fic in private discord servers or on tiktok, actually. i for one passionately don't care that people aren't only mentioning my fic where i can see it. ofc i'm curious when one fic gets a sudden unexplained boost in kudos for a few days. am i HURT that i don't know exactly where the new readers are coming from? am i upset that the boost in hits/kudos isn't accompanied with a flurry of praise? am i sad that i can't jump into the discussion? i am not.

2. the messaging of "okay but you wouldn't post the fic if you didn't enjoy validation" makes me want to delete my ao3 immediately kasdjhfg. people post things for all sorts of reasons thank u!! my personal motivation is i'm trying to make myself feel better about making imperfect things!! the idea that by posting fic i'm inherently coming across as seeking praise makes me want to throw up. (since this discussion started, i've considered disabling comments on my fic for this reason – but i'm worried that move is so non-standard that it'll end up coming across even MORE that i want attention, so i haven't taken the plunge yet)

3. i also pretty firmly disagree with "commenting on fic builds community!" (i made this joke in a grouchy bluesky rant already so if u saw that pretend u didn't) but personally i feel the community spirit when i'm in a server discussing which weasley has the biggest dick (percy). i don't feel it when people are being nice to me in my fic's comments. i'd almost go as far as to say community CAN'T be built when one person is praising another bc there's an inherent imbalance. sure, writers can mutually read and comment on each other's fic and become friends/community co-members that way, but what if u don't write? who's in YOUR comments telling u how great u are? idk about anyone else, but when i am in a community space (like a discord server) and someone starts being nice about my fic, i feel awkward. the focus shifts from a shared enjoyment onto something inherently UNshared, because one person is the creator and the others are readers. that's not to say that these interactions shouldn't happen, but imo it's disingenuous to say that's the core of fandom community.

4. i really can't stress enough how crazy it makes writers when they're writing for praise/validation. i've had conversations with very well-known drarry writers where they've been genuinely upset that nobody is reading their fic (the fic in question had hundreds of comments). i've had conversations with people who take part in fests, only to continually sort the works by stats and feel awful that theirs isn't at the top. i've had conversations with people who have had multiple devastating life events happen to them so they're struggling to write, and the lack of New Fic Comment Validation makes them feel 10x worse. i can't help but feel like if you ARE posting for feedback (or "recognition" or however you want to package it), it's genuinely not good for your brain.

5. obviously there's nuance to all of this! it's a big topic! but notice how we're talking about it on tumblr, not in ao3 comments. it would probably be even more productive in a discord server. in a voice chat. you know – fandom community spaces like that.

6. can y'all keep the next round of discussions to like 700 words max pls lmao i have stuff to do

[xxlady-lunaxx]

on the rare occasion when sanemi’s mental health plummeted and he couldn’t take it, his feet guided him, the ache and the need for numbness coaxing the money over, lifting his hand as he took the sake. he drank and he drank until he was completely unconscious. he awoke with alcohol still strong in his system and, without much thought, he found himself on the way to gyomei’s estate. he often associated the man with something of comfort, although he couldn’t figure out why at the moment. neither could he figure out when he’d arrived, instead staring blankly at the door to gyomei’s house before realizing he had to knock. gyomei opened the door for him and allowed him entry, sensing far more than the sake and gruff greeting sanemi managed. they sat quietly inside after gyomei gave him a cup of water. then, abruptly, sanemi spoke. he was uncharacteristically vulnerable under the anesthesia of alcohol.

“you asked why i don’t talk to genya,” he stated, his eyes unfocused as he stared down at his cup. he took a sip. “didn’t answer, did i?”

gyomei hummed vaguely, not wanting to accidentally set sanemi off. he wasn’t sure how this man was like, once his guard was lowered. “i do not believe you did,” he agreed, though that certain conversation had happened weeks ago. genya was here, actually. he’d been training in the back when sanemi had arrived. undoubtedly, genya must be wondering what was taking so long.

sanemi nodded, downing the rest of his water. he put the cup down. then picked it up, fidgeting with it. his movement was loud in the silence of the room. “considering the circumstances,” he began, “is there really anything else i could do?”

“what do you mean?” gyomei asked, frowning. he heard a door opening, somewhere in the house. genya was getting restless, it seemed. or he was taking a break.

“my only objective for anything is…” sanemi paused, considering this. he started again, discarding his previous words. “most demon slayers objectives are to make sure other people can live normally. even if we can’t. right?”

gyomei made a noise of agreement. sanemi nodded.

“i’m no exception,” he remarked. “but, also, i am. it’s not like i don’t care about other people, but- i don’t ever think about them. when i need to be motivated to stay alive. you know? i do have other people i care about, like iguro or whatever. but he’s not why i’m doing this. i’m not why i’m doing this. nobody’s why i’m doing this.”

there was a lengthy pause. “then who is?” gyomei inquired. he shouldn’t be taking advantage of sanemi’s talkativeness, but he wasn’t the one who needed to hear it. he knew where this was going. genya did not.

sanemi sighed. he tossed his cup in the air, catching it in one hand. “genya. he’s not strong enough for the corps. he’ll survive a couple weeks, but he’s due to die eventually. or get too injured to keep going. i don’t get him. he’s got no reason to keep going, yet he clings onto the pathetic hope that he can do it. he should’ve opted to find some woman to marry. let him have children and make a family and forget all of this happened. if he wants to survive, that’s his best bet,” he said. he seemed to have thought it over many times before. enough so he knew it all, even under the muddled mindset he was sporting. “genya deserves better than to fight mutilated beasts every day. but i can’t kill them all for him. so he just has to leave.”

gyomei let this sink in for a long moment. “i believe,” he began, slowly, “that he wants to by your side.”

“wants?” sanemi scoffed. “he doesn’t know what he wants right now. but i know what he needs. he needs to stop chasing after me. i’m a lost cause. he’s not, yet. so he should take advantage of it before it’s too late. he’s an idiot.”

“i understand where you’re coming from,” gyomei reasoned. “but… you have to consider how he feels about it. does he want a life without his brother? is it really best for him?”

sanemi’s posture sunk, ever so slightly. he was trying to curl into himself. “not like i love the prospect, either,” he mumbled. “it’s just best for him. don’t want nothing more than that.”

gyomei let out a breath. “if you tried talking to him about it-“

before he could finish, sanemi cut in. “don’t be stupid, himejima, he hates me. he wouldn’t listen.”

gyomei was completely taken aback. “what? of course not. quite far from the truth, shinazugawa.” he was confused. “from where did you gain that aspect?”

“where? he hardly listens; won’t leave the corps when i tell him,” sanemi said, full of irritation suddenly.

“because he wants to stay by your side.”

“i don’t want it. i told you. it’s better if he’s not.”

“then explain it,” gyomei insisted. “he believes you’re the one who hates him.”

sanemi snorted, as if that was the most ridiculous thing ever. “that’d be like hating a newborn puppy because it can’t provide for itself. i don’t hate genya. but he has every reason to hate me.”

[junos-jrabbles]

Authors note, PT 2 to this ask, because it took me SO long and I feel like I need to do a lil more LOL, sorry if these are a lil unimaginative I do be frying

How would the mercs react to a new member with some questionable behaviour?

Scout

There's GOTTA be somethin’ up with you.

He's sure of it, absolutely COVINCED that someone as maniacal as you can't just be a good person.

He gets the whole “well, the respawn machine!” But he doesn't, he wouldn't go crazy like that, why would anyone?

He's a little nervy around you, gives you a funny look once in a while when you're kind to him, assumes there's some really blatant motive that he just isn't picking up on (there is none).

Shows up outside your room once at night, standing there with that ‘mom I threwed up’ stance just like. “Okay. So. What da hell is wrong with ya?” Hands on his hips, STARING.

“Whaddaya mean it's just a game to ya- pal, look at me, I'm the best player here, y’don’t see me rippin’ their arms off!”

Eventually gets over it, but it takes a while, he's just stubborn. You guys end up best buds and he shares his radioactive ass bonk with you sometimes, usually resulting in a ceasefire as the entire enemy line is annihilated, or you slam into a wall so hard you knock yourself clean out.

~~~

Soldier

Insert the Spiderman pointing at Spiderman meme here

First impressions? Is absolutely enamoured by you. You are on the field what he is when in his crazy naked honeyed up state. A force of violence and INSANE destruction.

Definitely tries to assist you by letting you rocket surf directly into the enemies on pretty much every respawn, much to the chagrin on your Medic, who really does just eventually stop trying to follow you.

He's SO ecstatic to find someone that's loco like him when in the heat of battle, but can be Normal outside of it! He's amazed, definitely asks you if you're American every five minutes, just to make sure you're not one of those nice Canadians (shudder).

“YOU. YOU ARE THE BEST SOLDIER IN THIS HERE PLATOON, MAGGOT! I HAVE NEVER SEEN A DRIVE AS HIGH AS YOURS, I THINK SUN TZU WOULD BE VERY PROUD.”

Sometimes he'll have a rough experience in a fight, and after it's all over, he'll come to you for reassurance and to talk!!! He definitely talks about you with Zhanna often, and you guys all hang out often for little chats over food n drink :)

~~

Pyro

You are one of the few people, who in their eyes, is always very vibrant and exciting to be near.

They absolutely LOVE your energy, your kindness is more than welcome at base, and they love being near you and showing you things they've created (upgrades for their flamethrowers, new melees they've concocted, etc.), and on the battlefield, they're following at your heels lighting the world around ablaze, watching the carnage bloom!

Really, really enjoys baking with you, they love baking and cooking generally, but usually it goes kinda poorly, because they can't smell too well under the mask, and tend to space out and lose track of time. Plus the burnt cookies are always really pretty.

You keep them on track with stuff without being pushy, and they appreciate it!! And sometimes you'll find pictures of really cute animals in library books and photocopy them to show them. :)

~~~

Demo

He's not sure if it's because he's seeing double, that the carnage seems a lot crazier than normal, at first.

Eventually realises that the mayhem in the battlefield is at your hands, and makes a mental note to stay out of your way.

That mental note is tossed away the second you come up to him, giddy with some terrible glee asking him to launch you directly into their front lines.

(He obliges, and is amazed at how well you stick the landing.)

Doesn't really register the difference too well, too off his tits to know if you're even talking to him half the time.

You'll pass him his dinner, lovingly crafted with all the food meticulously placed to create a little scene (probably bangers n mash gravy volcano, absolute scran) and he just takes it like. “Oooh, thank you lass/lad! Looks…” Swaying, trying not to drop the tray. “Looks some braw scran, ta!” Then he totters away <3.

Probably invites you to play golf on his slightly more sober days, goes very well of course! You drive the caddy, he hoots and hollers for you to run someone over (Soldier is on the back egging him on).

~~~

Heavy

Somewhat protective, but in a very physical way, where he'll try to body block the enemy from getting at you (and occasionally you from getting at them).

Asks you how you're doing… often, it's like when your elders are concerned but aren't gonna ask if you like, need therapy, he'll just go “Are you alright, дикий?” and when you go yeah what why he's just got his arms crossed, nodding, then walks away.

Is VERY impressed by you on the battlefield, even he's sure he wouldn't be able to tank some of the hits that you do. Your handle on adrenaline is completely spectacular in his eyes.

Would call you wild one, animal, beast, terror, but also throw in little sun when a fight has gone particularly well, proving your fiery fury!!

~~~

Engineer

Probably the closest to you, a little crazy himself, but sane enough off the field.

Highly appreciates your input on anything he's scrapping together, especially when he's tinkering with his turrets. Usually you drive the enemy into them like cattle, so polite questions and curious advice is always treasured.

“Now… I already got the wrangler shield, but that is an awfully good idea there…” Followed by various skeewiff utterances as he works out the kinks of the massive thing he's just haphazardly welded with a folding mechanism onto his sentry.

You'd bring him fresh baked goods sometimes and he wouldn't stop thinking about you for at least a week after, the way to his heart is through food and dear god you give him an arrhythmia <3.

~~~

Medic

Sick of chasing after you after about a week of battles, and eventually begins wondering if he can legally sedate you and/or poke around in your brain to see what makes you tick.

Finds it endearing, how anarchic you are in the heat of war, compared to how civil and polite you are outside of it.

His birds peck at their barred enclosures when they hear your name like they've been accidentally conditioned, knowing they'll be let out for the duration of his usual pacing and rambling session in his office.

“Oh mein Gott, das ist verdammt nochmal unmöglich.” He would absolutely SEETHE over you sometimes, but then you'd come into his office with tea or coffee and biscuits and bird seed and he'd be like oh. Oh you're just nice, huh?

You're the only person willing to listen to his excited rambles about human physiology and general biology, he'd show you vivisection research images, organs, all the sorts until he can see that you're a little offput, then he'll be like,

“Oh, sorry freund! Archimedes tell them it is fine, please. Zhe bird knows these things better than I!” And little mister ‘medes comes and settles down on you for a snug, probably nipping at ya if you don't pet him.

~~~

Sniper

Likes it, LOVES it in fact, he won't show it, but having someone who keeps the enemy's attention long enough for him to get a few picks has him giggling and kicking his feet (metaphorically, of course).

“Oh that one? Aye well… They're about as ruthless as a dunny rat, I'd say, bites like a blue ‘n all.” He'd mutter to anyone who asks what he thinks about you, a strange question, but he's an honest man.

Being a particularly distant man, you don't get very close, but sometimes on late nights when it's too cold for him to be in the camper, he'll settle down in the common room with some knitting going for a few hours before he feels tired enough to head to his room. If you get up for a drink and spot him, he's more than happy for a little chat when you come over and start asking him about what he's doing.

He tries to teach you knitting, which goes alright, eventually offers to teach you some marksmanship but you politely decline.

“More of a hands-on approach, ey? Well, can't knock it mate, seen you take down those blokes like they're nothing but jumbucks.”

~~~

Spy

Is always wearing his cloak and dagger watch for the first while of you arriving, hides in the choke points of certain stations and watches the carnage upclose, trying to stay as still as possible so as not to be seen.

Finds you very amusing, but like Scout, is incredibly sceptical. His curious stalking is not limited only to the battlefield, he often lingers in the shadows of the base just watching you. Mostly when you're cooking, making sure you won't slip anything nefarious into their food.

Does NOT buy any of the stuff you tell them. It's all a little on the nose, all this about working at puppy shelters, saving cats from trees, talking down burglars? Unbelievable, and he will not be convinced.

Does some incredibly invasive snooping, probably literally going through your stuff when you're out of the room, and never really truly comes around to see eye to eye with you.

~~~

General

After a while of you being amongst them, and everyone's settled, Christmas would come up, and much as it would usually be a very casual thing between the lads, everyone would be so enamored with the thoughtful gifts you'd get them.

Miss Pauling would be genuinely so frightened by you, she'd only really see or hear about you on the battlements, not so much when you're at your times of peak kindness. She would also probably not be very convinced by your alleged acts of kindness, but wouldn't be too bothered either way.

[cryingpariah]

You know what I really want to see from Elbaf? Usopp's initial view of Yasopp being slowly whittled away by what he witnesses from the giants.

Imagine him seeing giant warriors stampeding through the village because they're so happy to go home and see their families. Sweeping their spouses up to twirl them around and lifting the little ones on their shoulders. Some of them haven't even been gone that long but each second apart was too long.

Giant fathers weeping loudly over their new babies because they're so cute it's too much to bear. Teaching their sons and daughters how to walk or chop wood or hunt or hold a sword or helping prepare them for their first adventure.

Sitting around the hearth, telling stories and sharing meals.

These aren't just brave warriors of the sea.

They're protectors. Playmates. Teachers. Healers. Carpenters. Providers. Motivators. Friends.

Not even the fiercest battles or the most treacherous of storms could keep them from coming home to their families. Some of them have even hung up their axes and swords for now because giants live very long lives, there will always be time for adventure. What's a decade or so to spend at home where you're needed?

A decade where you're needed. Who could imagine?

On my knees begging and screaming for Oda to give Usopp that good angsty family screen time he gave Sanji in WCI!

This is something I’ve thought about a lot before Elbaf even began, based mostly on the Big Mom Elbaf flashbacks. The society and culture of the giants seem to heavily depend on loyalty and a sense of togetherness, a real “it takes a village” kind of place. It’s definitely a place where a doting sweetheart like Usopp would thrive and a place where a sniveling bastard like Yassop would feel like an imposter in.

I can easily see a scene where some of the warriors of Elbaf find out about Usopp heritage and immediately began asking him about all the shooting techniques his father taught him or the no doubt lavish gifts and spoils from travels he was given only for Usopp to very nonchalantly say that he hasn’t seen his father in over ten years at this point. The giants almost immediately are sent into an uproar, disgust and anger and disbelief at the thought. Usopp would try to joke and backtrack because despite everything he thinks so highly of his father and is so impassioned by his dream it made Usopp want to head out to sea as well!

The giants aren’t having it though, they can’t believe they broke bread with a man like that! All of Usopp’s arguments fall on deaf ears, the warriors of Elbaf are this close to calling Shanks and demanding his sniper's head for a pyre. In fact, all of Usopp's claims make them even madder! How could such a sweet, brave and enduring young man be left to his own devices by that! That!

Coward.

(Side note I’ve heard and seen a lot of different interpretations of how Usopp and Yassop meeting again could look like but there’s a sick and evil part of me that wants Yassop to find the courage to actually greet his son and..Usopp just doesn’t recognize him. It would heal me I think.)

[sticks-stones-sonic-insanity]

Ok idk how plausible this is but like. Just considering the possibility. Let's think about it for a second.

Shadow has Chaos Island on his register for Shadow Generations. In a more meta explanation, we know its because Chaos Island was the least utilised location in Sonic Frontiers: most of its platforming was 2D, and the more interesting locations that players wanted to travel to were either unreachable or off in the distance as set design. Among other things. Shadow himself hadn't actually been there, but he hadn't clocked that since the game's story took place at the same time as 2011 Generations did.

Gerald's explanation for its, as well as that of Sunset Heights' existence in white space was that the Time Eater (or Black Doom?? Idk they don't really make it clear who's controlling what) was pulling from locations in Shadow's FUTURE as well as his past, so some locations that were present were for a future Shadow to experience instead.

Is it at all possible... that maybe we haven't seen that version of Shadow either? Is it possible that Shadow is among a cast who return to Starfall Islands in a Sonic game further into the future than what we know about?

I don't have much to back this, and I'm cool with that. It's just an interesting idea to think about.

The plot of Sonic Frontiers is fairly linear, but the primary story beats within the characters held a very clear message about change. Change, progression, and wanting to move on to become something more than what they believed themselves to be. Amy wants to explore the world and find more places to share her passion and love with others. Knuckles wants to push himself to leave Angel Island and have a life outside of his role as the Guardian of the Master Emerald. Tails wants to be more independent, and spend time honing his skills without Sonic to fall back on when he's in trouble. Sonic is notably excluded from this common desire to change, but they don't touch much on his reaction to this information and he's primarily there to spurr on their motivation anyways. I have my own feelings about Sonic himself in Frontiers, but it's not super important to go into here. Point is, the characters here are looking for growth. An opportunity to give to themselves room for change.

Shadow did much of the same in Shadow Generations, but Gerald's dialogue about his motivation in life being stagnant after he and Maria move on is a nod to the idea that Shadow is very much not done on the development front.

He's let go of his past, and has a drive to keep moving forward in honour of it.

Now what?

I'm not sure how, or when, or if it could happen, but I think it would be interesting for Shadow to find that same kind of time for introspection as (three of) the core 4 did on the Starfall Islands. Frontiers had that softer, more serious tone to it that Shadow's change in attitude would benefit from. His half of generations was able to match that tone, since he made most of the journey on his own. Anyone who interacted with him brought an atmosphere that fit the individual cutscene.

What kind of conclusion could he come to, given the time to think about it? Who would be at his side to help him voice his thoughts?

Does Shadow know what he wants in his life? If not to Maria, where will he look to find the answer to that question?

All of this speculation is mostly shot down by the fact that this game occurs that little bit too far back in the timeline for these things to line up, but I still wanted to consider it. Its interesting to think about, and I've been having fun trying to guess what Sega has in store for these little guys. Whatever comes next, I hope it's got the same love and care in it that went into Shadow Generations, because that way we know we'll be in for something good. Lmk what you think!

[evilcokito]

@ceruleancattail Cater Serial Killer Au. This is revenge, I hope it's not too much. Really hope so, I'm sorry if it's too much!

Tw: Yandere, Blood / gore, Knife, Murder / Death, Cater, suggestive, Cater again.

Had to do it here because can't hide [ keep reading ] sending asks, so well. I'm bad at writing, ignore the errors IT WAS GOOGLE TRANSLATOR.

Dangerous animals must be caged. Unfortunately for you a cage is a prison and at other times, a fortress. Cater knows that too well.

With that conscience stained red, try to constantly ignore the reality that your eyes manage to appreciate: Nothing motivates and puts Cater in a good mood, than playing with his prey. Not even animals, no matter how wild they are with that level of cruelty.

Every time someone died by your hands, that despicable… boyfriend… made fun of his prey. Not at all chosen at random, that was YOUR style. Absolutely all of Cater's victims are his acquaintances from some point. And if there is something that this cunning fox loves, it is when people beg for mercy. Using the word "sadistic" is absolutely foolish now. Who deserves Cater's mercy and who doesn't? Did you think he would be different with you?

-What are you thinking? Cater asked at the very moment he took your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours and starting to kiss your wrist.

-… nothing.

Your eyes were lost on the body in front of you, a girlfriend? She is… was absolutely gorgeous. Her wide and beautiful dress, very fashionable. So beautiful that even stained with carmin and destroyed stomach by your knife, looked good. Her soft, blonde hair was well combed. Perfect makeup, so perfect that it wasn't noticeable. Unfortunately, your sad victim died by drowning, happens when you stab in the lung, that's why her lipgloss were stained with blood and saliva. Cater, Cater… this is definitely your "type". Natural beauties, redundancy, are in fashion today.

-She was a horrible person anyway.

-…a horrible person?

Cater is a guy with tender habits, he always repeats the same thing after you murder someone. Your voice broke off when he began to kiss your neck and anticipating your movements, brought you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. With a giggle and a mischievous look from those green eyes, the kisses began to go down your neck, reaching your collarbone. Each kiss are more tender and sweet than the last, addictive. Your legs trembled and you succumbed to his arms with each sigh. That gingerhead is annoyingly good at this.

-Hehe~. What will be the limit today? ~mmhh???

His hand on your hip began to slowly rise towards your waist, lifting your shirt a little along the way. Didn't stop there, he continued to rise through the skin, looking for-

SLAP!

There it was, the limit. You stopped Cater with a slap of such magnitude that his mouth began to bleed. After a motionless moment and a painful gasp, he watched you intently with his eyes wide open.

-Did the same to her too?

-Everyone. But she and the others was boring. They were an accessory. He wiped his mouth by lifting his shirt. Don't let him distract you. Don't lose that esmerald eyes.

-...Jealous?. He took your hands and holding them firmly, cornered you against the wall.

-I'm sorry~~ but you started it. It hurt me a lot. Just two last kiss, kay?~♡ He kissed ternderly your cheek, but quickly lowered your sleeve and bit your shoulder. A choked gasp escaped from your lips. Cater watched your every move closely, smiling. He licked that wound slowly, until, sank his finger into it. This time you couldn't contain your tears.

Cater hated cages. For animals, no matter how wild they are, should be free. Condemn you to be in one just like him…

Forcing you to take a false step, look for each of your limits, observe your movements, he is addicted to it. And when he finds it: giving you a light punishment, leaving marks on you. For stubborn and arrogant being, you gave him an excuse to stop being that tender and boring boyfriend that everyone wants. No one could resist him, and when you contrasted with that, drove him totally crazy and obsessive. One day you'll beg him to continue, right? ~~♡ Incredibly, he stops every one of his impulses with you, keep that in mind.

You'll have to be brave, who knows if you'll suffer the same fate as the corpse scattered on the floor, guts outside, if you ask him. Unfortunately, Cater lacked that tenderness with you in the end. Will it be okay if it hurts just a little? You'll continue breathing for him despite this, right?.

My victim?

[viwifey]

bear with me for a second yall but around 2 am after being awake for 23 hours combined with a couple drinks from being out with some friends, i was suddenly hit ideas of things that i thought could’ve helped season 2 to feel more satisfying for each character arc lmao 😭😭

definitely not saying this is perfect nor have i thought too much about if there would be any plot holes but i think it works for the most part

SEASON 1 CHANGES GOING INTO SEASON 2

-no ambessa introduction in season 1; or at least keep her in mel’s flashback or something so we still have a sense of why mel is against war

as much as i love ambessa, it feels like her arc got other character’s stories to be shortened. not having her play a role in season 2 really helps with allowing other characters to have more time on screen and with a couple changes they can still follow similar arcs they had a in season 2

-ending of season 1 plays out the same with jinx shooting the rocket at the council

ACT 1

-pretty much stays the same; no introduction of the black rose but instead after mel discovers that she could have powers, she leaves piltover to go on some journey to discover what it could be

-caitlyn still forms her strike team to try to catch jinx but after it fails she uses her power and status as a kiramman to place martial law on zaun

-basically everyone else still keeps their exact storyline from act 1

ACT 2

-jinx, who also agrees to be the symbol for the rebel group, is motivated by isha to mend her relationship with vi and discovers that she is pit fighting

no introduction of vander/warwick either; the time spent looking for him in episode 5 is instead focused on vi’s trauma and the sisters still end up on better terms

-cait is still inflicting martial law on zaun and starts to have a change of heart when something happens making her solely responsible for the killing of a mother in zaun, paralleling that to how she felt towards jinx killing cassandra. we begin to see her loosen her control of zaun in episode 6 while making efforts to try to atone for the damage she caused

-after helping vi, jinx has her work with the rebel group and they form a list of demands they find acceptable to produce to piltover that basically starts the process for zaun to become independent. vi is the one to bring these to cait with the hope that their relationship makes it more likely for it to be approved

-vi and cait make amends and cait apologizes

-jayce returns and still kills viktor at his cult

-singed is also present but instead of his experiments being on warwick, they’re on something else that is still intended to help his daughter; learns about viktor and his abilities and goes to him try to find a way to harness them for himself to use for oriana but isn’t able to figure it out before jayce kills viktor

-mel learns more about herself as a mage

ACT 3

-keep episode 7 the same

-episode 8 is preparation for war between piltover/zaun and viktor who is revived by singed like he was in the show

-zaun agrees to help fight viktor because they are on better terms with piltover after their proposal was accepted for their independence

-cait and jinx have a bit of a heart to heart moment and end their rift

-mel has returned from her self discovery journey and has her powers developed to where they were in act 3

-ekko returns with the zdrive and uses it to help win the fight

-final battle plays out but no jinx “death” since warwick isn’t present

-viktor and jayce scenes play out like it did in act 3

-cait steps down from her role in the kiramman house out of remorse for her actions and mel steps in to run piltover

-cait becomes a PI and we see her using her detective skills

-jinx, vi, and ekko help with rebuilding zaun to be a healthier place for its people

-caitvi are together and vi also helps cait with her investigative work sometimes

-singed could be successful with getting oriana back or not idk lol

THE END

[whitedarkmoonflower]

Reunited 5

Pairing: modern!Sihtric x reader (female)

Authors note: So this is it. The journey has come to the end and I'm a bit sad but also very happy. This fic has a lot my own struggles within it and it has helped me to think over and let go of certain things that had accumulated. But before Sihtric and reader can look forward into the bright and shiny future they have to resolve some unsorted questions. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Warnings: it's emotionally tense with some angst and self reflection but still sweet

Summary: It was supposed to be a short two week trip that turned into five long years apart, just because your best friend couldn't keep her mouth shut. Will the reader and Sihtric manage to repair their broken relationship and find their way back to each other? Or will the reader decide to stay with the handsome and talented Sigtryggr?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Word Count: 7,8 K

Please remember that comments and reblogs are two things that make writers smile and keep us motivated.

You felt a surge of betrayal twist through you, an uncomfortable déjà vu that made your stomach drop. The whole scene was surreal, and your mind spun, trying to piece it all together. But before you could say a word, Sigtryggr's hand found yours under the blanket, his grip firm and panicked.

“This—this isn’t what it looks like, I swear,” he stammered, his face pale and clearly horrified by the scene unfolding. He scrambled to sit up, looking between you and the woman standing in the doorway. “This is… this is Stiorra, my ex-girlfriend.”

Stiorra crossed her arms, one eyebrow raised as she regarded him with a mix of annoyance and disbelief. “And in case there’s any doubt,” she interjected, “I’m the one who threw him out.” Her eyes flicked to you, and a slightly sheepish smile softened her expression. “Told him to never come back, actually.”

Sigtryggr winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not exactly a high point in our relationship,” he muttered. Then, as if desperate to regain some semblance of control, he gestured toward the kitchen. “Stiorra, why don’t you, uh… wait in the kitchen? Give us a moment?”

With a sigh that suggested she was equally exhausted by this awkward situation, Stiorra shrugged. “Fine. But we’re talking after,” she said, shooting him a look that clearly communicated there was unfinished business between them. She turned on her heel, retreating to the kitchen and leaving the two of you in a tense silence.

You exhaled, still feeling the sting of surprise. “So, let me get this straight. Your ex-girlfriend who kicked you out now has a key and comes barging in?”

Sigtryggr’s cheeks flushed as he stumbled over his words. “It’s… complicated. We broke up months ago. She kept the key for emergencies, but I didn’t think she’d actually use it. I mean, she made it pretty clear she never wanted to see me again.” He shook his head, his eyes wide with a mixture of embarrassment and desperation. “I had no idea she’d be coming by today, I swear.”

You let out a breath, half-amused by his genuine horror at the situation. Despite everything, there was something undeniably ridiculous about it all. Here was this cool, collected artist, now completely rattled by his ex-girlfriend unexpectedly showing up while he was in bed with someone else.

You finally cracked a small smile. “You couldn’t make this up if you tried.”

He groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. “This really isn’t how I imagined our morning together going. I’m sorry.”

Before you could respond, Stiorra’s voice called from the kitchen. “I’m making coffee. There’s milk and sugar somewhere—if Sigtryggr actually bought groceries this week, that is.”

Sigtryggr’s eyes met yours, full of sheepishness, and you couldn’t help but laugh, the tension starting to dissolve. “I’ll take that as a hint to get dressed,” you said, sliding out of bed and grabbing your clothes, feeling his gaze following you apologetically.

“Take your time,” Stiorra called again, her voice faintly dripping with irony. “I’ll try not to make it more awkward.”

As if more awkward was even possible, a stifled laugh escaped you as you slipped into your clothes, feeling like you were in some strange, twisted sitcom. Sigtryggr joined you, tossing on his shirt and jeans quickly, his eyes darting nervously between you and the kitchen.

Once you were both dressed, you headed to the kitchen. Stiorra was there, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, her lips twisted in a wry smile. She looked at you and Sigtryggr with an expression that was part curiosity, part thinly veiled irritation. Two other steaming mugs waited on the counter and you grabbed one like a life saviour.

"Well," she drawled, swirling her coffee. "I see you’ve wasted no time finding a replacement." Her gaze flicked from you to Sigtryggr, her tone razor-sharp. "Or were you just waiting for the perfect moment to jump into someone else’s bed, Sigtryggr? Good to know you’ve been so… resilient."

You saw a flicker of hurt cross Sigtryggr’s face as he tried to respond, his gaze darting briefly to you before returning to Stiorra, as if caught in some unresolved pull. He shifted beside you, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Stiorra," he managed, his voice tight, "you know it’s not  like that. It’s been almost half a year..."

But she didn’t give him room to explain. She looked down at her coffee, a hint of sadness breaking through her sarcasm as her fingers tightened around the mug. "I didn’t come here to make a scene," she murmured, her tone softening. "I just… I thought I wanted to move on. But maybe I was wrong."

You swallowed hard, your eyes darted from Sigtryggr to his ex-girlfriend and truth be told the only coherent thought was the increasingly intensive wish for the earth to open up and swallow you whole. Facing lions in the Colosseum would have been a more appealing option than drinking coffee in what you’d thought was your new boyfriend’s kitchen, watching it turn into a stage for a soap opera. Whoever said, "If something looks too good to be true, it probably is," had clearly known exactly what they were talking about.

Stiorra lifted her gaze to meet Sigtryggr’s, her defiance melting into something softer, tinged with regret. 

"Siggy, baby, I’m so sorry!" she blurted, her voice cracking as her teary eyes searched his. The sudden burst of emotions startled you both, leaving the room steeped in uncomfortable tension. "Leaving you wasn’t what I thought I wanted," she continued, the words tumbling out, unrestrained and unguarded. "It was the biggest mistake of my life, and I just hoped you… you might feel the same. I couldn’t wait any longer—I just needed to tell you this." Her gaze darted back to the steaming coffee in her hands, as though she couldn’t bear to face him anymore. “I never imagined you’d move on so fast, not after everything we had together.”

You glanced over at Sigtryggr, who looked as if he’d just been slapped with a cold fish. The usual calm, steady demeanour he carried so effortlessly was gone, replaced by a vulnerable uncertainty you hadn’t seen before. His mouth opened as if to respond, then closed again, his mind clearly spinning in too many directions to form coherent words. He looked at you briefly, but his attention was drawn back to Stiorra, as if caught by an invisible thread that still connected them.

His eyes softened, a hint of that old, unguarded affection surfacing as he stammered. “Stiorra, I… I didn’t expect this. I thought… we were over. I thought you’d moved on.”

The longing in his voice was unmistakable. You felt an odd pang, a mixture of empathy and unease as you watched him struggle. The way he looked at her, his gaze clouded with both confusion and something undeniably tender, told you more than his words ever could. And strangely you didn’t even feel betrayed. You felt a deep understanding, even sympathy kindling within you. 

It was clearly time to make an exit before this scene turned into a full-blown tragicomedy. But before you could even think of a polite way to excuse yourself, Stiorra’s gaze shifted to you, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“Oh, I know who you are,” she said, her tone casual—almost too casual. “You must be the mysterious girl who broke Sihtric’s heart. I’ve seen your picture, actually. He still keeps one in his wallet.”

“What?” The words hit you like a frying pan to the face, and you nearly dropped your coffee mug. This was beyond surreal; it was a nightmare layered with unwanted revelations. You glanced around, looking for any possible way to evaporate from the room as a wave of nausea crept over you.

Stiorra caught your reaction, her gaze sharpening as if sensing your unease. “No,” she said, her eyes assessing you calmly. “Not like that. Sihtric and I were never… involved.” She gave a casual shrug, one that seemed both reassuring and indifferent. “But I know him well enough. He worked for my father, Uhtred, for quite some time. And we have some mutual friends—Finan, Osferth. They’re close, practically brothers.”

You swallowed, still processing the shock as she spoke, and noticed the way her gaze flickered, slightly more empathetic now. Sigtryggr shifted beside you, clearly uncomfortable with where the conversation was heading, his gaze moving between you and Stiorra.

“Stiorra,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice a mixture of discomfort and quiet insistence, “I think we’re all getting a bit caught off guard here.”

Stiorra shrugged, but her expression softened as she looked back at him. “Maybe,” she admitted, voice gentler now. “But some things are better said than left hanging.” She turned her attention back to you. “Haven’t seen him in a while, but… he never really got over you, you know.”

The words landed like a stone in your chest, and for a moment, you felt the weight of everything you’d tried to put behind you pressing in. 

“Wait, hold on!” you blurted out, the words escaping faster than you could stop them and surely much louder than you wanted. “I broke his heart? What the hell are you talking about? He was the one who found someone else less than a week after I was out of sight.”

Stiorra’s eyes widened at your outburst. She hesitated before responding, her voice softer, almost cautious. “Wait… really? I don’t know all the details,” she admitted, glancing away briefly, “but I know for sure that Sihtric has been a mess since you left. Osferth and Finan have been trying to get him back on his feet, trying to knock some sense into him. But he’s just… shut everyone out, suffering in silence.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but something in her expression stopped you. There was a subtle reproach that made you falter.

Her words stung. You knew them—Osferth and Finan—Sihtric’s closest friends. Meeting them had felt like a significant step, almost as if you were meeting his family. Sihtric barely spoke about his parents or any siblings, but these two were an inseparable part of his life. The night he’d introduced you to them still lingered vividly in your memory.

Finan had taken to you right away, looking at you with an approving grin, clapping Sihtric on the shoulder and saying, “Finally, he’s found someone who might actually keep him in line.” His easy laughter and quick wit made you feel like you’d known him for years, and there was a warmth to his acceptance that had meant more than he probably knew.

Osferth, meanwhile, had been a bit more reserved, a touch of shyness in his gentle eyes. But there had been a sweetness in the way he’d talked to you, always quick to ask if you needed anything, checking that you felt included. You’d quickly learned he was the steady, caring presence in their group, looking out for both Sihtric and Finan with a brotherly devotion.

Those early evenings with them had been filled with laughter and endless stories from their nights out. You’d felt embraced by the friendship, a part of the easy bond they all shared. But when Sihtric walked out of your life, that sense of belonging had vanished too. They had been his friends, not yours, and your connection with them had ended as abruptly as your relationship with him.

“Look,” Stiorra continued, her voice pulling you back from your thoughts, “there are always two sides to a story. But only one truth. If you want to know more, maybe… maybe you should talk to Finan and Osferth. They know him better than anyone and could probably tell you more than I can.”

Without another word, you stood up, the urge to leave overpowering any sense of decorum. Sigtryggr reached out, his face a mix of surprise and worry as he tried to get your attention. “Hey, are you okay? What’s going on?”

You shook your head, barely able to meet his gaze. “I just… I need to go. I need…” The words trailed off, but you didn’t even bother to finish the sentence as you hastily grabbed your purse and headed to the doors without a single look back. 

You knew that Osferth worked as an assistant stylist at one of the top fashion studios, and Finan had a reputation as a brilliant set designer, always moving between shoots with an infectious energy. They were well-known figures in the industry, so it didn’t take long to track them down at a nearby studio where they were scheduled to prepare for an upcoming campaign.

The studio was bustling when you arrived. Assistants hurried about, racks of clothes lined the walls, and the hum of people preparing for a major shoot filled the space. You spotted Finan first, standing with his hands on his hips, joking with a lighting technician, his signature grin lighting up his face. Beside him, Osferth was focused on arranging a set of accessories on a table, his usually reserved expression serious as he worked.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, and Finan caught sight of you. His grin faded, replaced by surprise that quickly gave way to guarded curiosity. He nudged Osferth, who looked up in shock, the familiar softness in his eyes now laced with uncertainty and distance you hadn’t expected. The two exchanged a look before approaching you, their movements careful, almost wary, as if they were unsure of how to greet you.

“Hey,” you managed, your voice catching. “I… I need to talk to you. About Sihtric.”

“Well,” Finan said, crossing his arms, his voice lacking its usual warmth. “If it isn’t the ghost from Sihtric’s past.”

The jab landed harder than you’d expected, his accusatory tone sinking into you like a heavy stone.

Finan’s gaze was steely, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he fixed you with an unforgiving look. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him?” he said, his voice thick with frustration. “Twice now, you’ve come crashing into his life—first, tearing him apart, and now, strolling back in like a stranger, as if he doesn’t deserve even a shred of understanding for everything he’s been through. The least you could do is thank him for what he did for you.”

“What he did for me?” you repeated, your voice barely a whisper, caught in a haze of disbelief. You couldn’t even process the meaning behind his accusations, feeling as if you’d just walked into an ambush. You regretted coming here, every instinct screaming at you to turn and leave, to escape this room and the anger that pressed down on you from all sides. Blinking back tears that threatened to spill, you took a shaky step back, but Finan didn’t relent.

He moved closer, his gaze piercing, his voice unyielding. “Do you know how long it took him to get his life back together after you left?” he continued, his tone unwavering. “To even begin piecing himself back together? And then you show up out of nowhere, with no idea what he’s been through, and somehow make him fall all over again.”

Stunned, you stared at him, but he wasn’t finished. “We’ve been trying to help him move on for ages. Osferth and I—do you know how many nights we’ve spent picking him up after he shut everyone out, barely holding on? He’s been carrying this burden alone since the day he let you go.” Finan scoffed, his voice low and dark with exasperation. “And you—you have the nerve to walk back and judge him?”

You wanted to move but you felt rooted to the spot as you couldn’t keep the tears from rolling down your cheeks anymore. “Thank him? For what? For dropping me and finding another less than a week after I wasn’t in sight? For ruining my life, leaving me gathering the shards?”

Finan drew a deep breath, but Osferth interrupted him, placing a calming hand on Finan’s arm, though his face still held traces of disappointment as he looked at you. “Finan wait. Something’s not right there.” His eyes shifted to you, his expression softening, but only slightly. “And that’s all you know about what happened?”  he asked, his tone measured but no less serious. 

“What else is there to know?” you snapped, frustration simmering in your chest. “I thought he loved me, and the next thing I know, he’s moved on like I never existed. I think I have a right to be a little angry.”

Finan exchanged a glance with Osferth, as if confirming something, then sighed, rubbing his temples. “So, Gisela never told you why he did it?”

You felt your stomach clench at the mention of Gisela. Confusion gave way to a creeping unease, your mind racing to piece together what they were trying to say. “Gisela?” you repeated, barely masking the surprise in your voice. “What does she have to do with any of this?”

Osferth shifted uncomfortably, his gaze turning thoughtful. “Gisela came to him. Said it would be better if he… stepped aside. She told him about that offer you got, the scholarship and the contract – that once in a lifetime opportunity for you. She’s the one who convinced him to let you go. She told him it would be best for you to focus on your future, that he was holding you back.  And Sihtric… well, he thought he was doing what was best for you.”

“Best for me?” The words felt hollow, ringing with an irony that cut deeper with each syllable. You felt a wave of disbelief crash over you, your stomach twisting as you processed his words.

Osferth nodded, his gaze sombre. “He figured if he just… cut ties, you’d have no reason to look back. He tried to bury how he felt, make you believe he’d moved on. But we both know it tore him apart. He’s never been the same since you left.”

You felt your knees weaken, the ground beneath you seeming to tilt as the truth settled over you, each piece of information landing like a blow. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal—all of it twisted into something else, something that left you feeling hollow. Your legs gave way, turning to jelly, and you would have surely hit the ground if Finan and Osferth hadn’t steadied you from each side.

“Easy there!” Finan’s voice had softened, a warmth returning that you hadn’t expected as he guided you, his anger replaced by concern. He quickly waved to a set assistant walking nearby. “Get a chair—and some water!” he called, his tone firm but urgent.

You barely noticed the assistant rushing off. A chair was brought over, and Finan and Osferth eased you into it, the world around you blurring as you tried to comprehend what you just heard. Osferth knelt beside you, his eyes steady and full of sadness as he handed you the water.

“I… I didn’t know,” you stammered, the words feeling small, inadequate. You looked at them, your voice cracking. “I thought he… I thought he didn’t care. I thought he wanted me gone.”

Finan shook his head, his gaze softening as he met your eyes. “It was never about him not caring. He thought he was doing the right thing—for you.”

“He’s been living with that choice,” Finan added quietly, his eyes meeting yours, “because he thought it would give you a better life.”

Osferth placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, his tone gentle. “Sometimes people make the hardest choices for the ones they love. Doesn’t mean they don’t hurt just as much.”

“Maybe… maybe it’s time you hear it from him,” Finan said softly, his tone no longer accusatory but understanding.

—---------------------------------------------------

The worry gnawed at you, growing with each unanswered call, each message left unread. Sihtric had vanished after the fashion show, and as the hours without a word turned into an entire day, you found yourself pacing around your apartment like a caged animal, restless and frustrated.

You hadn’t wanted to go to his place—not at first. The idea of stepping into his space felt like giving up the neutral ground you’d hoped to keep. But as your concern deepened, it became clear that there was no other option. With a resigned sigh, you grabbed your things and headed out, finally making your way to his apartment.

When you arrived, you looked up to see a warm glow coming from Sihtric’s window. Relief flooded over you—he was home. You exhaled deeply, feeling the tightness in your chest ease, if only a little. You deliberately chose the stairs over the elevator, hoping the walk up would give you time to gather your thoughts. But even with the extra moments, your mind remained frustratingly blank, and your heart raced like a drumbeat in your chest.

Standing in front of his door, you raised your hand to the doorbell, trying to ignore the nervous twist in your stomach. But instead of ringing, you pressed your palm and ear to the door, straining to hear any sign of movement on the other side. Come on, you can do this, you urged yourself, taking a deep, steadying breath. Finally, you lifted your hand and pressed the button, feeling your pulse quicken as you waited for him to answer.

A sinking feeling twisted in your gut as there was only silence on the other side but you refused to give up. You pressed the doorbell again, then again, determined to get some response. Still, nothing.

“Sihtric,” you finally called. “I know you’re in there. I can see the light. Please, just talk to me.”

Silence stretched, pressing down on you. Frustrated, you balled your fists and pounded on the door, the echo of each hit ricocheting down the empty corridor. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open, and you glanced over your shoulder to find a pair of curious, disapproving eyes peering at you through a crack. But you were beyond caring about nosy neighbours. Ignoring them, you turned back to Sihtric’s door and knocked again, your voice catching slightly as you called his name once more.

Just as you felt the last shimmer of hope begin to slip away, you heard a faint shuffle behind the door, the sound of hesitant footsteps drawing closer. Relief flickered through you, only to fade as his voice, rough and bitter, cut through the silence.

“Just… go away,” he muttered, his tone carrying a heaviness that felt like a punch to the chest. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Sihtric?” you called, pressing a hand against the door. “Please, open up. I just want to talk.”

Silence. But you knew he was there, so you waited. A bitter, muffled voice finally answered. “Why? There’s nothing more to talk about,” he replied, his tone rough, barely masking the exhaustion in his voice. “Just… leave me alone.”

Ignoring his dismissal, you leaned closer, unwilling to let him shut you out. “Sihtric, please. I was wrong. I was wrong not wanting to listen to you, shutting you out. Please open the door, so we can talk. I just… I need to understand.”

He scoffed from the other side, the bitterness in his voice cutting. “Understand? You want to understand now? Why? You have your perfect little life, your perfect job, your prince charming.” His words were laced with sarcasm. “You want to judge me? I already gave you the chance for that at the show. I saw it on your face. I don’t need more of that.”

You pressed your forehead against the door, your heart pounding as you tried to will back tears slowly gathering in the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry. Sihtric, can you hear me? I’m so sorry. And I wasn’t judging you, Sihtric. I was just… surprised. I’m not here to make things worse. I came because I care.”

On the other side of the door, Sihtric stood still, barely breathing, his entire body tense. He could feel the ache in his shoulders and neck, the result of hours spent tossing and turning through a sleepless night, haunted by thoughts of you and his own spiralling decisions. Every muscle felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, regret and anger.

He wanted to open the door. Part of him ached to see you, to hear your voice without the barrier between you. But another part—larger, stronger, the part that had convinced him to let you go years ago—held him back. That part reminded him of everything he’d become, the mess he’d made of his life since then, and the humiliation of his drunken, jealousy-fueled outburst at the fashion show. He clenched his fists, fighting the shame that burned inside him, wondering if he could ever face you again.

His heart pounded, each beat reverberating with the bitterness that had taken root within him. What did he have to offer you now? He was broken, he knew that much, and he’d spent too long building up his defences to believe someone would want to come close enough to help him pick up the pieces. Especially not you—the one person he’d hurt most by pushing you away.

Drawing a deep shaky breath he slowly slid down to the ground, resting his back against the door. His elbows propped on his knees he buried his face in his hands, the world reduced to the darkness behind his closed eyelids. 

The memories of the fashion show flashed in his mind—your face when he’d approached you, the shock and disappointment in your eyes, the way he’d stumbled through his words, lost in a haze of jealousy and alcohol. The regret was a deep wound now, throbbing with every word you spoke on the other side of the door.

What could he say to you? That he was sorry? Sorry didn’t even begin to cover the tangled mess he’d made of things. 

The sound of your voice, pleading, coaxing him to open the door, tore at him. He could feel you there, so close, and it made everything hurt more sharply. Sihtric let out a shaky breath, feeling the first sting of tears pressing at the corners of his eyes, but he held them back, unwilling to let himself break down, even now.

“Why are you here?” he muttered under his breath, as much to himself as to you. His voice was rough, barely hiding the bitterness he felt, not even toward you but toward himself. “What good can come from this?”

He sat there, torn between the urge to stand up, unlock the door, and reach for you, and the dark, cynical voice in his mind that told him to stay hidden, that he didn’t deserve whatever you were here to offer.

And yet, through it all, he couldn’t help but listen, couldn’t ignore the hope in your words, the softness in your tone. He could almost feel you on the other side, feel the warmth you brought, a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. 

But that hope was terrifying. Because if he opened the door, if he let you in… The very idea of you seeing him like this—broken, regret-filled and barely holding it together—filled him with shame. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to do that. He probably wasn’t. 

Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Sihtric’s breathing grew uneven, and for a moment, you wondered if he’d even heard you. Then, his voice cut through the quiet, rough and worn, tinged with a bitterness that struck you like a physical blow.

“I don’t need your sympathy,” he muttered, the words laced with frustration. “I don’t need anything from you. Just leave me alone—I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Sihtric,” you called softly, pressing your hand flat against the door. “Please… just open the door.”

When he didn’t respond, you clenched your fists and banged against the door, louder this time, not caring who heard. “Sihtric, I’m not going anywhere! You don’t have to shut me out. I know… I know what you did for me. I know why you left.”

There was a pause, so deep and tense you could hear the faint sounds from the street outside, muffled and distant. Finally, his voice broke the silence, barely audible, fragile. “Who told you that?”

You took a steadying breath, hoping he could hear the sincerity in your tone. “Finan and Osferth,” you replied. “They told me everything. How you thought leaving was best for me, how you made it look like you’d moved on just so I wouldn’t come back… how you suffered through it all because you thought it was the right thing.”

There was another pause, and then he laughed, a hollow, defeated sound that twisted painfully in your chest. “So, what?” he said, his voice wavering, barely holding steady. “You came here to pity me? To see what a mess I’ve made of myself?” He sounded tired, as if the words themselves were an effort. “I don’t need your pity either.”

For a moment, all you could hear was his unsteady breathing. You imagined him, standing just on the other side, close enough to touch if only he’d open the door. It was driving you mad—having him so close but so far away at the same time. You silently cursed yourself for turning him down, for refusing to listen when he had tried to talk to you before. Why had you been so cold? Why had you let fear take over?

But it wasn’t just your fear that had brought you to this moment. Gisela. The thought struck like a dagger, bitter and sharp. Why had she meddled? Why had she pushed Sihtric into making that choice without ever telling you? All those times she’d been there, comforting you, assuring you that moving on was the right thing to do—she had known. She had known the truth and had kept it from you. Why, Gisela? you thought bitterly, your hands balling into fists against the door. Why did you do this to me? To us?

You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead against the door, the whirlwind of emotions inside you felt unbearable, but amidst the chaos, a single thought began to crystallize with startling clarity. I’m not letting this go. Not this time. You had spent too long blaming others for what had happened—Sihtric, the universe, now Gisela. Too long nursing your pain, placing it on a pedestal like some kind of shield to justify not moving forward, not letting yourself feel again. But you couldn’t hide from the truth anymore. This wasn’t just pain or regret—this was love. It had never stopped being love, and it was time you faced it.

You straightened slightly, you weren’t going to let the past define what was left of your future. This was your chance, and you weren’t going to let fear or pride hold you back any longer. Sihtric deserved the truth, and so did you. He needed to hear it, to know that you still loved him—not the sanitized, half-forgotten version of love you’d pretended to bury, but the real thing. The kind of love that ached, that fought, that refused to let go.

And he needed to know the part you’d played in letting it all fall apart. The anger you’d clung to, the walls you’d built to protect yourself, all of it had driven you away from him when you should have stayed and fought, and you needed to own that. 

“I’m not giving up on this,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, though you hoped he could feel the determination in your voice. “Not this time, not again.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the door as your only support as you leaned against it. “Sihtric,” you began, your voice trembling, but there was no hesitation in your words. “Please, just listen to me. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Please, I’m begging you just hear me out. I’m here because… because I never stopped loving you.”

You could feel his breathing hitch on the other side, but he didn’t say anything, and you went on, needing him to hear everything.

“I wanted to hate you,” you confessed, your voice breaking slightly. “I tried. I thought that if I could just hate you, it would be easier. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t hate you, not really. Even when I tried to move on, to make a life without you… I couldn’t let go of you. No one else could replace what you mean to me.”

On the other side of the door, Sihtric let out a ragged breath, his hands covering his face. 

The weight of your own words took their toll, and slowly, your legs gave way. You slid down to the ground, sitting with your back pressed against the door, your head resting against the wood as you stared at the empty hallway in front of you. 

“When you wanted to talk to me that day at the shoot… I was so cold because I was scared, Sihtric,” you whispered, the confession falling from your lips before you could stop it. “I was afraid that if I let you in, even a little, I’d break. That all the walls I put up to protect myself would come crashing down.”

Sihtric listened, his face buried in his hands, feeling every word you spoke burning holes in his soul. He wanted to reach for you, to say something, but something kept him still, the knowledge of everything he’d put both of you through holding him back. His breath was shaky, his heart pounding as he imagined you there, only inches away.

“I tried to move on, Sihtric,” you continued. “I tried to make a life without you. I even tried to love someone else, to find what I had with you with someone new. But it didn’t work. No one… no one ever felt like you.”

Sihtric’s hands dropped from his face, and he pressed his palms flat against the door, his fingers splaying out as if they could reach you through the barrier between you as he felt his resolve breaking, his walls crumbling bit by bit.

“I thought letting you go was the best thing I could do for you,” he murmured. “I thought that if I hurt you enough, you’d decide to leave me behind… and you’d never look back. I wanted you to be successful and happy, even if it meant I couldn’t be.”

A tear slipped down your cheek as you listened, your heart breaking all over again. “Don’t you see?” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “I was never happy without you. I kept telling myself that I could be, but deep down, I knew… I knew I’d never feel whole again.”

For a moment, the two of you sat there, separated by inches of wood and miles of unspoken feelings, both of you held captive by the same painful memories and buried longing.

“You don’t understand…” he continued, his voice breaking. “I’m not who I used to be. I’m not… I’m not enough for you, you need someone better. I don’t even know who I am anymore. You should be out there, living that life you’ve created and earned, not here… with someone like me.”

You swallowed hard, tears pooling in your eyes but refusing to fall. “I don’t need someone better, Sihtric. I need you,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “The real you, flaws and all. I can’t pretend anymore that everything’s fine without you in my life. I don’t care about perfect, Sihtric. I just… I just want you.”

The silence behind the door was deafening, stretching longer than you could bear. Your chest tightened, every second dragging on like an eternity. You strained to hear anything—a shuffle, a breath, even the slightest indication that he was still there—but there was nothing. The hollow quiet seeped into your heart, threatening to shatter it into a thousand pieces again.

Was this really the end? The thought weighed heavy, pressing against you until you couldn’t sit upright any longer. Slowly, you laid your head down on your knees, clutching them tightly as if to hold yourself together. You felt the sting of finality creeping in, the cruel certainty that you had done everything you could. It was time to stand up, to walk away, and this time, not look back.

But just as you started to gather the strength to rise, a faint, almost imperceptible sound reached your ears. A click. Your breath hitched as the unmistakable sound of the lock turning echoed softly through the silence.

You turned your head at the sound of the door creaking open, and there he was. Sihtric stood in the doorway. He looked exhausted, dark rings encircling his beautiful large eyes, face shadowed and tired. His hair was disheveled, and his shirt was rumpled, hanging loosely on his frame, but you didn’t care. All you could see was him, standing there, finally letting you in.

You jumped to your feet, propelled by a wave of relief and emotion, and lunged at him before you could think twice. The sudden movement caught him off guard, and the two of you stumbled backward into the apartment, the door swinging shut behind you. Your arms wrapped tightly around him, holding on as though he might disappear again if you let go. Tears streamed down your cheeks, soaking into his rumpled shirt as you buried your face against his broad, muscular chest.

For a moment, he stood frozen, his hands hovering uncertainly by his sides. Then, slowly, hesitantly, his arms came around you, pulling you closer. He let out a shuddering breath, the tension in his body giving way as he held you tightly, like he was afraid this was just another fleeting dream.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice muffled against him, trembling with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry, Sihtric. For shutting you out. For not fighting harder. For letting my anger win.”

His chest rose and fell beneath you as he struggled to steady his breathing. His voice was rough, as he finally spoke. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It was me… all of it. I pushed you away. I thought it was the only way.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. 

“I should’ve fought for us,” you said, your voice breaking. “I should’ve seen through it, through what you were doing. But I didn’t.”

His hand came up to cup your face, his touch tentative, almost disbelieving. “You couldn’t have known,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I made sure of that. I wanted you to move on, to be happy.”

“I wasn’t happy,” you said, shaking your head. “I could never be happy without you.”

He closed his eyes, his forehead resting against yours as a tear slid down his cheek. “I don’t know if I can fix this. If I can fix me.”

You reached up, your fingers tracing the stubble along his jaw as you steadied your voice. “You don’t have to fix anything. We’ll figure it out together. Just, please, don’t push me away again.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He just held you, his hands trembling slightly as they clung to you. Then, he leaned in and his lips brushed yours in a soft, lingering kiss that carried the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

Sihtric's lips trembled against yours, as you pressed into him, your hands clutching harder the fabric of his shirt, silently telling him that you were here, that this was real. You kissed him back pouring all your emotions into that one single gentle touch of lips, getting more heated and desperate with each passing moment.

When he pulled back just enough to catch his breath, he began to press a trail of kisses across your cheeks, your forehead, the bridge of your nose. 

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses, his voice rough and low. “I’ve always loved you. Even when I tried to forget… when I tried to move on, I couldn’t.” His lips found yours again, more insistent this time, as though he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t hold back the flood of emotions he’d kept buried for so long.

“I tried to find someone else,” he admitted, his voice breaking as he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breath was warm and unsteady. “I thought I could replace what we had. But it was never the same. No one could ever be you.” His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, his grip firm but gentle. “I don’t want anyone else. I can’t. It’s always been you, and it will always be you.”

Without warning, he scooped you up into his strong arms, holding you effortlessly as though you weighed nothing. You gasped softly, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he looked down at you, his eyes filled with something raw and unrestrained.

“I need you,” he said, his gaze locked on yours. “I need you in every part of my life. And right now… I need to show you how much I love you.”

You smiled through tears, you fingers tangling in his thick, disheveled hair. You pulled him closer and with a low almost desperate growl his lips captured yours again as he carried you further into the apartment.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

The soft hum of voices and the gentle clinking of glasses filled the air as you arrived at the exhibition, a feeling of anticipation settling in your chest. Gisela was waiting for you near the entrance, her ever-poised demeanor slightly off-kilter as she scanned the crowd. When her eyes landed on you, a flicker of something—relief? Concern?—crossed her face, and she hurried over.

“There you are,” she said, taking your hand as though to steady you. Her tone carried an edge of urgency, and you could tell she was gearing up to say something important. “I’m glad you came. But listen, before you go inside, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Her voice lowered conspiratorially as she leaned closer. “Sigtryggr… he’s here. And he brought someone. A girlfriend, apparently.” Her words were careful, but her gaze flickered with unease, clearly gauging your reaction.

You raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement rising in you. “That’s fine, Gisela,” you said, squeezing her hand lightly. “Sigtryggr and I… we weren’t meant to be. I’m happy for him.”

She blinked, slightly taken aback by your calm response, but pressed on. “Well, I thought you should know. But I also have someone I want you to meet.” Her voice brightened slightly, as though trying to distract you from the potential awkwardness waiting inside.

You tilted your head, an affectionate smile creeping onto your face. “Actually, Gisela, I have someone I want you to meet first.”

Before Gisela could respond, Sihtric stepped forward from behind you. He wasn’t dressed to blend into the crowd of sharply tailored suits and polished shoes that filled the gallery, yet somehow, he looked effortlessly striking. 

A dark, fitted leather jacket hung perfectly over his broad shoulders, paired with a simple, black t-shirt that clung to his lean, muscular frame. Fitted jeans and scuffed boots completed the look, adding a touch of ruggedness that made him stand out in all the right ways.

His dark hair was neatly tied back, but a few rogue strands fell across his sharp cheekbones, softening the intensity of his piercing eyes. He looked effortlessly cool, the kind of man who drew attention without even trying, and the subtle smirk on his lips only added to the effect.

Sihtric slipped his hand into yours, your fingers intertwining, and the look on Gisela’s face was priceless. She was frozen, her gaze locking on him as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her usual poise faltered, and for the first time, she seemed genuinely at a loss for words. Her eyes flicked between you and Sihtric, wide with shock, her mouth opening and closing slightly as though searching for something—anything—to say.

“Sihtric,” you said warmly, your voice filled with affection as you glanced up at him. He responded by slipping his arm around your waist, his hand resting at the small of your back.

Gisela finally found her voice, though it was a touch higher-pitched than usual. “I… didn’t realize…” she stammered, her gaze darting to you as if silently questioning how, when, and why this had happened.

You cut her off with a gentle but firm nudge to the side, brushing past her with a smile. “Gisela, we’ll catch up later. Right now, there are a few people we’d like to say hello to.”

Sihtric’s arms wrapped securely around you as you walked into the exhibition together, his warmth grounding you. You caught sight of Sigtryggr and Stiorra in the center of the gallery, standing close, their heads tilted toward each other as they shared a quiet laugh. Whatever lingering awkwardness might have existed between you and Sigtryggr seemed to dissolve as you approached, Sihtric at your side.

“Sigtryggr,” you greeted warmly, your smile genuine. “It’s good to see you.”

Sigtryggr turned, his expression flickering with brief surprise before softening into a polite smile. “And you,” he replied, his gaze briefly darting to Sihtric before settling back on you. “I see you’ve… moved on as well.”

“Seems like we’ve both found where we’re meant to be,” you replied, your tone light, though the weight of those words resonated deeply within you.

Stiorra raised her glass with a mischievous grin. “Well, well. Isn’t this a picture-perfect reunion?” she quipped, her tone teasing but kind.

Sihtric’s arm tightened around your waist as he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “A reunion, maybe,” he murmured just for you, his voice warm and low. “But what matters is where we go from here.”

And as you stood there, surrounded by art, by people who had once been tangled in your past, you couldn’t help but smile as for the first time in a long while, the future felt beautifully, wonderfully yours.

[jon-snows-man-bun]

By Turns

Chapter Thirteen

The closer Eris gets to his goals the harder he has to work to keep all plates spinning. Tensions simmer underneath his new alliances, pulling him into the Hewn City where the impact of Rhysand’s rule shapes the future.

Masterlist

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A/N: Eris slanders everybody, including (but not limited to) Rhysand, Cassian, Tarquin, Morrigan, Nesta, and Elain. Misogyny, racism, implied off-screen cannibalism, victim blaming, discussions of domestic abuse (Autumn Court, you know the drill), fucked up family dynamics - Mama Vanserra isn't all sweetness and light. Eris is pretty hard on her here.

This chapter's political machination-heavy to get to where we need to go.

The letter was sitting on his desk innocuously. Thick, pale parchment with a wax seal, stacked on top of a pile of other letters in hands he recognised.

He placed the wax seal immediately – an eye balanced between the tines of a tipped crescent moon, stamped in deep navy wax. Aisling’s family crest. The whole letter was enchanted, glamoured and sealed and warded against prying so heavily it hadn’t collected even a smudge of dirt from its journey to him in Autumn. Turning it over in his hands, Eris decided he could bear it no longer.

He pried off the seal with the edge of his dagger, the letter immediately unfolding neatly, but it wasn’t Aisling’s elegant, looping hand – rather a hasty scrawl penned by her handmaiden, who apologised for contacting him.

I would not write to you unless I felt this were an urgent matter. I understand you had some business with the lady and wished to inform you as quickly as possible. I fear I have upsetting news, so will address it quickly: she has not returned home within a fortnight. There was a collapse within the mine while she was there, and she has not been seen since. The lords of the City are attempting to disperse her estate. I will write to you again if her body is found, but I fear it is unlikely.

Eris knew she wasn’t dead. He knew that in his heart where it beat in time with hers, but he still reached instinctively for that golden thread. He was reassured despite himself when he found it whole, the magic of whatever united them snug against his ribs where it had woven in with his own. Aisling was alive, somewhere on the end of it; if not happy, then at least whole. The pain from a dead mate was said to be more than could be borne. He had always thought it was romantic fantasy, just tripe and folk tales, but if she died –

The letter burst into flames in his hands. She was not dead, and the bond was intact. She was as much an extension of him now as a limb. Eris had decided, somewhere along the way, that she was his; death couldn’t have her.

And neither could Rhysand. It was the only place she could be – she couldn’t leave the Hewn City without its Lord’s permission, and if she wasn’t dead then she been removed.

It was the highhanded, manipulative sort of move Rhysand would make, a lazy bid for control. Either that or a test to see if Eris would come running – to see which of his limbs would move when Rhysand pulled this string.

Eris loathed being manipulated. His strength had always been his unpredictability and his foresight; anticipating what others wanted and their motivations, keeping his own obscured. He could hazard a guess at what Rhysand would try to extract from him for Aisling: a shoring up of their tenuous alliance by ensuring his obedience, an end to the bargain Rhysand had struck to protect Feyre that left him so vulnerable.

He had other levers Eris could pull.

Eris sat back in his chair, exhaling slowly. The sun was shining, dappled by the branches of the ancient oaks outside. Ticru had located the strongest patch of sunlight and was currently stretched out in it, long legs akimbo and pale belly to the sky as he slept.

Would Aisling like the Forest House? It wasn’t the Hewn City, but would she be happy here? He refused to consider the possibility that she liked Velaris, grimacing at the thought of her living so far from him and in the rather careless hands of the Night Court. He didn’t trust Rhysand and Feyre not to hurt her, even inadvertently. These were the fae who had released three death gods and then lost one.

Eris couldn’t help but compare the shape of the dance in Autumn with Night, the better to assess how Aisling would fit. How she would keep up, how she would fare. Autumn was much more restrained than Night, in many ways. Just as bloody, but in the correct spaces – wives struck behind closed doors, sons caned in the classroom, lesser fae whipped in private basements and courtyards. In public, all buttons were fastened. Night was extravagant and ostentatious in all things: its beauty, its ugliness, its cruelty. They flaunted all their flesh and diamonds and viciousness out in the open.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the servant’s knock, reminded that he was currently late for lunch with his mother. He’d spent too long stewing over this, furious and fearful in equal measures.

Eris would have rather been at his private estate to the west, the seat of the territory he governed, but he had been absent from the Forest House for too long. Beron liked everyone where he could see them and keep them under his watchful eye – as if they couldn’t scheme behind his back and hadn’t been doing so since they were boys.

Lunch with his mother – a strained affair for them both, but she kept insisting on it, at least monthly. Perhaps for appearances, perhaps to reassure herself that he hadn’t fallen before his final hurdle. The Mother help her in that case, she’d need to rely on Damien or Cato to free her from the shackles of her misery here, and she’d spent far too much time shaping Eris into what she needed to change horse mid race.

She never enjoyed these lunches, or the company of any of his brothers. Their mother’s affection had thorns that cut both them and her; they had too much of their sire to be anything but painful for her.

Eris didn’t want to blame his mother, but he did regardless. Perhaps her love would not have been enough to save them from their father but it could have been a guy line to hold them down, something to cling to. They had certainly contorted themselves trying to earn it, Elias and Cato even more than him – but when his mother erred, Eris had always been willing to step between her and the consequences, to cause whatever diversion or mistake he needed to in order to take the brunt of Beron’s need to punish and control. Anara never thanked him for it.

Sometimes he woke to her tending his poisoned, festering wounds with a mother’s care; sometimes he was helped, heavy and staggering, to his chambers by Damien and Cato. Sometimes he woke alone in the dungeons and crawled up the steps by himself.

When he was younger it tore at him, even worse than whatever Beron could inflict; he felt the waning and waxing of his mother’s care more deeply than the hounds he’d killed at Beron’s command, than the boyhood friends he’d been forced to whip, than the times he’d had to beat his brothers into unconsciousness. Eventually he learned to expect nothing from her, and so he was never disappointed when that was what he received.

Ever his shadows, his brothers followed suit; what else could they do? Their father’s machinations had taught them to rely on nothing but the surety of misery. Their brotherhood was shored up by the understanding that they would be compelled to cut each other again and again; they’d each had their time as the favoured son, only to learn how fickle Beron’s favour was when it was violently wrested from them by another brother. They had learned that they could bleed for their mother and Anara would let them do it, too withdrawn into her own head to give much care.

The Mother damned him with a heart, though, because Eris would take Beron’s fury for her again. Eris would set her free, one day; he doubted she would look back even once at the Court and the sons she’d been shackled to. Four snakes with hungry black pits for hearts, weaned on violence.

He was in a rotten mood now, dragging himself into a bad temper as he strode through the halls.

The sentry immediately opened the door to his mother’s courtyard for him as he approached. The space was warm with sunlight – true spring meant warmer weather in Autumn, more golden sun and ripe wheatfields than the frosty mornings and dark evenings that would be on them in six months’ time. Autumn oscillated between the two. Anara sat at her customary table, a faerie queen from a storybook even now after centuries beside Beron: her red hair was unbound, spilling down over her emerald brocade dress; her skin luminous with the dappled woodland light. The enchanter’s nightshade and rosehips that lined the pathway seemed to bend towards her, as did the branches overhead.

Lady, they all seemed to whisper. Lady lady lady. We love you so.

His mother’s russet eyes studied him as he approached. They burned him, those eyes. They were the first thing he ever saw. Eris kissed her hand and took his seat beside her, plates of venison cooked with ramsons appearing before them.

“You were late today, Eris,” Anara said mildly, a gentle rebuke that his act was slipping.

“Apologies, mother,” Eris said immediately. He had been distracted, the bond an aching pull on his ribs, pressing him to go cut his way through the Night Court until he found her. It was a liar, whispering the sweet fantasy into his blood that everything would be better if only Aisling were beside him.

That was pure delusion. His life would never be better until he made it so.

He asked after Anara’s day, how she was faring; all mild questions when what he wanted was to ask how she had borne it all these centuries. How she had walked around whole on the surface, but with her heart split in two, and whether the sacrifice had been worth it; if the ache of knowing but not ever having had lessened. If he would ever feel like part of his soul wasn’t now living outside of his body. That was the secret they never addressed though, not in three hundred years – once they put words to it, it would once more become real enough to kill them all.

“There is a change in you,” his mother observed.

“I am as I have ever been,” Eris replied, looking at his plate to escape her watchful, sad gaze.

“You have only ever been changeable,” she insisted with a small smile. Her voice was sweet and warm, deceptive as all things were in Autumn. “You are of me, Eris. I know you.”

Their plates vanished, a tea service re-appearing. His mother always preferred being served by magic rather than servants, though Beron preferred it the other way round – most everyone had a drop of magic, but fewer had High Fae servants.

“Damien said you’ve been courting a female,” Anara said finally. Eris groaned, scrubbing his face in his hands. His mother took it for an admission of guilt. Fucking Damien – of course he’d sussed that his suggestion about Summer had been a lie, and Eris taking advantage of it meant he had something to hide. It was foul play to tell their mother, knowing she’d want details.

“Mother,” he said finally, fiercely. “You know-”

“The Mother blesses us for a reason, Eris,” she cut him off. “Only She knows the currents of the Cauldron, but all things are to Her design.”

Eris gave her a bored look, the strongest rebuke he dared.

“It’s foolish to squander a blessing,” she insisted pointedly, sipping her tea. She was mincing around what she wanted to say, wary of speaking too plainly. Everyone thought he and his brothers learned their ways from Beron, but those in Autumn knew it was his mother who gave them their silver tongues and skill at lying. What other sort of female could survive Beron for centuries?

“I’m not squandering anything, mother,” Eris said through gritted teeth.

She gave him a look as if she regretted having borne him. You plodding idiot, her disappointed eyes seemed to say.

“Your glamour needs work,” she finally sniffed.

-------

Eris had weighed up whether or not to approach Rhysand for days. Dreams of Aisling haunted him at night – ones his own mind conjured, spurred on by the restless, unsatisfied bond, though he’d crawl on his hands and knees for one sent by her. Anything to let him know she was faring well, even if she was still angry at him for leaving her behind. He’d wake in the middle of the night with an aching cock, chest tight and gasping for breath. The moon would mock him from the window.

He hoped she could see it, wherever Rhysand was keeping her. If it was somewhere she couldn’t, then Eris would do everything he could to taint every bit of their fucking City of Starlight. He’d poison the well until they couldn’t look out the window of their mansion without cursing his name.

It took him a few days, but he landed on a course of action.

Eris had nearly all the pieces he needed: Keir’s loyalty, given that Autumn was greatly enriching him by means of that trade agreement; a boon from Rhysand, bought and paid for when he delayed Keir’s arrival to Velaris as a display of goodwill – an eyerolling measure if there ever was one, given that Rhysand had fucked over his cherished cousin in the first place and was futilely trying to backtrack. Still, he had done it, leveraging the wealth of Autumn against Keir.

Or perhaps he’d won it when he’d kept their secrets from Beron even after Cassian’s idiocy fucked him over, or in their repossession of the Made knife they gifted him. There were quite a few instances, really; and still, they were likely telling themselves they were doing the just, right thing by keeping Aisling from him.

All Aisling wanted was to leave that place, to have power over herself. He’d earn her forgiveness and her loyalty with this. She’d belong to him, not just by the bond but in spirit as well, in her heart. That thought spurred him on as he winnowed to the Hewn City, a deep and hungry instinct that was slowly devouring him the more he tried to ignore it.

The last loose piece was Thanatos, pushing back against Keir and Rhysand too quickly. If Eris could just find something to leverage him, to bring him to heel –

The energy in the Hewn City was manic, something crackling round like lightening as he arrived.

A group of fae were dancing together in a circle around a goblin playing the fiddle. The music was reedy and high. As he drew past them he heard that they were singing as well.

His boot’s on the mountain but his head’s in the West, they were singing, moving in a complicated chain. He’ll smash up the city into a rat’s nest! Born in the dark, kills on a lark, father knows best!

An enterprising poet had been at work though his ambition outpaced his skill, in Eris’ estimation. He sneered as he went, weaving around another group of nobles laughing around a brazier with a turning spit, where they were roasting –

He didn’t look closely. The scent of charred flesh was pungent.

Half the court dead, hid in the Queen’s bed, father knows best!

The refrain followed him behind the throne room, slipping through that familiar carved doorway. Stone gargoyles leered down at him from the top of the columns as they always did.

Eris hated this ugly room. The impractical table, the gouges Rhysand left as a show of force – all of it was gauche.

The Hewn City had some beautiful places – the lovely moon garden; his intimate, moody chambers with the carved and gilded walls; Aisling’s elegant, towering home – but they insisted on conducting business here.

“The Darkbringers are eager for battle,” Thanatos told him as he took his seat. “They grow angry and restless. Hungry for blood.”

“Are they not always?” Eris asked. He didn’t trust Thanatos, wasn’t entirely convinced of his motivations. Anyone who came to him for duplicity would work against him just as easily. Eris, of course, was duplicitous himself, so felt this created a natural thread of understanding.

“More so now. The City is collapsing,” Thanatos informed him, almost boredly. “Structurally, not politically, although that will ideally follow.”

Eris smoothed his face instinctively, affecting his usual air of aloof amusement. He quirked a brow and waited Thanatos out.

“A tragedy,” he finally intoned. “At the mine. Several missing and dead, though the true tragedy is that Keir was not among them. He is furious, given that much of his personal wealth derives from it. The gentry are clamouring for Rhysand to act, though he has surprised no one by failing to grace us with his noble presence.”

A sword without a hilt, Thanatos had called the Hewn City. No way to safely grasp it. A boiling pot with a lid so hot it couldn’t be lifted. Eris hadn’t realised how he had intended to go about that, and it was only centuries of control that kept him centred as he stared Thanatos down.

“I suppose that will affect your agreement with Keir as well,” Thanatos continued, depthless black eyes alight. The greyish faelights cast an unflattering tint to his pale skin, leeching him of colour. “It seems we’ll all be worse off. But it’s for the best. The hottest fires make the best blades, and no fire burns hotter than anger.”

He had collapsed the mine himself? A sickening feeling lurched through his stomach, but Eris had endured plenty of these meetings with Beron. He knew the manoeuvre well: something miserable being dumped on his head just to study any reaction, any weakness, anything that could be exploited.

Thanatos was right, in a way; all he felt was angry. A clean, pure burn, right through his chest. Was there anything more humiliating than being reduced to another’s pawn, being made to dance for their amusement? It was debasing, and he’d grown sick of the sour taste. Yet this was all the Night Court understood: power and control and force. There were far more refined ways to manoeuvre.

They only spoke one language here. It was Under the Mountain all over again. Eris had to speak the same way, or else any influence he’d accrued would shatter like glass.

“If you want to destroy yourselves to spite Rhysand then it’s your choice,” Eris sneered, leaning back in his chair, away from the sharp edge of the jagged table. “The trade agreement has already set rates, you’ve cost me nothing. But losing my consort as part of your efforts is an inexcusable fuckup.”

“The female?” Thanatos was visibly surprised by the change of direction, then waved a hand dismissively, covering it. “Pick another. I didn’t think you so sentimental.”

“That one was mine,” Eris snapped, adjusting his cuffs boredly. Thanatos tracked the movement with disdain, no doubt thinking him a spoiled, fussy princeling. “Don’t mistake it for sentimentality – if I wanted her dead I would have killed her myself, because she is my property.”

“Was your property,” Thanatos corrected snidely, but he had the good sense to start looking worried.

Eris had had enough. He should have taken Aisling from this place as soon as he finished fucking her, twisted Rhysand’s arm into letting her go. He could have hidden her in some bolthole in Autumn or Spring – Tarquin was shaping up to be a weak-willed bitch, he could have pressured him into allowing her in Summer –

“Find her body or I will ensure Rhysand never lets you leave that fucking mine until you do,” Eris demanded, knowing full well Aisling’s body wasn’t there because she was neither dead nor in the Hewn City.

That didn’t matter. Let Thanatos sweat and panic; it would be good for him. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, winnowing directly from the chamber and back to Autumn. Time and space passed by in a rush, and then the forest overhead rustled its welcome, trees greeting their lord and master.

He had one more house call to make, tonight or tomorrow. The timing was lucky.

-------

In the end he waited an extra day, counting on Cassian’s laziness and lack of curiosity.

Eris almost felt bad, as he winnowed to that bleak human manor. The landscape, owned by humans and reluctant to accept magical interference from Lucien, was still bleak and blighted from the war, only starting to fill in several years along.

“Baby brother,” he crooned to Lucien, strolling in after popping his way through the wards and physically locked door. He had enough shared blood with his brother that he could generally work his way through, though lately Lucien hadn’t been trying as hard to keep him out. For a Vanserra, it was practically an invitation.

Lucien was in their sitting room, on a plush, comfortable-looking sofa. He didn’t seem surprised to see him, likely alerted by his wards as soon as Eris winnowed. He had likely been expecting him anyways – Eris never did like the way the Night Court had poached him, and even less the way they used him to liaise with Tamlin.

The manor was quaint, all worn stone and overstuffed bookshelves. Still, it had a distinctly human quality about it that made Eris uncomfortable; even more so to see Lucien among it like he belonged there.

“Eris,” Lucien greeted him, already sounding resigned.

“Shithead,” Jurian greeted him in the same tone. Eris didn’t stoop to respond to that, merely taking a seat on the ugly pink chaise.

“Where’s the lovely Vassa? A shame she wasn’t the one made fae,” Eris sighed. “We could have replaced you with her, Lucien. She’d make an excellent Vanserra.”

Jurian glowered murderously at him for that, somehow louder than the volume of Lucien’s sigh. “She’s visiting Rask, her former kingdom. Are you here for a purpose, Eris?”

“You don’t care to spend time with me?” Eris asked, but Lucien had grown up in Autumn and was too savvy to be drawn in by easy baiting. “Fraternal loyalty aside, I’m here to speak about Calanmai. As I’m sure you know, Tamlin could not find it in himself to complete the Rite.”

“Blonde cunt always was a bit of a wet rag,” Jurian added grimly.

He wasn’t here to speak about Calanmai, but Cassian would be. Rhysand never sent Azriel to deal with Lucien and wouldn’t deign to go himself. He wouldn’t send Morrigan – she avoided anything with red hair and a cock now – and Amren couldn’t winnow.

“You’d walk that back if you ever saw him in his peak,” Lucien said idly, looking towards the ceiling. “The blonde hair did most of the work for him.”

Eris smirked at that as Lucien stood before Cassian could even knock. As the brute himself shouldered into the room behind his brother, Eris glanced boredly in his direction. He tromped dried mud into the room, leaving clumps of it on the rug.

“Isn’t this familiar,” Eris drawled, propping one ankle on his knee. Cassian’s eyes narrowed, brow furrowing in an expression that made him look even dumber than usual. “It feels like we’re all getting to be dear friends.”

Jurian snorted, but Lucien heaved another sigh.

“Thought you might be here,” Cassian said, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. Lucien suddenly bristled at that, turning to stare at Eris accusingly.

Eris shrugged. “And you flew all this way to inflict your presence upon me? Delightful.”

“No, I’m here to see Lucien. Rhys wants your report on Spring, about Calanmai,” Cassian said, turning away and dismissing Eris.

Lucien balked. He was loyal, his brother, perhaps to a fault – to causes, to people. Whatever bound him and Tamlin still existed. Flaying himself and his old friend open to the brute of all people, stripping it down for secrets and gossip to further Rhys’ influence – it had to hurt him.

“You couldn’t get in to Spring? And yet your High Lord was so keen to constantly barge in on Tamlin. Does he need a new hobby, now that he needs to mind his own affairs?” Eris asked, eyes narrowing. “He must have so few, what with only ruling one city.”

Cassian glared at that, at any perceived slight against his master, right on cue. Eris wondered idly if Nesta minded being the third in their relationship or if Cassian had succeeded in convincing her it was all she deserved.

Once he had her, Eris would never humiliate Aisling like that. Like Beron did to his mother – the world was already so eager to make females feel small, and Aisling had already spent her life stooping to fit in her cage. If she was to stand beside him it would be with her spine straight, looking down on them all.

“You’re pissy,” Cassian observed, a grin suddenly spreading across his features. “Not getting enough company?”

Here it fucking was. Eris kept silent, staring Cassian down, daring him to say more. He would – the brute couldn’t help but run his mouth, gloat about any perceived advantage like an arrogant child.

“We’ve left her alone with Az,” Cassian continued, smirking as he held Eris’ gaze. “I’ve heard they’re keeping all their rooms pitch black. They must be getting on, we barely see him, but then – females always play nicely with him.”

Cassian was trying to bait him. The attempt was so obvious, so lacking in any finesse, and still Eris bristled. Cassian laughed at whatever he thought he saw on his face.

He let himself picture a miserable, frightened Aisling being dragged around like Rhysand’s captive –

A log popped in the hearth in a shower of sparks, the flame blazing so hot it was near blue.

“Eris,” Lucien cautioned quietly as the room heated. Cassian’s smarmy grin broadened. Jurian was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching the tension unfold like a sporting match. This was light work, compared to everything he’d witnessed as an enchanted eyeball.

“Should I go say hello to her? Give her a little kiss from you, make sure Az is keeping her at his heel? Don’t worry, he treats his females so well.” Cassian crooned,

“It may have worked on Nesta to lock her in with you until she agreed to fuck you, but Aisling’s a different breed,” Eris said smoothly, feeling vicious, feral satisfaction as he saw the blow land. Cassian wore his insecurities on his sleeve; there was almost no sport in it. His eyes grew dark, any mocking look dropping straight off his face. “She’s well used to your High Lord’s preferred treatment. You lot do salivate over imprisoning females. But what else can we expect from Illyrians?”

Jurian chuckled at that, mad brown eyes delighted as Cassian snarled at the room.

“Who even told you that I locked Nes up, that’s fucking ridiculous-” Cassian seethed while Lucien studied the ceiling innocuously. Eris only smiled in response, the sort of arrogant, aloof smirk that drove a lash against Cassian’s anger.

“It verges on a fetish, really,” Eris told Jurian casually, watching the doorframe creak under Cassian’s grip. “Rather embarrassing when Rhysand made such a production of telling all of Prythian he was so enlightened.”

Lucien didn’t react but the corners of his mouth did kick up ever so slightly. He must be bored by Rhysand and his bats; the work he had Lucien doing was certainly tedious enough. Overseeing humans and Tamlin? It was only to keep him away from his insipid little mate.

Unfortunately for Rhysand, that trick wouldn’t work twice. Eris had far fewer scruples than Lucien, and much more ambition.

“If you’re thinking about smashing the place up then get the fuck out,” Jurian ordered, looking dangerous despite the casual posture. He was watching Cassian’s shoulders bunch, his wings flaring in that Illyrian base instinct.

“That’s enough,” Lucien said sternly. It was sufficient warning that Cassian suddenly seemed to remember he wasn’t among friends here.

“I’ll travel back to Velaris and give my report to Rhys in person,” Lucien said firmly, ever courtly. His baby brother was a treasure, well trained to the last. “Do let him know I’ll be there within the week.”

“Of course,” Cassian seemed to recover, casting another surly glower at Eris.

Eris watched him go, striding out the door angrily. Lucien was looking sidelong at him as they heard the thunderclap of wings departing in a strop. Good – let Cassian lick his wounds at Rhysand’s feet and tell him what a venomous, miserable snake he was. Let Rhysand wonder when Eris would come calling, especially if Thanatos and Keir came calling for Aisling as well. He owed him a bargain, and Eris fully intended to shatter Rhysand’s illusion that he was untouchable.

He was losing his grip on his anger. All the old slights and offenses were bubbling up, every arrogant, nasty little comeuppance they’d every dishes out. He remembered them all – Nesta’s unflattering snigger as Cassian smugly informed him of his exposure to Beron, the delight in their eyes as they mocked the threat to his life. Cassian dubbing him a coward after he kept their petty secrets under Beron’s knife, faebane still heavy on his tongue. The slaughter of his soldiers, the repossession of the Made dagger. And before, Feyre’s fire scorching his mother and the absurd violence at the meeting they had called and assured would be peaceful. Breaking into his brothers’ minds to erase the memory of Feyre’s stolen magic. He remembered all the insults, all the disdain, every trampling of boundaries. He could picture the preening, gloating victory in their eyes as they held Aisling in their little city. But he knew how tricky Aisling was to hold. Smoke, ready to slip straight through his hands.

“What,” Eris finally said as he heard Lucien’s eye clicking, making him shake his head. “Is whatever you’re up to going to cost me a job?” Lucien finally asked, russet eye narrowed as he sized Eris up. Lucien had made that face when he was a child, too, squinting exactly like that when they played games and Eris cheated his way to victory, and Lucien tried to work out how.

“You have three,” Eris said peevishly, suddenly a mere fifty years old again and arguing with his brother. “Rhysand should know better than to take from the Autumn Court. You’ve let him insult you for too long, he’s grown comfortable with it.”

The moment grew long, and the flame in Lucien’s eye – he was Autumn through and through, that was their mother’s blood – suddenly softened.

“I’ll see to her,” Lucien said gently. Damn him, Eris had only come here to prod Cassian into being his messenger. Lucien always was so much more intuitive, so much more giving, than Eris could ever expect.

Eris swallowed and said, “Living among humans has made you soft,” because he never did learn how to say the words thank you.

[xxswagcorexx]

thinking about that ashswag testrun ep......

[rosiesriiveters]

Rosie at the flak house is like... he's compartmentalising... he's holding it together, but he's scared that if he stops, actually stops, he won't be able to get in the saddle again. That if he actually thinks about Munster, then he won't be able to stop thinking about it.

It's Rosie keeping to himself almost the entire time he's there, watching from afar - watching his men laugh together and cry alone - but just that, watching, and never with them. It's Rosie not sleeping, it's Rosie and this underlying sense of dread of how the hell he's going to get back in the plane.

Then - it's Rosie's conversation with the doctor. Rosie's the drummer, and yes, he has to keep his own beat, but he has to keep everyone else's beat too. If Rosie's rhythm is disrupted, then his crew's rhythm is disrupted. And it's only then, that pushes Rosie to pull up a chair and sit with and comfort his crew at the flak house.

[gwensy]

deadbeat daughter gwen stacy is this anything