#but out of everything that has aged him to know that joy has left its blessed mark

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

Most important part of any JVJ design is the crow's feet send post

[muletia]

𝐢𝐟 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

inspired by 'if not for you' by george harrison

[tfp] obsessed!optimus prime x human!reader

summary: after winning the war, optimus found his safe haven. with you.

cw: fluff, pinch of angst, obsessive thoughts, i may have romanticized his obsession a bit... self-indulgence, canon divergence - optimus gets his happy ending :))

word count: 1200

an: i'm returning to my roots of tormenting down bad optimus. this fic can be treated as the yang to my previous piece about his dream and as the good ending to the whole obsessed!optimus arc

Once, a fire burned within his body. It consumed every conduit, reached every metallic tissue. The blaze wrought devastation, destroying and leaving behind necrosis until it consumed him entirely, mercilessly incinerating the remnants of optimism, the hope that he might live to see a better tomorrow. He burned out; the flame hollowed him from within and left behind only a shell. Deep within his spark, however, an ember still flickered—a reminder that he could not surrender, that he must endure to the end and serve his own, for that was the role he had chosen those ages ago. He could not capitulate. He would not.

And then, you appeared. A tiny spark that reignited the fire. This one was fiercer and more painful, but within it lay the beauty of caring for someone, loving their flaws and imperfections, lending strength when it was most needed. You gave him enough of it to end the conflict once and for all. Optimus had long lost hope for a better tomorrow for himself. But for yours, he was willing to do absolutely anything. To ensure your well-being, reshape the future so you would no longer have to live in fear for your home. He did not factor himself into it; he knew the sacrifice required to bring an end to a war that had escalated to an interplanetary scale. He could only dream, nourishing his imagination with visions he would never behold.

At least, that was what he once believed.

The wind gently brushes against his armor, and the spring sun envelops him with warmth. Far from civilization, no sounds of haste or petty conflicts reach him. It is only him and your garden—the flora that continously surprises him with something new. Colors, shapes of flowers, bloom schedules. Simple organisms, mundane and primitive, yet he saw beauty in them. Their simplicity fascinated him, as it was the complete opposite of Cybertron and its inhabitants. But what captivated him most was their will to live—their resilience, the extent of suffering they could endure before yielding, before giving up. He drew inspiration from them, for he, too, wished to live. Now, yes. For you.

He knows you will return soon; your weekly schedule is deeply etched into his processor. But until then, he does not know what to do with himself. He always spends his time waiting for you, for the moment your vehicle rolls into the garage, for it is only then that he begins to truly live. In your company, surrounded by conversation, your kindness, and an affection impossible to replicate. Everything he does in your absence is merely to kill time, to hasten your return, to occupy his processor and stave off madness without you. Sometimes, he manages, especially when a former teammate visits. But there are days when all he can do is meditate beneath the tree closest to the driveway, waiting for you. Thinking about what you will do together when you return, what news from work you will share with him, and how he might bring you joy today. Without you, he is lost. The self-sufficiency built over so many years suddenly crumbles, revealing an uncertain, astray being entirely dependent on his conjunx.

Today is no exception to the routine. No one has visited. Optimus remains alone with his thoughts, which, for several years now, have been recalibrated to revolve solely around you. Once, they fed the fire he had to vigilantly tend, for he easily lost control over it, and it burned him alive. Now, it envelops him in a pleasant warmth, more soothing than the sun’s radiance. More comforting and tender. It brings him solace and peace, though it still fuels an unhealthy devotion. No longer destructive, but still imbued with a fiery passion, greater than Primus himself.

Sometimes, he misses Cybertron. Guilt over abandoning the search for a way home gnaws at him when he is not entirely focused on you. He knows the others still strive to find a solution. Occasionally, they invite him on missions—living fossils of his former life—but Optimus ceased aiding them for his own interest long ago. He does not wish to return. He could not bear to leave you, to forsake the life you have painstakingly woven together. He might as well perish if it meant never seeing you again.

A sound pulls him back to reality—the scratch of tires on a gravel road. You are still distant; he will see you in precisely four minutes and twenty-six seconds, but a subtle smile already creeps onto his faceplate. This is the exact moment he has awaited half the day, yet even now, his composure cracks, revealing his excitement. He wishes to greet you. Now. Immediately.

He mass-shifts, preparing for your return. He would prefer to drive you himself, but you insisted on not taking advantage of him—a decision he never fully understood. Had he not made it abundantly clear that he would do anything for you? That he was at your every beck and call, ready to please and serve? Yet, to his misfortune, it was a harmless decision, one you had every right to make, and he was never the confrontational type.

He watches as you park and step out of the car, holding shopping bags, which he immediately takes from you.

"Greetings, my dearest," he says.

"Hello, love!" you reply. You want to add something else, perhaps to start recounting your day, but he must interrupt you.

His servo cradles your face, fitting its contours perfectly, as if you truly were made for one another. He lowers his helm to your face and kisses you. First the edge of your lips, then your cheek and jaw, steadily trailing down to your neck.

Once, he feared touch, terrified of its power, of how quickly and completely it consumed him. How much he craved, and how little he possessed. Each time, he waited for your permission, for you to dictate what he could and could not do, lest he accidentally hurt you. Destroy the relationship that sustained his wretched life, shattering the trust you had placed in him. And though similar moments remain a near-daily occurrence in your relationship, they have migrated to other spaces, to intimate places. In other circumstances, he has relaxed the self-imposed rigor, dictating for himself when he could, when he should, and when he wanted.

“Not wasting any time today, are you?” you laugh.

Even he is unsure of what overcame him. He usually waits until you both calmly return home to prove how much he has missed you. Today, he cannot wait. The sight of you breaks him, making him acutely aware of his yearning, which he must somehow release before it consumes him entirely.

You are addictive.

"Opti, not here," you chide.

He stops immediately, though the taste of your skin lingers on his glossa, teasing him to continue his advances. It unsettles his processor as it invigorates his frame.

"I missed you," he says, syncing his stride with yours.

“I missed you too,” you reply, smiling in a way that infects him with the same expression.

He needed this. Simplicity, a place he could call home. You. For without you, there would be no new day, no spring, and the universe would become empty. Soulless and cold.

[mothandpidgeon]

Nine Lives (witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader) - Part 3

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader

rating: T (evenual E) MDNI

summary: As you came into your powers and your curves filled in, Ezra realized he feelings for you were more than just affection. The only problem? He's a 300 year old cursed witch. Oh, and he's a cat.

contents: age gap (like 300 years), angst, slow burn, yearning, probably anachronistic witchy stuff, Ezra is a cat, he won't be forever, this isnt a beastiality thing, mentions of abuse moth never uses y/n.

wc: 4.3k

a/n: I've had a tough couple of weeks (I mean, this week, who hasn't). I hope this will bring some of you joy this weekend. You deserve it. If it did, please please let me know. That would really cheer me up. Also, in case you missed it, going forward I'm going to be updating every 2 weeks. I really hope I can keep it up!

I must thanks @moonlitbirdie and @lowlights for the beta and their massive support of me in life and in writing this. Also thank you @schnarfer for helping me brainstorm some plot!

🐈‍⬛

Aunt Margot’s ringing up a tattooed girl with glasses when you stomp into the shop. You swing the door open so violently that it’s bell thwacks into the wall. You had almost a mile in the woods to walk it off but your anger has only grown, ballooning into a hot rage that’s devouring everything in your path.

“How was it?” Margot asks with a sly smile once the customer’s left with their little brown paper bag.

“River’s disgusting,” you announce. 

“What happened?” her expression immediately clouds with concern. 

“This is exactly why I don’t date witches. I told you that I didn't want to be set up with him.” you rant, blowing past her into what was once the dining room. 

There’s still a turned leg table at its center, now piled with goods for sale. Percy winds his way between beeswax candles and hand-poured soaps.  

“Oh yes I really forced him on you,” she says with sarcasm. “I recall the two of you were practically necking in front of the whole coven last night.”

You’re not sure if it’s the idea that you almost fucked River or the term necking that grosses you out more but you cringe.

“He’s so backwards. Guys like him make me ashamed to be a witch,” you say. 

“How can you say such a thing? Ashamed to be a witch! Do I need to remind you just how lucky you are? After what we’ve been through? Our kind was almost wiped off the face of the earth. By mortals like your little boyfriends,” she says. 

“I’m so tired of hearing that. It’s a shitty excuse. Mortals killed witches hundreds of years ago so we get a free pass to do whatever we want. To treat our familiars like slaves,” you reply. 

She scoffs. “Percy do you hear that?”

He squeaks indignantly. 

“He’s offended by that,” she tells you. 

“He should be. It’s worse than offensive. It’s evil!” you say. Your voice echoes so loudly it rattles the antique silvered mirror hanging over the mantle. 

Margot gathers Percy in her palm calmly stroking his white fur, her eyebrow arched in a way that tells you she’s trying to be patient. You shouldn’t take out it on her. She’s never been anything but good to her familiar. 

“Do you know what he said about Ezra?” You can feel tears begin to bite at your eyes. 

She frowns when she reaches into your mind to hear it herself. 

“His family’s always held onto the old ways," she says, shaking her head in disappointment. 

“Don’t make excuses for him,” you snap. 

She tucks Percy into the pocket of her cardigan and places a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“He’s an idiot and I’m proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself too. All of you,” she says. 

–

The basement of the Arcane Page might be described as spooky, what with its cobwebs and dusty, amber jars. Apothecary shelves stocked with potions, rare ingredients, and animal bones meet the low ceilings. Disused broomsticks sit in the corner along with willow branches and a black goat’s horn. There are all manner of spell books down here along with hand written notes from your ancestors. At the center of the room there’s a wide oak table carved with runes and spells. It smells like ink and dried leaves and magic. 

The warm sunset streams through the egress windows catching the dust that floats in the air. Margot didn’t have to be a mind reader to know you wanted to be alone and so she didn’t put up a fight when you offered to close up on your own. After you closed the register and locked the front door, you ventured down to the part of the shop meant only for witches. 

Your plan was just to have some quiet before venturing upstairs where Ezra would be waiting. For all you knew he was still huddled under the bed. You could abhor River but only one of you had actually hurt your familiar. You couldn’t bring yourself to face Ezra knowing you were just as bad as the rest of them. 

You start opening old books. Spell books and ancient texts. You’re looking for something, what it is you can’t be certain. All you know is that you felt drawn down here, your fingers itching for the parchment pages. 

When you were a young witch, you came here often. There were spell books that had become your favorites, embellished with intricate illustrations. You memorized charms for changing the color of your hair and shuffled a dog-eared set of tarot cards. This was where you cast some of your very first spells. Magic made the world feel full of wonder yet it gave you some control, an order to things that would otherwise be chaos. 

That’s gone now. All of it mixed up— pride and shame, power and weakness, love and loss. 

You pull a large volume from the shelf, its soft leather cover embossed with constellations. heavy and thick, You need both hands to carry it to the table where it lands with a thud and a gasp of dust escapes into the air. 

You turn it open, the aged glue of its spine cracking. You run your fingers over the delicate pages, so thin you can practically see through them. They’re covered in a careful hand and you can’t help but wonder about the witches that set these spells down, what advice they’d have for you. 

The magic in here is convoluted, singular spells that spill over pages and pages with diagrams and celestial calendars. Some are written in verse so dense you can barely make out their meaning. They remind you of the cadence of Ezra’s voice. 

These are not small acts of witchcraft. There are instructions for summoning beasts and recipes for potions that restore youth to be brewed specially on the solstice. Some of it feels dangerous— curses against unfaithful lovers, spells to wake the dead and use them for your bidding. 

You read through them all with mild curiosity. You have no reason to reanimate a dead horse or brew a cure for quinsy— whatever that is— though it would be amusing to cast a perpetual dancing spell on River if you didn’t think it would kill him. 

You chuckle to yourself as you imagine him dancing uncontrollably, his limbs uncontrollable, as you turn the page. And there you see it. 

What you didn’t know what you were looking for has found you.  

–

You barge into the apartment with a wild look in your eye. Ezra’s still curled up in your spot on the bed. He’s been there most of the afternoon, letting bad memories flood his mind. 

After the elders turned him, Ezra promised himself that he would be better. He’d been selfish and dishonest. Quick to anger. It was out of necessity, he’d told himself, but obviously it had only brought him suffering. He would change. But had he? He’d let you care for him, had loved you and fantasized about you, and he’d hurt you.  

You’re calling his name, breathless from running up the stairs, with a leather bound book under your arm. 

Ezra lingers in the bedroom door, guilt still festering. 

“Look,” you say, setting the tome open on the little breakfast table with a thud. It seems as though you’ve forgotten everything, a whirl of urgency about you. 

Ezra hops up and seats himself in front of the weathered pages. He takes in the verses there, the drawing scratched with quill and ink. It’s complicated and obscure, laborious instructions that must be followed to the letter. Behind him you’re nearly bouncing with untamed energy. 

“What are you showing me?” he asks. He knows. The spell is exact but its outcome is clear. 

“It’s a transfiguration spell,” you explain. 

“That much is clear but—“

“I want to do it,” you say. There’s a determination in your words, a fiery assuredness that makes Ezra’s heart pick up. “I want to turn you back into a human.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No. It’s all right here. And it says under the moon of All Hallow’s Eve. That’s just in a few weeks,” you add excitedly. 

“Little mage, I needn’t explain why this is folly,” he says.

It pains him to say it and not just because being human again would be the greatest gift. Your expression is a mix of frustration and heartbreak. 

“You propose to defy the Elders’ judgment. They won’t take kindly to that,” he says. 

“Fuck them,” you hiss. “The laws have changed. If you were convicted now, they’d take your powers but they wouldn’t make you live like this.”

“They’ll take yours if you do something so foolish,” he says. It comes out harsh but he’s angry that you’d risk your powers for him. That he wants so badly to accept. 

“You don’t deserve to be a fucking cat. You should get a normal life,” you say, your body sagging onto the sofa like it can’t stand the weight of it all anymore. 

“That’s quite a touching sentiment.” Ezra tries to couch the words in sarcasm but his voice breaks. He jumps down from the table and situates himself on the cushion beside you. 

“Why didn’t you tell them?” you ask, defeated. Tearful eyes look towards the ceiling before falling onto him. “When they put you on trial. Why didn’t you tell the elders what he’d done?”

Ezra’s head sinks between his shoulders. 

Damon was the kind of witch that only used his powers to numb himself to the rest of the world. He brewed potions that made him neglectful of his daughter one moment, belligerent towards her the next. Ezra had never considered himself a do-gooder. He saw the girl with bruises and said nothing. He was so disinterested in the goings on, he’d never even bothered to learn her name until his trial. Largely, he ignored them until the night he took Damon’s life. 

Ezra hadn’t meant to engage him. It was a snide remark he made that pulled Damon’s attention away from berating Cee. Soon the two of them came to blows, Damon throwing the first punch with an accusation. Ezra was scrappy but there was a point when Damon had him pinned down and he thought his time was up. So when he was able to break free, Ezra made sure he wouldn’t be bested. 

“You can’t understand how precarious it was for us then,” he says. “A hundred years of witch hunts. The life of a witch, even one as detestable as Damon was precious.”

Maybe if they’d known how Damon treated one of their kind, they would have shown Ezra leniency. But the real reason he accepted his punishment was because he knew it had been his own fault. Had he intervened earlier, gotten the Elders involved, it wouldn’t have ended in murder. You might think him a hero, but when the Elders made Ezra her familiar, Cee made it clear that she did not. 

You sigh, a slight shake of your head, and you sink back into the sofa. 

“You are a more than capable witch but this is ancient magic. It took the powers of no less than three elders to change me,” Ezra says as if it’s any consolation. 

“Maybe Margot—“ 

“You’d both risk your powers,” he stops you. “No, little mage. It’s impossible.”

—

“I’m not coming,” you say. 

Aunt Margot is loading a carpet bag into the trunk of her station wagon. Nearly a month has passed since the equinox. Halloween is two days away which means it’s time for your annual trip to Salem where the coven will be gathered through Samhain. The celebrations will be days long, singing and food, apple bobbing and fortune telling. Your little gathering doesn't compare. 

Last night you couldn’t bring yourself to pack.

“What do you mean?” She asks.

”I’m sorry,” you say with a shrug. 

You’ve been waffling on this decision for weeks but you’ve made up your mind. Even if it disappoints Aunt Margot.

”But everyone will miss you. And Simone’s making her gumbo,” she says.

”I know,” you say. 

As Margot babbles out more reasons why you really shouldn’t stay home (“The spirit walk just won’t be the same without you”), Ezra snakes between your legs. You were nervous of how she’d take this news and Ezra promised to be moral support. 

She throws out her hands with a pout. “I can’t stand thinking about you alone for All Hallows Eve,” she says. 

“I won’t be alone,” you say, picking Ezra up and scratching under his chin.  

“I will miss the gumbo,” he tells her. 

“No Ezra,” she contemplates. “Maybe I can actually win at Scrabble.” 

“Perchance,” he says, and you know she’s mentally tabulating the word score. 

“Is this because of River?” She narrows her eyes. 

It’s not. While you certainly won’t miss him, you wouldn’t let some dickwad keep you from having a good time. It’s all of them, really. Esme and the rest of them. Knowing how they think of Ezra, how they think of you, it makes you want to scream. You can’t subject him to their scorn and disdain, you won’t. You’d rather spend All Hallows Eve at home. 

And then there’s that little part of you. The one that knows it’s preposterous and downright idiotic yet still hopes that you can put the Halloween moon to good use. Ezra shut that down fast but, oh, how good would it feel for the funny little witch to give them all the middle finger? . 

“I’m just not in the spirit,” you say. 

“Well it won’t feel like All Hallows Eve without you,” she sighs. 

“I know,” you say. There’s a lump in your throat. You’ve never been apart from her for Samhain. There are countless warm memories of Halloweens past. When Margot got you your very first cauldron. The taste of pumpkin pie. The year of the freak snowstorm. 

With another sigh and the jingle of her bracelets, Margot pulls you into an embrace. The smell of vetiver hangs off her hair and you breathe it in deeply. 

“I’ll light a candle for you,” she promises. 

“Thanks,” you say. 

“And I’m going to jinx River’s socks. They’ll be damp for a month,” she says. 

You laugh. 

The horn of her car beeps and you break the hug to see Percy appear at the top of the steering wheel. 

“He’s worried about the traffic on the Thruway,” she tells you. “I’m coming!”

“Take care of her,” she says to Ezra, petting along his jaw

He nods. 

When Margot’s tail lights disappear down the street, you sit beside Ezra on the front steps. 

“You could go,” he says. 

“I made the right choice,” you say, stroking down the shiny fur on his back. 

“So what now?” he asks. 

“I don’t know. I've always wanted to go trick or treating,” you say. 

“That’s blasphemy, little mage,” Ezra quips. 

— 

Ezra holds you in his arms. Human arms. Your skin is warm against his as you lay tangled together. The morning light catches on the prism beads you have hanging in your bedroom window, little rainbows dancing across the walls and rumpled bedspread.  His lips brush across your forehead, leaving a ghost of a kiss at your hairline. You sigh dreamily and your fingertips graze his bare chest. You‘re just barely awake when you turn your face up to him, your eyes warm like you missed him while you were sleeping. He greets you with a kiss, your lips opening to him with a low hum. His fingers tangle with yours as the grasp the spindles in the headboard. 

His name comes out of you in a gasp of breath. 

He’s had these dreams for years but they’ve been happening almost every night since you showed him that spell. Sometimes passionate– your thighs opening as he explores your body— but just as often innocuous. Picking flowers in the meadow by his boyhood home. Bringing you tea as you read on the porch swing. 

Each dream is so alluring, even the most banal, he wakes up with the words on the tip of his tongue, ready to ask you to risk it all and turn him. 

You haven’t brought it up again in the weeks since you set that spellbook in front of him. Maybe you thought better of it. Maybe you were just angry. You told him about your spat with River and, while it touched him that you’d come to his defense, he knew it was an impulsive choice. 

Either way, it’s for the best.

It wouldn’t end well. Of course, you’d be putting yourself at risk. He’d made that very clear to you. There are a thousand other reasons why it shouldn’t be done. He’s probably forgotten how to be human and what he would do with himself in this day and age, he has no idea. The only job experience he’s had in the past two hundred years is rat catching.

The logistics of being a human matter little to him, though. His real concern is with you.

He’ll no longer be your companion. You won’t scratch behind his ears, invite him to lay in your lap. You’ll probably expect him to move on and live the life he’s always wanted. He can’t think of one that doesn’t involve you.

At least as a cat, he never has to know if you’d choose another man over him.

He’s laying awake, pondering this once again, when your eyes crack open. Warm mid morning light pours in through the lace curtains, bathing you in a honeyed glow. With Margot out of town and the store closed, the two of you had been on your own, spending the previous dsy together. A walk in the woods, a visit to the coffee shop where other patrons greeted Ezra with friendly scritches. You bailed on plans with the mortal Connor to watch movies and snuggle Ezra on the couch. It should have been enough, that’s what he thought when the credits rolled and you were snoring on the couch, your fingers buried in his scruff. He could share a lifetime of this with you and be grateful for it. But he was greedy. 

”Happy Halloween,” you say. 

You pull him close and he nuzzles into your warm skin. 

“You were in my dream,” you say. Your voice is still rough from sleep, still somewhere far away like you haven’t fully regained consciousness. 

Ezra’s cheeks heat under his fur. It’s not just the raspiness of your throat but his shame. If only you knew what he’d been dreaming about. 

“I was doing that spell. To change you,” you say. 

“I would’ve hoped for something more scintillating.” He plays it off as a joke. 

You huff a laugh and rest your wrist across your forehead, eyes cast towards the ceiling. “Right when you turned I woke up,” you say. 

Ezra doesn’t want to admit it— that he was thinking about that very spell, that he wants your dream to be a premonition. Witches have been known to have those. No, that’s wishful thinking. 

He gets to his feet and stretches out. 

“What a pity you missed my face. I can’t quite remember my own countenance,” he says. 

You sigh with exasperation. “I think it’s a sign,” you say.

“Our dreams are just that,” he tells you.

“Not this one. It wasn’t just a dream,” you insist. You sit up on your elbows meeting his eye with eagerness. “I can do it.”

“I told you—“

“Ezra, I want to do it,” you say with finality. “I want you to be human again.”

He grits his teeth. If he was capable of crying, he might after hearing your words, seeing that resolution in your expression. It takes all of his strength to not just give in and say yes. You know the reasons why it shouldn’t be done and he can’t tell you the ones that make him hesitant.

“You would turn me knowing how much more capable I am of violence? I might be declawed but I will be far more dangerous as man than beast.,” he asks. It still weighs on him even though it’s been weeks since the equinox and it seems you’ve all but forgotten it.

“I trust you,” you say. There’s a tenderness in your eyes that makes Ezra’s heart swell. 

He knows you mean it. You shouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve to be trusted, to be loved by you. He was never a good man, never stood up for anyone else. And it’s that very reason that’s had his mind in knots. He’s selfish. He wants this chance. 

Maybe, maybe you’ll give him the same look as a human and he can love you back the way he’s always wanted. 

“Besides, I know how to defend myself,” you say with a grin. 

That’s his little mage. 

“Very well,” he says. “I’m ready.”

–

You light the final candles on the oak table. The basement is illuminated by the dim glow of candles. You’ve spent the whole day down here with Ezra readying everything for the moon of All Hallows Eve.

Luckily Aunt Margot will be gone for the week so you don’t have to worry about interruptions. You’re not sure how she’ll react but right now, frankly, you don’t care. This is the right thing to do, you keep telling yourself. It’s justice. It’s not about the thrill you feel now, butterflies in your belly. 

You’ve daydreamed about it and after last night’s dream, your imagination feels closer than ever There’s no good picture in your mind of what Ezra will be like but his looks aren’t important. You can’t wait to do normal things with him. What will it be like to get a coffee with Ezra? To do rituals together at Ostara. To hear his old stories again, made new by his facial expressions. 

He’s quiet, nervous you’re sure, beside your cauldron. His golden eyes flit from the flames to the spellbook to the darkened window. Your excitement cools and suddenly you’re worried that your enthusiasm got the better of you. Had you pressured him into agreeing to this? He’s still your familiar after all, bound to serve you.

You kneel at the edge of the table.

“Are you sure you want to do this? We don’t have to,” you say.

“As long as you’re certain you’re willing to take on the risks,” he tells you.

You nod.

“Very well,” he says.

You look at one another for a long time, both knowing that this will be the last time things are the same. You memorize everything about him, his elegant face, the whiskers beside his little black nose, the streak of white fur above his eye. This is your Ezra, will always be even if he doesn’t exist in this form. You wish you could thank him for everything he’s done for you but the words are stuck in your throat. It won’t do to start crying now when you need to focus and recite the incantation clearly.

“I love you, Ezra,” you manage.

He responds with a long, slow blink and you kiss his forehead.

The potion is murky and thick as you ladle it into a dish. Ezra recoils when you place it in front of him. 

“Smells like piss,” he says with a wince before lapping it up. A shiver runs over his body, down the length of his tail. “Tastes like it.”

He leaps onto the table and settles at the center of the carved pentagram.

“Work your magic, little mage,” he says.

This is it. It’s all laid out just like your dream but you’re still anxious. There’s no room for error.

With a deep breath, you straighten your back and begin to say the words. You read them countless times throughout the day, memorizing each verse so that it can flow from your heart to your tongue. As each one leaves your mouth, you visualize them on the page. Magic begins to stir in you, a tingle beneath your skin.

Ezra lays on his belly, his eyes drifting close, paws outstretched towards you. 

You shut your eyes tight and focus your energy, like a beam of pure magic directed towards him and say the words again.You think about him, really envision his details down to the hair. Memories flood you. Ezra rubbing up on the old books in the store. His soft purrs against your chest when your heart felt heavy. The time he slipped on the edge of the tub and fell into your bath. The love you feel for him radiates in your chest all the way to your fingertips.

You’re squeezing all of it palms, every drop of energy within you aimed at Ezra. A vibration, an earthquake. 

You say the words a final time. 

Lightheaded. Breathless. Exhausted. 

Your eyes flutter open.

Ezra lays on the table just as you left him. Unchanged.

“No.” The word slips from your mouth nothing more than a whisper.

Ezra blinks, looking down at his black paws.

You see his shoulders sag and a long moment passes as he gathers himself before looking at you.

It doesn’t make sense. You did everything right, just as you’d seen in your sleep. You’ve never cast with such fervor. 

“Okay,” you say, swallowing hard around a sob. “We’ll do it again. The moon will be higher.” You can hear your own desperation, voice shaking as you try not to lose faith.

Ezra slowly sits himself up.

“Maybe you need more potion,” you suggest.

“No, little mage,” he says, resigned. 

“Ez–” You’ve failed him. Your chest burns, tears brim in your eyes.It feels like you might collapse from the exertion and sheer heartbreak that’s overwhelming you.

“It’s alright. I’ve been a cat for more than a few years. And so I shall remain,” he says.

🐈‍⬛

Part 4

Again, it would really make my day to hear from you if you've come this far! My asks and dms are always open!

[zoemhul]

American pie [1/2]

Category : Caitlin C × !momreader

Summary : You and Caitlin have known each other since childhood, you love each other more than friends but the situation pushes you to live in hiding. While Caitlin suffers from this situation and lets you know it, an event changes everything.

4 months ago

It's a busy weekend for you and Caitlin, as local basketball teams compete in a three-day tournament.

The tournament itself has no stakes, and winning it won't affect the official championship standings. So it can be described as "friendly". But unofficially, it allows players and teams to get noticed. To stand out from the crowd and make a name for themselves.

So every team and every player has a little bit of anxiety before every game and tries to keep up as best they can.

You and Caitlin have known each other forever. Kindergarten was where you first met, where you first talked, and where your friendship began.

You've been through a lot with her, you've always been there for each other, and at the age of 21, you never doubted the trust and love you had for each other.

You've never played basketball, but you've always enjoyed encouraging her, supporting her, watching her grow in the sport, and becoming her number one fan. She couldn't get enough of you, and at every game, her eyes sought yours for comfort and courage.

In the eyes of everyone, especially those closest to you, you're the best of friends, like in typical American movies.

But you've both known for some time that this bond and these feelings are more than friendship. That's why you've been secretly dating for over a year now. You look forward to every moment you can get away from the world to kiss and cuddle.

If you've decided to keep this relationship a secret, it's because your parents couldn't bear to find out that you like women.

In fact, you come from a very conservative aristocratic family. And you're officially in a relationship with a boy your own age and, more importantly, from the same social class as you. Your parents introduced you to him about 10 months ago, and you quickly accepted, hoping that this relationship would make it easier to hide your relationship with Caitlin.

Of course, your girlfriend doesn't like the situation, but she accepts it out of respect for you, and you can never thank her enough.

Today is the penultimate day of the tournament, and Team Iowa is well on its way to winning its last game of the day. There's only one quarter left, but it won't be enough for the other team to come back from behind.

So this is the perfect opportunity for you to admire Caitlin on the field without the stress.

The tall brunette is as relaxed as she is smiling as she watches the clock tick away. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, which you did yourself before the game started. Her muscular shoulders gleam in the spotlight.

The crowd chants and screams Caitlin's name as she continues to put on a show, scoring more and more impressive baskets. She couldn't care less about the disappointment her opponents will feel when the final buzzer sounds.

Your heart races and a smile spreads across your face as you watch your friend blossom on the court. She's talented, beautiful, and popular. Many would give anything to be friends with her, if not more. And yet she reserves that privilege for you, and you alone.

And with only a few seconds left, you approach the edge of the field. With your "22 Clark" jersey on your back, you wait for another autograph.

This is your little ritual: Ever since her arrived in Iowa, you've proudly worn Caitlin's jersey to all of her games, and every time she wins, she adds a signature to it. That makes you the most autographed fan in the world.

- Hi ! she says, signing her name on a loose part of youre jersey.

- Hi! you say.

She hands you back your marker and you look into each other's eyes for a long time, her exploding with the joy of victory and you contemplating the stars shining in her eyes.

- I love it when you look at me like that Caitlin smile.

- I love looking at you, you're sublime, Caity.

Her eyes went to your lips as your boyfriend grabbed your hips and pulled you close.

- Don't look at my girlfriend like you're going to devour her, Clark, I'll end up thinking you're trying to steal her away from me. he joked falsely.

The player's smile vanished and her eyes filled with hatred at the sight of his hands on your hips.

- No risk, I'll leave you alone, my team is waiting for me, see you later Y/N.

You tried to smile at her before turning to your boyfriend.

- The game went well, didn't it? He smiled.

- Yeah, it was cool, but my stomach hurts. ....

- Shall we go home?

Of course, you didn't want to go home. That's why you bargained with him to let you spend the night with Caitlin.

He understood your little trick, but you made a deal that he wouldn't tell your parents your secret. So you agreed to having sex with him from time to time at first and the, after he met a girl, let him see her. Caitlin knows absolutely nothing about this, and you knew better than to tell her. You're doing this for you and her.

When he finally agreed, he left, saying goodbye to you and making you promise to spend the next evening with him, as you both had to go to dinner with his family.

So you waited in silence for Caitlin to come out of the dressing room, and when she finally did, after many minutes, her wet hair fell back on her shoulders. You were so impatient that you wanted to jump into her arms.

Strangely, she didn't respond to your embrace, gently pushing you away.

- You should have gone home with him.

You took the time to look at her and saw that her eyebrows were furrowed and her jaw clenched.

You grimaced as you felt the pain in your stomach suddenly intensify, then resumed the conversation:

- It's you I want to be with, it's you I love. I thought we were celebrating your victory!

- Because I don't love you?

- I didn't say that, Caity!

You grabbed her arm and forced her to stop. The pain became too much and you couldn't do it while walking.

- He knows Y/N. He deliberately puts his dirty hands on you, kisses you in front of me, holds you close. It destroys me, it hurts. Don't you know how many years I've spent waiting for you to realize how much I love you, and now that we're starting to create our story, for real, I have to share you with a guy out of nowhere and say nothing?

- I'm doing this for us...I...it's not easy for either of us...

- For us? But we're not going to live like this all our lives. I want to see us grow together, travel, why not get married or buy a coffee maker and have cats all over the house. Fucking Y/N, we're 21 and we're hiding like teenagers!

- I want to do all that with you and you know it. You're not being fair, Caitlin, I'm scared.

- Scared of what? Losing parents who never loved you for who you really are? Fine, if that's what you want, then be their sweet little girl, but I don't want to go through this anymore, I've sacrificed too much in this story, I'm going crazy!

You knew the situation wasn't easy for anyone, especially her. But to see her look at you with such contempt and anger, to hear those words, it's like a slap in the face. You were convinced you were doing what was best for you, but you were wrong, and it meant losing the one you love most in the world.

Your ears are ringing, your vision is clouded with tears, your heart is racing. You hate yourself, but the noise in your head prevents you from finding the words to answer her. The pain in your stomach seems to be worsened, becoming less and less manageable.

- I'm sorry, Y/N, you should go home... shall I call you a cab?

When she asked this question, her tone had softened and you could hear a hint of concern.

But not being able to think clearly, you let her drag you to her car and she took you home, in your room.

- I didn't want you to get into this state, but I'm suffering too.

That night she drove off, leaving you in bed after planting a kiss on your forehead. You writhed in pain for part of the night, and as she closed the door to your big house, she never imagined it would be the last time she'd see you for a long time, before everything between you and her changed forever.

______________________________________

Thanks for reading, remember that English is not my first language!

[tokiwarcube]

I have a funny thought ! How would the boys react to their s/o meeting their parents. I feel like this would be hilarious or uncomfortable for the s/o (because they may get to see pictures of the boys when they were babies/kids or some of them talking about weird topics) but downright mortifying for the guys, because they’re parents are embarrassing at times, lol !!

And it’s okay if you don’t do this one, have a nice day or night :) 

I swear, I went into this with silliness and joy in my heart. But alas, not all of our boys had... passable parents. Not angst, but some of our boys are tinged with it.

Nathan Explosion

Maybe if he smashes the photo frames, he can gouge out his eardums so he doesn’t have to listen to this anymore. He regrets ever introducing you to them, and worse, he’s wishing death unto whoever created the fucking camera. How do they have this many photos of him? How do they remember such weird shit about his childhood? How does he not remember that phase, and how did they even get that photo? He hates every moment of this. I mean really, with how quickly Rose pulled out the baby albums, its like she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life. Maybe she has. And he knows his dad has too, with how readily he’s jumping on to add details to every little story. He knows you’re never gonna let him live any of this down.

He would like a copy of him, age 10, punching Donald Duck though. Now that, that was brutal.

Pickles the Drummer

If the stories that Molly remembered weren’t so damn embarrassing, he might feel happy that she remembers so much of his toddling years. But then she’s pulling out her phone to show you the old family photos she “sent to the clouds,” and she’s zooming in on one of his baby photos, and good God, he’s about to walk into the woods and never come back. He hates that stupid polo shirt.

He chooses not to comment on how she doesn’t talk about his teenage years, and he bites his tongue when the garage discussion comes up. Place a hand on his thigh to quell his bouncing leg before he loses it, please.

Skwisgaar Skwigelf

This could go one of two ways — either A.) She sets her sights on you, or B.) She doesn’t. The former is just about the most uncomfortable situation you could possibly be in, and no amount of reminders that you’re dating her son will dissuade her. When Servetta is over, Skwisgaar has learned to just keep his head down, ignore everything, and just practice his scales. But the moment she starts flirting with you? It’s the only time you’ve ever heard him miss a note.

In the latter case though, she does actually try to regale you with stories from Skwisgaar’s childhood… but they’re tinged with a sadness that frankly, I don’t think she entirely grasps. Stories of him holding her hair back in the morning, that time he punched one of her dates, or that time he walked home in the snow because he thought she forgot him at school… not all of the stories are like that, mind you, but they’re interspersed so casually with the normal ones that really, it leaves a rather heavy impression.

Toki Wartooth

He’s catatonic, and for better or for worse, doesn’t recall much of the meeting once they leave. He’s left with very faint memories, ghost-like in nature, of Anja silently encouraging you to go out on the town with her… but it’s all very foggy.

William Murderface

Now surely, murder has to be warranted in this case. How the hell Stella keeps finding him, he’ll never know — what he does know, however, is that he’s about to lose his fucking mind. Rationally, he knows that the stories she’s telling shouldn’t be that embarrassing — he still pisses in the apple bins at the grocery store, who gives a fuck? — but it’s the way she says it that just makes his anger boil and his face flush in embarrassment. You have to be the voice of reason for him, otherwise he might actually kill her this time.

[six-eyed-samurai]

You don't believe in the worth of immortality.

Life, love, joy, pleasure - everything had its worth because it ended. A god could never understand. Could the greatest of romances even last if they were bound together for eternity, you often wonder, but there has been no answer. A god would fall in love with a mortal and yes, you can vow your forevers then but in the end they grow bored. A god may have his or her spouses but there will always come a day when they seek another's company.

That's not to say you mind falling in love with a god. You don't. He's perfect - not just because he was a divine being. You're not a star struck fool flattered someone like him was paying attention to you either. You like him, genuinely. As a child you wondered why on earth your grandmother married your grandfather - surely "he makes me laugh" couldn't have led them to nearly half a decade of marriage? But you get it now. He has a way of pulling the corners of your lips up and another one of the advice your grandmother liked to spout turned out to be true after all: absence makes the heart grow fonder.

You're not entirely sure why he's as besotted as he was with you though. He had his pick of the most beautiful, the most wise, the most powerful, but he went on down to the mortal world just to single out you and decide yes, this is the one I want. He tells you every day no one else has a patch on you, little kitten, and that (quality) was the reason he was drawn to you, but you still don't have a clear answer.

But when he asks you to join him in immortality you know it's time to refuse, say goodbye.

He looks hurt, then puzzled. He can't fathom whyever not. You love him, he loves you, it's the next logical step! A mortal's life was but a blink in his and he was anxious not to miss yours.

You let him down gently. It'll be dull and over in the end. Sparks will fizzle out.

No it wouldn't, he argues back. He could never grow bored of you, not when he was still learning something about you every day.

And what if you run out of things to learn?

Then he'll love everything he's learnt about you.

You give up. You don't want it; you're adamant. He's growing frustrated, a tad whiny. He doesn't want to spend his immortality without you. It'll be a pathetic waste: he'll always compare everyone else to you, he'll be alone for the rest of it and you'll leaving him behind.

But he's participating in Ragnarok. If you join him in immortality-

"I don't want to be left behind either."

"You won't." He says it with such conviction you can believe him. You do believe in him. But it could go both ways. You and him spend forever together - or he dies in combat and you die from age or the apocalypse the gods will rain down should the Valkyries fail. Neither will be left behind in the end.

"If you win, ask me again."

He accepts your terms.

***

"Will you join me now?"

Unbelievable. He has won. Won.

You cry and it's ugly. To you, that is. He catches the tears and remains baffled by your behaviour. He shouldn't be here. He should go back up there and rest and heal and oh god he won.

You don't believe in the worth of immortality. But maybe Buddha is the worth.

[kendallville]

incredibly hot (well, maybe not amongst Jeremy fans but OH WELL lemme preach to the choir) take but: i find the way Jeremy is talked about his ex Succession co-stars these days so very obnoxious. Why should we or anyone care about his "method"? I watch him act fantastically on my tv screen, that alone is a joy for me, and his interviews show he cares a lot about his craft. To be too cool for school and shrug everything off is also its own method actors go about what they do - and lemme tell you, I find that so much more embarrassing than someone who might use flowery language, quote European intellectuals, and perhaps do like hearing themselves talk - the latter is pretty universal.

As a whole, idc if an actor is annoying in that sense, because I don't have to coexist with them (besides, I do know people who are indeed annoying in that way - some of them are my friends). Do they entertain me, cause me to feel emotion, will I be in awe when watching them work? If the answer to all of that is yes, then I like the actor. As long as they're not confirmed to be harrassing their castmates (or anyone at all), a creep who endangers them, or a genuine bigot, I truly DGAF. Unlike Brian Cox, apparently, who openly backs actors known to be domestic abusers and/or rapists. Plus, can't recall the last time various people have roasted Daniel Day-Lewis like that over his method... 🤔 (also: I could die very happily if I never have to hear that goddamned Laurence Olivier quote to Dustin Hoffman ever again)

Kieran's cheap shots also didn't exactly endear me to him - even though I think he's a great actor and I will see A Real Pain when it comes out in theatres here. But hm, let's just say that I am actively rooting for him to lose when he goes up against Jeremy in the Best Supporting Actor category and to also lose as Best Leading Actor if he ends up in that category when Jeremy loses in Best Supporting.

Yes, this is petty but [shrugs]

Sorry for leaving a rant in your askbox LOL ❤️

Thank you so much for that ask! I totally agree with everything you wrote.

For me one thing is true - when I watched second season of Succession, there was something in Kendall that tore me apart. I really felt his emotions and I haven't experienced that ever before watching TV show. It was so surprising, but also excilariting. Someone my age suddenly being floored by watching some rich guy mope around.

And then, later, I learned how Jeremy Strong has approached creating Kendall's character. It became clear to me that the realness of the emotions came from a very deep place of the actor, the person. To think that someone was ready to go that far for the role (he said it led him to some very dark places and that he has lost feeling of joy) makes you look at the whole craft differently.

I love how serious and thoughtful he is in describing his work, it's something so rare these days. Jeremy always says that you need to be brave and do things that scare you, and that's how he lives, and it's very inspiring.

I also agree that Kieran acts like he's just a guy who comes to do "whatever", and it's actually ironic, because from what he describes he does a lot of things similarly to Jeremy - he didn't want to rehearse in A Real Pain and he mentions that he let the Benji character act out, like he didn't know what would happen, how he would behave. That's exactly what Jeremy did while filming Succession.

It's clear that someone's process might be difficult for other actors, but from what I gather, Jeremy mostly kept to himself and was isolating, so I don't think it was such a big burden for them, other than a fact that it probably created tensed atmosphere, but on the other hand - Kieran and Sarah are best buds (she's a godmother of one of his kids) and Brian talks fondly of both of them, so they're good. The only one left out is Jeremy (not counting Alan Ruck, sorry Con), that's the choice he made and he seems to accept it.

For me the best proof of Jeremy's grace and thoughtfulness is the fact that he never reacted to Brian Cox's cheap shots; he literally said that he admires him when asked about his comments.

As to the awards, I watched A Real Pain and it's a good movie, but as a Succession freak I must say that Kieran performed Benji character in a very similar way to how he portrayed Roman, this guy is just more open about his feelings. I'm surprised it wasn't noted in any reviews, but maybe it's just me. I think Kieran might win with Jeremy because he's more liked in the industry, but for me, trying to be as objective as I can, the performance of Jeremy in 'The Apprentice' is just leaps and bounds superior to that of Kieran's in 'A Real Pain'.

[lady-quen]

Dragon of Ice and Love.

"Awaken, my child. Your long dream has ended. It is now their time to sleep beneath the stars. And when their eyes next open, yours shall again fall closed."

Cycles within cycles, grinding everything to dust. They grew tired of it, too - a lonesome thing, unfeeling as ice. Stalwart in the face of change, a glacier from the dawn of the world. Jormag was forevermore. There was no shift of the seasons for Jormag, the eternal winter.

Jormag was lonely. They made a Scion. They called them "Numen."

The divine spirit that has long guided seers and augurs, the beat of their heavy, sleeping wings reflected in the movement of birds. Even when they dreamed beneath the ice, they dreamed of flight. Eagle, Owl, Raven - and many more. Throughout the ages, divination was so often carried out at shrines of feathers.

Numen was Jormag's gift to this world. An assurance that history would run its rightful course, a benefactor, but most importantly, they were the One Who Opened the Door. Once it was open, Jormag would awaken, and the Cycle would repeat. Not many could pass through the door, of course. It was only open for a time, after all, and not many had minds clear enough to understand the enormity of the gift. And yet, that was its truth: Jormag loved the world, in the only way a thing of ice could ever love.

Ice protects. Ice fortifies. Ice preserves.

The winter was a time of stasis, but also renewal.

Numen was the instrument through which the magic was performed; The beast exhaled plumes of dense mist which enveloped those who wandered in it. The world ceased to exist to those lost in the fog, and they found themselves in a new dimension altogether - a pocket of the Mists where they would become still statues of ice, and await the new dawn. The Dawnwalkers thawed once the long night had passed, stepping into the new world confused and conflicted. Their memories wiped or altered, minds perhaps not unchanged - but their bodies were as pristine as they had always been. And the door closed behind them. History began anew, like a shift of seasons. Numen fell asleep, and whatever persona they had taken on was gone - not unlike the freshly melted snow.

1309 AE - blue eyes open. A norn child, this time. But their eyes were always so, so blue.

They rescued them - took them - from a village still and quiet. No soul left save for the newborn with snow-pale skin and a soft, sweet smile, never crying despite the bitter cold that permeated their body. The men who found them panicked, but they were perfectly fine. The cold caused no harm to their nascent form, instead feeling like a gentle morning kiss from a world that had waited so long to welcome their birth again.

The crib they were found in was not theirs.

Neither was the name they were given. Arnfinn. An old seer's child who died in the womb. In this way, the name had grown impatient, waiting for its wearer only for him to never be born. And the name became lonely. So very lonely, for so many years, until, with a knock at the door a group of warriors arrived at the woman's abode, carrying a sweet, giggling babe.

"Welcome to the world, at last... Arnfinn." She smiled, through the same eyes that once foresaw the death of her son. And they - he - brought peace to her. For she could see the fates of all those around her, but never his. Her dear son, blessed by Eagle, or whatever yet remained of her faith in Hoelbrak. Whenever she glimpsed him, he was as though shrouded in fog, and for once his life unfolded day by day.

For once, she found the joy of life again in not knowing. And, so suddenly, it had all been worth it, all along. Following Eagle all these years, her constant vigil, and now her prayers were answered. Time-worn skin flush with new life, a warm smile graced her grizzled features, and she placed a tender kiss on a crown of fresh blond locks.

"Sleep now, my sweet child." She tucked Arnfinn in, striking blues smiling back at her before falling shut with a yawn.

"Sleep now, my sweet child." A voice repeated from within his mind, a voice he would hear on this day and then not ever again - not until the beginning of the dusk.

And though he knew not yet the words, he thought back: Goodnight, I love you.

[tiredcowboyy]

The time between us

Random fic idea about merlin, arthur and morgana somehow coming face to face with their younger and older selves and having to talk to them? (If anyone has any recs pls share)

Like the idea of young merlin being so excited about life and though hes slowly realising how different he is and that some of the villagers in ealdor arent as kind to him as others, he still loves life and is full of joy and LOVES his magic (maybe this all happens just after arthur finds out about merlins magic and it helps him process it easier by also talking to young merlin)

but it slightly breaks older merlins heart at how innocent he was, how happy and loving and pure and simple life was and how much he loved his magic, wheres now, though he still loves it, its a weight on his shoulders. He just wants to hug younger him for hours.

Arthur sees the opposite in his younger self. He sees how isolated he was. How touch starved and unsure in himself and how truly unloved he was. He sees it, for the first time he truly sees, especially compared to young merlin, that young arthur lived to impress others and thats it. He didnt have any love or any joy or any childlike excitement, he was trying to age as quickly as possible to impress those around him and thats it. Both arthurs watch both Merlins interact, unlike them who are hugging, theres a solid space between the two princes, the elder is left wondering how much better life would have been if he grew up with merlin.

Morgana doesnt know what to do when she looks at her younger self. She sees a smart and fun girl, one that loves adventures but also the beauty of life. Not a girl being tormented by even her own thoughts. Much like merlin and Arthur, she feels a little heartbroken at what she sees.

After a day of shenanigans with their younger selves, theyre faced with an older version of themselves.

Merlin finds his older self at the crack of dawn, and when Arthur asks the older sorcerer, who hasnt changed all that much, he says the older prat will be along shortly.

When arthur finds himself that afternoon he sees a strong and admirable king, but what shocks him is how relaxed he seems. A gentle giant almost, face adorned with smile lines and hair still a soft gold. Hes clearly older but he doesnt look like time hasnt been kind. They talk for hours, the older often laughing at arthurs worries because in the end he still overthinks everything, much like he had thought about his younger the day before. The older gives the prince advice, but often it ends with keep those around him close, especially them who he loves, as love is what helps him be the king he becomes. (Arthur doesnt miss the kings soft gaze that lands on merlin.)

Morgana much like arthur only finds herself after lunch, but she doesnt expect what she faces. She sees a soft woman, one who still adorns royal gowns and looks though wiser, just as she does now. She demands to know if she manages to take what she deserves, to rule Camelot as she sees fit. To use her magic to her fullest strength. Her elder watches her with soft eyes before hugging her, a real hug, one she doesnt often get from people aside gwen.

Her older self eventually pulls away and moves back before shifting to a more disheveled version of herself. One thats hair is matted and dress ripped. One that scares morgana because she doesnt truly recognise herself. She closes her eyes for a second and when she looks back she sees the calmer version from before.

Her older explains that thats the path morgana falls down if she continues the way she is. She explains how the reason she wasnt there this morning is because when morgana goes against camelot and arthur, she doesnt survive. She explains emrys, camlann and her entire downfall and morganas left confused because how can someone come back from all of that.

Her older just smiles at the question and says she was given a second chance, a chance to change and go back to the point current morgana is at, a chance to make the right change for people like her rather than bringing the world down with her. (Much like arthur, morgana doesnt miss the look her older gives merlin, though unlike arthurs, her olders gaze is more admirable) She tells morgana that she was simply more patient the second time around, she waited and after uthers death, who brings on his own downfall, the world simply rights itself.

Morganas flustered, because theres no way arthur pendragon, son of uther, would ever look magic in the eyes and welcome it into the kingdom. Theres no way that magic can live free and that her powers wont be restricted. Her older laughs and tells her all about how her and Arthur rule camelot fair and together, and with the help of some others, eventually magic is eventually accepted in the world. But to get that, she mustn’t fall down the path shes on. She mustn’t burn the world with her but simply wait and work with it. Morganas left in tears by the end of it all.

Merlin on the other hand feels nauseous. He guesses early on in the day that older morgana and arthur dont show up at the same time as his older self because the original version of themselves didn’t have a future.

His older explains how he suffered, how he lived through the battle of camlann and had to see the kings last breath. How he waited for centuries and how under arthurs rein magic was never fully accepted.

He explains how that stupid dragon doesnt know everything.

He explains how eventually he figured out how to go back, to fix everything, and when he got it right god was it right. How morgana didnt turn evil, how uthers rein was still cut short and arthur, with merlin at his side, eventually legalises magic. How on their original paths, the paths of their destiny, the weight of the world is what took them to their demise. How some simple changes, changes everything really. He explains it all and by the end merlin feels dizzy.

But with the way older merlin smiles at older arthur, and the gentle, adoring, smile he gets back, merlin realises god its really going to be worth it.

Only those three got this experience those days, well, those three and gwaine who spent the entire time with his younger self playing games and his older self drinking. A simple couple of days really. He doesnt understand when merlin tells him few years later that it changed their lives, because really? Alls older gwaine had said was to place high bets on arthur making the first move!

(Idk it just started off by me wanting angst between young merlin and arthur and older them but then I spiralled)

[winterstellars]

sins of the son | part iii

15,506 w (entire fic is 55,619) | aemond x nameless fem oc (can also be read as reader insert) | 6.14.24 | the first two parts can be found in full on ao3

content warning for violence in this excerpt. if reading the full fic on ao3, please be mindful of the tags!

What could you possibly kill that you love so much it would make the sun rise again?

—Succession S2E10, written by Jesse Armstrong

Harrenhal stands out from the gray-brown muck of the Riverlands like a lonely gravestone: bitter, ugly, twisted. Aemond can just barely see the broken towers and melted stone walls, the work of his ancestors, as Vhagar pierces the clouds and descends upon the castle. It is for the best that the weather has put a thick haze between them and the countryside. If it were clearer, he might be able to see the villages. The farms. Small huts where simple people live. It is best not to think of them as people, what with the orders he and Criston have. It is best not to think of them at all.

Her hands, which have been anchored to his tunic since they left the capitol, finally uncurl when Vhagar touches the ground. The tension dissipates as he helps her down from the rigging. She is a bright bloom of life against the dull backdrop of snow and steel. Soldiers cross the courtyard carrying supplies, lighting torches, draping green-and-gold banners with the three-headed dragon sigil emblazoned upon them. Nightfall is close—the clouds hide the glow that should be a sunset—and every bone in his body aches for a bed and a pile of quilts and furs.

“My prince.” Cole, though muddy from the march, is as sharp and meticulous as ever. “The castle is secure. The scouts have not seen any men within a league of here. They likely retreated when they saw our advance.”

She makes a small humming noise in the back of her throat. “They know this land better than we do.”

Cole makes no reply, but Aemond can see a small muscle by his ear go taut. He will not do any of them the disservice of pretending as though Cole would approve of her presence. To him, she represents an uncomfortable inconvenience. Neither as shameful nor as easy to overlook as one of Aegon’s whores, but still. Inconvenient. A blemish on Aemond’s honor, if such honor ever truly existed.

“My lady.” It is a generous allowance coming from Cole. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable inside.”

“I’ll stay,” she murmurs, holding Aemond’s arm, thumb stroking over the crisp leather. He can feel her gentle stability, the sureness of her presence. His wife, he thinks, his queen. 

“These are the prisoners?” He gestures to a pack of men in fetters, closely guarded. Many sport gray hair and long-healed scars from wars of the past along with fresh cuts and bruises. Others are barely old enough to swing a sword, scrawny and unsure of themselves, the same age as Luke had been—

He kills that thought in its infancy. Storm, sun, blood. It feels more like a nightmare than a memory now.

“What’s left of House Strong,” Cole replies, disdain dripping from his words. “They await the king’s justice.”

He can feel her watching him. He dares not look back. He and Cole know full well what their orders are. They know that the king’s justice knows nothing of mercy and everything of retribution.

“I’ll have the servants make up a room for us. You can rest. I’ll find you,” he tells her, but as soon as he speaks, she shakes her head. Firm, sure, unflinching. Sometimes her conviction ought to frighten him. 

“I rode to war with you,” she says. “I expected war.”

“Have you ever seen a man die?”

Her mouth moves, almost resembling a smile, but her eyes are far too steely for there to be any hint of joy. “You won’t scare me.” 

He couldn’t, he realizes, even if he tried. There are no shadows in which he can hide from her gaze. All of his rage, his grief, and his love has been laid bare in front of her, and she has not fled from him. What he must do will not change anything. She has seen him as a killer and still loves him all the same, still touches him as though his hands have never committed any sin.

The first man the guards bring forward has a mop of brown curls with spots of gray by his forehead. His doggish nose is split with a fresh break. He does not look at Aemond, but that is for the best. This man is a ghost from another world, some wretched glimpse of what Luke might have been like had he lived. A silver wedding band perches on his ring finger, and a piece of red ribbon is tied around his wrist. It is a simple thing. A little trifle. Something a child might gift a father.

Traitor, traitor, traitor, Aemond chants to himself, embedding the word into his heart. It does no good to let himself imagine what kind of person this man might be. He makes himself think of his mother, of Helaena, of Jaehaera and little Maelor. Their safety comes at a price he will always be willing to pay.

“Your name, Ser?” Criston asks for him. He is silently grateful; if he tried to speak now, he would not know what to say.

The man keeps his face lowered, shoulders hunched, all signs of fight drained out of him. “Harrold Strong.”

“You command the garrison here?”

“I do.”

Aemond draws his sword, the steel singing in the crisp winter air. He sees her standing off to the side. Her breath turns to mist as though she could breathe smoke and fire, fiercer and darker than even Vhagar. If she can be a dragon, he must be one too.

“Harrold Strong, your house has betrayed the crown and has conspired in treason against the king. In accordance with the law, your lives are forfeit. You and your men have been sentenced to the king’s justice.”

So slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, Harrold Strong looks up at him. Stares. Raises his chin.

“You the king, lad?”

Aemond ought to offer him better dying words, but when he searches inside himself, any pity has evaporated. He has his sword raised in the space of one heartbeat, and in the next, head falls away from body and blood coats the earth. Though he can see Criston’s mouth moving, there is nothing but a great, piercing silence in his head. The guards bring another man—no, not a man, a boy not even Daeron’s age—forward. The boy is crying. A pair of soldiers come for the pieces of Harrold Rivers. One drags his body off by his arms, the other scoops his head up, careful not to touch his neck. Aemond breathes in and tastes metal on the air.

It is past nightfall when they finish. His shoulders burn from the effort of it all. Blood pools along the cobblestones, draining outwards in little rivers. She is there when it is over, arms crossed, serene as a statue, the hem of her dress stained indelibly red.

read the rest on ao3

[bakvrue]

the things we don't do

izuku x reader

cw: DEATH, PARENTAL DEATH, hospice mentions, sadness, me projecting onto izuku, very very sad, grief, feeling of loss, depression, anxiety, sad (again), wc 1.2k, header by @/cafekitsune

It's been either a few minutes or a few hours. Izuku can't tell.

He sits on your couch taking a break from the room that has stolen his attention away for the past few days.

A spare room turned into a makeshift hospital. Bottles of liquid medicine easy to administer as well as adult briefs, wet wipes, cleaning supplies, and a small booklet about the process of dying sit neatly organized on a table.

Everything you need to take care of a dying parent.

It didn't sneak up on her, Inko's age and a myriad of health complications have been accumulating over the years, but that doesn't make the pain of losing someone easier; the pain of losing your mom any easier.

Izuku looks at the clock, counting the hours to make sure that he has the dosing times right, and closes his eyes. Never once did he think that he would suddenly be in charge of administering morphine, but he would do anything just to make his mom feel less pain.

He walks through the kitchen trying to remember what last he ate before shaking his head, he's not hungry anyways, and heads back to Inko's room.

He moved a comfortable chair from your living room into this makeshift hospital room so that he could at least sit more comfortably, so he makes himself at home.

It's been five days since she was brought home, and two days since she has uttered a word or opened her eyes. He can hear her soft snores over the sound of the movie he put on, one that she always put on for him when he was a kid.

He can see her now laughing at her favorite part, singing along to the music, doing that silly little dance she always did. It hurts him to look over at her now, but he does because soon he won't be able to ever again.

He holds her hand as he watches the movie with her, occasionally sending out texts to friends and family members giving them updates. He's not sure how much more he can update them since there's not much happening.

The woman in the movie jumps off of a roof onto a paper lantern zipline as fireworks explode indicating that the movie is just about over. Izuku kisses his mother's hand and sets it down gently on the bed.

There's a few minutes before the next round of medicine, just enough time to clean up the room a little bit.

The raisable hospital table that she no longer can use is converted into the supply storage and his new desk for sorting medicine. The wipes are stacked from largest to smallest in the corner, the paper towels and latex gloves finding their home next to them. A small vase of flowers is moved next to a new larger vase just delivered today, all that's left is some trash on the bedside table.

That's when he sees it.

They say that it's the smallest things that break you, and he supposes that's true now.

Wrapped up in its wrapper is half of an eaten lollipop.

He remembers the last day she was conscious he found this lollipop hiding in his pantry. It's a special one you could only find in certain shops, its chalky consistency reminding him of summer days during his childhood when Inko would eat these when she got home from work.

He had excitedly ran to her room to show her his find, and she had made excited grabby hands for it, even though her mind was slipping she remembered the joy of her favorite treat.

Izuku watched her that day enjoying the treat, until she got halfway done with it.

"Let's save the rest for later, okay Mom?"

She pouted at him but agreed, "Later."

He had wanted to be able to give it to her later, to use it as a reward for having some soup for dinner. A little treat to brighten her again.

But he didn't know that would be the last day she would ever speak to him.

Izuku looks at the lollipop again and feels sick to his stomach. He covers his eyes and walks out of the room. It feels wrong breaking down in front of the one person you wish could comfort you but can't.

He goes back to the living room with tears blurring his vision, pacing before he decides to sit.

Of course he did this, of course he took away this one comfort from her and didn't let her finish it.

His head falls into his hands, and sobs escape him as he lets himself fall farther into this feeling. He's drowning in his own thoughts.

He took away her happiness, just like every time before when he had told her no. When he said no to fast food. When he said no to this trip, or to getting that puppy, or any other things that she asked for. Every "No" rushes into his head.

His throat is raw, and he can barely breathe, he doesn't care. What does it matter when the person who cheered for him the hardest is beyond repair? What does an optimist do when their spirit finally gets broken?

He thinks about the lollipop again, and another choked sobs breaks through him.

Izuku doesn't hear your keys turn the lock as you enter your home, two large grocery bags in hand, but you can hear him. You set down all your things as quickly as possible and then set out to find him.

And what you find breaks your heart. He's folded over his knees, sobs making his shoulders shake as you quickly run to envelope him. Taking whatever weights he needs off his shoulders.

He wraps his arms around you and cries into your shoulder. He's so grateful for you, more than you could ever know at that moment.

When he's quieted down, he holds you tighter. "Do you want to know what that was about?"

You nod, "Yeah, but you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I do." He sniffles and wipes his tears on your shirt. "I took her happiness away from her… why couldn't I just give her what she wanted?"

Izuku can feel the tears rising up again and his lower lip starts to wobble as he continues.

"I never let her do anything, why didn't I just let her?"

"Oh, Izuku," you hold him tighter and he does the same.

"I never stopped to get her food, I never took her to do things, I couldn't even let her finish a stupid lollipop."

Your presence calms him, just having you next to him lets him hear how all of this really sounds out loud, but it still hurts him.

You pull back from his embrace so you can wipe the tears from his face. Salt steaks layered over freckles wiped away by your thumbs.

You press your forehead against his, "You tried to do what was best for her. You didn't stop for fast food because you wanted her to eat healthier, you didn't take her to do crazy things like horseback riding, you didn't get her a puppy because it would have been your puppy. You're a good son Izuku."

Izuku's lip quivers as he pulls himself into you again. He takes a deep breath as tears roll down his cheek once again.

He hears your words, he knows they're true, but god does it still hurt.

His phone alarm goes off from Inko's room telling him that it's time to give her meds. He kisses your shoulder and stands up, heading back to his mom.

[yaralulus-secret-santa]

a timeless gift

happy belated birthday, @yaralulu!

(Read here or on AO3.)

It’s his first year alone.

The last time the two of them had spoken was… ages ago. Before the War. Guilt seeps into his veins, straight out of his bleeding heart. What right do you have to care? He hadn’t made the effort to reach out before. For every excuse, a year slipped by—He couldn’t write because his father would know, or his brothers had broken his hand and his magic was too afraid to work in his favour. He was too busy making amends for being the worst son, the weakest out of all seven who couldn’t block out the world even if he wanted to. It just wasn’t… politically correct.

All of it was bullshit. Lucien worried about Tamlin, and he never did anything about it. He waited so long, watching his best friend lose everyone he loved one by one until there was no one left. Fuck. I’m the worst one, aren’t I?

Lucien slips out in the middle of the night, parcels tied tightly and neatly by the deft hands of the lesser faeries who work in the kitchen. He’d asked for discretion along with his order, specific down to the smallest detail. He enchants a satchel to carry everything while hiding the bulk of his baggage, a bottomless bag. He pulls a servant’s cloak over his bright red hair, the most traitorous part of him.

(No, the most traitorous part of him are his feet that guide him across the border between Autumn and Spring.

Or is it his cacophonous heart that beats louder and louder with his filial betrayal.)

The Spring Court has changed. No longer is it a High Lord’s pride, boasting bramble and thorn if only to expose the thin skin of emissaries and visitors. Its edges have smoothed out, but the forest and flowers wilt. Lucien reaches for a hanging leaf, thinning from lack of sun and water. It longs for these necessary things, elements that keep it alive, and withers while waiting.

Lucien gasps softly at the way the very land mirrors its Lord.

Is he… dying?

He picks up his pace, unwilling to winnow but rather using his strength as a High Faerie to cover more ground. His father would have sensed his movement, and would have likely sent his brothers to track him down before he crossed over. He casts one last glance over his shoulder. If he’s caught, this could have been his last night at home.

Is this worth the risk? Lucien asks himself, but his soul responds with a resounding ‘ yes ’. He needs to be here now, pushing through the golden wrought gates of Spring’s manor. There is no resistance towards his invasion, almost as if the very structures understand the depths of their Lord’s yearning. Tamlin needs someone— anyone —to be there for him.

His eyes adjust to the darkness, and he strains his ears to find a sign of the Spring Lord. Lucien scours the inside of the manor, finding each room empty. He reaches the end of the hall of the second floor, peering out the window to look over the grounds. Beneath him, the High Lord’s private garden awaits him, dull and without color save for—

Save for the bright yellow eternal roses and right there, in the center of them is him.

Lucien has never moved faster in his life, dashing back down the stairs and sprinting towards Tamlin. He needs to tell him a hundred different things. He needs to reassure him. He makes sure not to step on the flowers, all while falling to his knees before Tamlin, breathless and wild.

“You are not alone,” he gasps, voice raw with everything he’s failed to say. “ Tamlin. ”

The High Lord looks… defeated. Dark circles frame those once-brilliant emerald eyes. Lucien had loved them as a child, thinking he looked magical. The Autumn Court is so orange, yellow and red. It was always a wonder to gaze upon Tamlin’s leafy green eyes. None of the wonder is there, or the joy. Only pain.

Lucien squeezes his calloused and scarred hands. I’m here, his touch conveys.

“I’m so sorry for not being there for you.” For decades.

They promised to be best friends, despite it all. Lucien may be a fool for clinging to childhood promises, but Tamlin is worth fighting for. He could change his Court. He could change the entirety of Prythian. He’s still here, after everything. He is strong, and he is kind. Lucien can feel it just by holding his hand.

Pain silences Tamlin, but he squeezes Lucien back softly. Thankful?

“I brought gifts,” the Autumn faerie whispers in the cover of night. It pains him to release Tamlin, but he needs both hands to pull out all the food from his satchel. Parcels and parcels of food cover the ground around them, it’s not enough to make up for Lucien’s absence after all this time, but it’s more than enough to feed the High Lord.

Tears line those emerald eyes as each dish is unveiled.

“These are…” Tamlin croaks, his voice raw from disuse. Or screaming until he couldn’t take it anymore. Lucien cannot tell which.

“These are every dish prepared for your mother whenever she visited the Autumn Court. She also mentioned to the cooks that you were vegetarian. I’m unsure if that’s still true, but I elected to follow that directive as well.” Lucien offers Tamlin a hopeful smile, and his cheeks begin to ache when he realizes that Tamlin is in agony. Have I done the wrong thing?

Tears spill down Tamlin’s cheeks, staining the edge of the nearest parcel’s cloth.

“I have overstepped. My Lord, my sincerest apologies,” Lucien starts to pack up his gifts.

Tamlin’s voice gives him pause. “They’re not coming back.”

“Oh, Tam.” Lucien gets up and skirts around the little picnic he made for his friend. He kneels beside him and pulls him into a tight hug. The touch, the comfort—the support gets to him and Tamlin breaks down. Lucien holds him, rubbing his back and rocking him slightly to soothe him. “You’re alright. You’re not alone anymore.”

He feels the way Tamlin’s fingers curl into his vest, holding onto him with whatever he has left.

Lucien had worried about what to get Tamlin for this birthday, his first one alone. He had commissioned an ornate hand-carved fiddle that he planned to send over later, but he doubts that music will be heard anytime soon in this darkened place. Tamlin is in a state of survival. No, worse. He is in a state of wondering if there is a point at all in trying to survive. Lucien can feel it.

Material things won’t ever replace what Tamlin has lost, but Lucien knows what he can give. He can’t fix it, but he can try. 

“I’ll be here for you. However I can. Whenever I can.”

Best friends forever.

It is a gift he will continue to give for years to come.

[charlieluver]

Losing the hard way

(c.alcaraz ×fem! reader) Word count: 870+ Warning: none

__________. ________________. __________

"Championship point, Djokovic" How you wished it was Carlos's name instead . You are in the audience box, seeing your boyfriend barely hold his anger and sadness in. He fought so hard to reach here, you know it, the world saw it. "Game, set , match Djokovic." The Serbian crowd roared with joy , Djokovic kneeling to the ground, soaking in his lifelong achievement. Your attention snapped to Carlos, seeing him sit on the bench, towel over his face. Your heart broke seeing him, who's mental game so strong, weak and vulnerable like this. The Spanish reporter was interviewing him currently, and it saddens you when Alcaraz says how he has let Spain down. He could never do such a thing, unknown to him, the Spaniards with pride, are watching him play at the Olympic finals at such a young age. He could not keep it any longer and broke down during the interview. At this point you just wished you could hug him, wipe his tears, but the medal ceremony was still left. "Baby just a bit longer," you mumbled, hoping he knew you are just beside him, waiting.

Back to the hotel room, you waited for him to return. "He must be held up by people to congratulate him" you think. After a while, scrolling through your phone, you see many posts and articles, talking about how he could have easily won the match against Djokovic. Frustrated, you lock your phone and lie down on your bed. A soft knock grabs your attention as you run to open the door. Carlos. "Hey champ, celebrations over?" you start a lighthearted conversation, trying to divert his mind. "I don't care about this now. I lost , that matters" He says, with a choked voice as he slumps on the bed. "Baby, please don't say that. A silver medal at 20, thats something! Come on, this is a rare feat" You try cheering him up, sitting beside him, fingers through his hair. He looks at you, yes glistening with tears "But the match was in my control! I should have won that, break point after break point.." he grabs his hair, elbows resting on his thighs, firmly, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Hey", cupping his face, "I know its hard for you, but please don't disregard what you achieved right now. You won silver, be proud about it. Don't dwell on what could have happened or what didn't happen. It's hard I know, but please try and live in this moment hmm?" you say, caressing his face, wiping his tears. His red puffy eyes stared into yours, "But he wasn't even in his full form and I was. Why I-I don't get it what happens to me....I don't deserve being number 2 in the-" "Carlos, are you dumb? " you rebuked him. "You practice nonstop, win matches, get points that you deserve, to be at the level you are now. Why are you questioning that? This isn't the end. Yes, you might have done better, but that doesn't nullify everything you have done uptill now, right?" You pull him closer, hugging him. "I'm proud of you, doesn't matter if you won or lost. I am proud of you every single day. Because I know you work hand and how sincere you are. Please be proud of yourself too, you deserve this" you say, caressing his back. He hugs you tighter, you feel his breath becoming normal.

You both stay in each others embrace for a bit longer. He finally breaks the hug and looks at you with those green-brown eyes you love so much, filled with sincerity and love. "Thank you" he whispers, his voice a little hoarse from all those tears. You smile at him, saying "Should I prepare a bath for you?" "Yeah, that would be great, love."

Sitting on the bed in your pj's, you hear him switching off the hair dryer, as he comes out of the bathroom. His shoulders are relaxed, and face much calmer. "Feeling better?" "A lot" with that he plops on the bed, next to you. He instinctively puts his head on your lap, staring at your face. "I forgot to even say this, but you looked gorgeous in that red dress you wore to the match." You feel your cheeks heating up, "Thanks, glad you love it." Your fingers play with his hair, as he watches your face. "What?" you chuckle and ask him. "Nah, just thinking what I would ever do without you.", he says, adoring your face. You smile, the cute dimple when you laugh. He loves everything about you. "Not possible, because you won't get rid of me this easily". You move down, pecking his lips. As you were going to pull apart, he smashes his lips onto yours, putting his hand behind your head, as he flips you over on your back, him hovering over you. "Who ever said about leaving?" You grab your chance and tickle him near his waist. "Y/N, stop..i-it tickles, you know I'm ticklish, stop-" He laughs and squirms away. He tickles you back and you squeal. "Charlie, stop- " The room is filled with both of your laughter. And you hoped thats how your life would stay too, forever. __________. ________________. __________ I saw an olympics reel of him crying and...here we are :"))

[viric-dreams]

You know, there's a truly harrowing timeline for Roberts and the Commodore that's been living in the back of my head for weeks now.

I always imagine that the Commodore was Roberts' first captain, before the Fall. He wasn't the Commodore then. He wasn't anyone particularly notable. But when London Fell, the majority of the Navy's top brass were not there, and fewer still survived the Fall and the days that followed. The Navy was a shambles of whomever was left, of whomever would step up and take charge.

The first years must've been brutal, their already diminished numbers dropping by the day in unfamiliar and dangerous waters, in a cavern with hardly any wind to power the sails on any of the older ships. Yet nonetheless the Commodore had made it south, establishing and taking charge of what was to become Station V, where he and an ambitious engineer made plans to create an artificial sun to light the Neath. All this time, Roberts served faithfully under him, climbing the ranks from cabin boy to seaman to officer.

No one's sure entirely when the Dawn Machine achieved sentience. It was a slow creep, the joy from the return of sunlight turning sour over weeks, curdling into discomfort, dizziness... and then joy once more. It's as if things had never changed. Or maybe they had. Though maybe they'd simply always been this way. If anything, it only increased Roberts' dedication to the Commodore--the man who pulled him into the fold, gave him community, tells him how proud he is of him--and his dedication to the Work he'd started.

Which is why it bothered him so much when he noticed the Commodore start to fade. When the passive smile slowly became more of a fixture, when his brash charisma was progressively overshadowed by tepid pleasantries, when he'd retreat into himself, having a conversation with someone only he seemed to be able to hear.

Roberts would fight to ignore it. The Commodore's always been like this. Nothing has changed. Are you questioning his competence? Implying there's something wrong with their commanding officer? Roberts could have you court martialed for that kind of talk! Besides, there are plenty of days when he seems exactly in line with Roberts' childhood memories of the man. They just need to keep moving on as usual. Keep the Work going.

Maybe he screwed up once. And maybe it was something less than unintentional. He'll never admit to it out loud, of course. But as much as it smarts to have those harsh words thrown at him, as much as he wills himself not to flinch when the man screams in his face, spittle hitting his cheek, at least he's screaming. And if he's screaming he's not smiling that awful, placid smile.

As the decades go by, the Work seems to be taking a toll on the Commodore. Or maybe it's simply the normal treachery of old age. Roberts tries to help. He takes on yet more roles, more decisions, tries to shield the rest of the New Sequence from what's happening behind closed doors, all the while the man seems to retreat further and further into himself.

The order catches him by surprise. Roberts needs to go to London. There's a revolutionary cell bent on great violence, such that would destroy the Dawn Machine and everything they've worked for to remake the Chain. Roberts has to be there to infiltrate and stop them. No one else can do it.

It's the most lucid Roberts has seen the Commodore in months. Maybe it was just a rough patch and it's now all over. The thought of leaving the Commodore alone, of being unable to help, twists like a knife in his gut. Anything could happen, and he wouldn't be there to stop it. But at the end of the day he's the Commodore's man, loyal to a fault. And so he obeys.

-

The Machine is sick. It's sick and it's dying and it hates. The Commodore knows this better than he knows his own mind at this point. Its tendrils have burrowed into him and they feed and they hate and they hate and they feed. He doesn't know for how much longer it can go on. He's not the spring chicken he once was. The Machine seems to know it too. He doesn't have long.

January and her cell have no idea what they're doing, that much is clear. But it doesn't matter. He can make Elias believe it. Whatever it takes to get him as far away from its influence as possible. The Machine hates, but he loves, and he won't let the Machine have his golden child, the closest thing to a living son he's had since the Fall. Best to send him off before it's too late. He doesn't have long, after all.

[sirenemale]

which dungeon meshi character do you think would be most likely to do drag and what kind of drag do u think they would fw the most. i think senshi would love going to drag shows and tipping a generally ludicrous amount of money

This is the only ask in the worlddd to me.

I'm can't imagine most of the core party doing Drag themselves but the one's that come to mind immediately would be Fleki & Lycion.

Fleki's just bursting with personality, has the kind of confidence and banter that you want for a Drag artist. The little fashion explorations Ryoko Kui did too are soooooooo right for this. I think she'd 100% be drawn to the glamor and camp and stupidity drag has to offer. Probably play around between king and queen aesthetics. I also think she'd be so squarely be a baby queen tripping over her own heels but it's part of the fun and humor of it all.

Lycion is here bc he's besties with Fleki and also because his whole Everything of wanting to escape into being beast to alleviate his discomfort with his body and identity. Which idk I could talk about for ages, it's like Laois and Falin, another character who I have never seen before in media who speaks so deeply to myself as a person. Lycion is absolutelyyyyy doing monster drag it's not even a question. Like if we're talking about this in a modern setting then he's absolutely using some kind of wolfman drag persona as a way to alleviate his distress with himself. I think he'd be aiming for as inhuman as possible. I think he'd get a huge thrill out of performing it and it'd be an easy 1 to 1 with him feeling validated in fight rings as a beast. I think he'd also be able to beat his face so right if he was just dressing up nice, I know him and Fleki r doing makeup looks together.

Last character is Laois but also not quite. Like with any other modern day headcannon people have for him like fursuiting, being trans, being otherkin ect even if on paper these would absolutely speak to him I just don't think he'd ever come to those conclusions himself. I think that kind of repression and isolation are really crucial to how he views the world and I think he's more likely to be formulating his own ideas rather than fitting into any kind of community already. I'm putting him here for similar reasons to Lycion, since they're both characters who want to become beasts. Lycion though feels like an out twink with gay friends, who knows who he is and what brings him joy and I don't think Laois is quite there yet as a person.

UM thinking abt it now he'd be more likely be a creature suit actor. Drag monsters still are more symbolic / character focused, and with creature suits I think he'd be really abnormal talking about how he's bonded with the silicon. You know he'd be asking a thousand questions abt the designs biology. You know he'd ask about its diet so he can go eat like that too to get in character.

Other than that I think the main crew would show up to drag shows and have a good time. I'm kind of obsessed with the joke of Marcille being a bit of a prude / not knowing what a butch is so I think her going to a drag bar with Falin would be really really really funny. You know namari is a local, this might be out of left field but I could also see Chilchuck being around a drag bar a lot as some old queen (twink) manager who's catty about baby queens or ppls bar etiquette.

Kabru is there because he is gay. I think if Kabru saw Laois in his local drag bar he would burst a blood vessel and talk shit about how some people just shouldn't come to shows because they're not actually gay and how it's ruining his night and he stole his seat so now he has to stand or he's blocking his view LMAO. Senshi would absolutely be buying the queens drinks bc he wants them to stay hydrated.

I also think the winged lion would do drag, is that anything. I think the winged lion is a pageant glamour queen.

[patricide-doll]

Percabeth, planet au. (Except this is just a draft and is not the final product bc it's messy af and makes no sense)

@auroraofthesun1 @lemonsandsadness @ebony-reine-vibes (thanks for supporting me here it's making me really happy)

So if you've forgotten what which au god represents here u go bc I want everyone to always know and I have the clipboard feature on my phone.

Reminder that even though there are planet NAMES they are not related to the actual Roman gods. Separate thing. Like completely.

Mercury main: sea, stars, mischief

Venus main: sun, leadership, education

Mars: electricity, fire, mechanics

Jupiter: human brain, joy, mischief

Saturn: healing, kindness, flowers

Uranus: anger, war, protection

Neptune: music, beauty/romance, deception

Pluto: home,love, family, death

Perseus Jackson, Son of Mercury-

Raised by Sally Jackson and later Gabe Ugliano, Percy Jackson is the son of one of the most important gods, Mercury. Percys' abilities include general water control as well as more prophetic powers (the average demigod receives 300 prophetic dreams per year is a statistical error, children of Mercury, who's dad is the ruler of divination and the stars, is a statistical error and should not have been counted). As well as this, he also rules over mischief, similar to Jupiter, so those children have more of a mischievous streak.

Percy grew up with his mom and Gabe, and he had to attend school after school due to anger issues, dyslexia and ADHD (everything that affects demigods in pjo also affects demigods here). Tbh percys' backstory is pretty similar to pjo. He receives dremas about the future a lot and is running a small tarot business in every school he goes to. Its not that he really believes in it, but it makes him money and he's...surprisingly good. (Honestly I haven't really worked on his backstory a lot)

Annabeth chase:

Daughter of Venus, the Queen of the gods, meaning Annabeth is even MORE stressed. It also means that Thalia is her sister. Daughter of Fredrick Chase and later Niaomi Chase when her dad remarried, she is the daughter of the leadership goddess. So her powers include enhanced smarts and logic, excelling in the field of academics (with a favourite for architecture, but that's formed by herself, really). She also has light powers and is able to know every single law. All of them, depending on her location (I'm struggling to think of any other leadership ones, if u have any help a sister out?!).

She ran away at age 7, meeting her sister thalia Grace and the child of Jupiter Luke Casteallen (idk HOW u even spell this man's last name). They arrived at Camp. But thalia was HATED by her mother, and vice versa. Thalia was turning annabeth against the gods before Luke even had a chance frfr. Bur annabeth learns to hate her mother, too, partly because of thalia and partly because Venus never actually saved her. But they get to Camp, and instead of thalia being turned into a tree for her insubordination, it's Luke. This is because Venus thinks that if her daughters nearly favourite person, who was also not her child (annabeth, who still had potential to be manipulated) was harmed due to thalias mistake of hating her mom, thalia was follow the gods not to let that happen again. and it does not work. She runs off after a year and often sneaks in to try and get annabeth, who is mostly a vulnerable, lonely child who is in a camp which she was already skeptical about, is left to basically fight for herself and be very much manipulated by her mom. Who does. She manages to convince annabeth that thalia was wrong, that the gods love her and if she does everything her mother says, she can be a minor god one day and be loved by everyone

And it works. After years and years of convincing, she basically grooms her own child into being the perfect godly daughter and leader of the Venus cabin. While also being mean to her half the time. :) After a while, thalai realises that she's basically never going to get her little sister back or at least the one she knew. :)

I hope this wasn't bad :)