#disembodied seeking bodied

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Halloween

REFERENCES (Banshee; Ghost; Ghoul; Goblin; Haunt; Specter; Vampire; Wraith; Origins of Halloween)

Banshee

A female spirit in Gaelic folklore whose appearance or wailing warns a family that one of them will soon die.

Banshee came from combining the Gaelic words meaning “woman of fairyland,” but any positive associations with fairies ends there.

Are female spirits that, if seen or heard wailing under the windows of a house, foretell of a death in the family that lives there.

Today, the word is most frequently heard in the idiom “scream like a banshee” or “wail like a banshee,” which shows the power of myth and the imaginative power of language, since probably no one has actually heard one.

Ghost

Most common meaning today is “a disembodied soul” or “the soul or specter of a deceased person”, which came next, a meaning based on the ancient folkloric notion that the spirit is separable from the body and can continue its existence after death. It originally meant “vital spark” or “the seat of life or intelligence,” which is still used in the phrase “give up the ghost.”

An older spelling of ghost, gast, is the root of aghast (“struck with terror, shocked”) and ghastly (“frightening”).

The German word for ghost, geist, is part of the word zeitgeist, which literally means “spirit of the time.”

Ghoul

A legendary evil being that robs graves and feeds on corpses.

Ghoul is a relatively recent English word, borrowed from Arabic in the 1700s.

Because it’s spelled with gh-, it looks vaguely like the Old English words ghost and ghastly (which share a common root in the Old English word gāst, meaning “spirit” or “ghost”).

In fact, it comes from the Arabic word ghūl, derived from the verb that means “to seize,” and originally meant “a legendary evil being held to rob graves and feed on corpses.” The word was introduced to western literature by the French translation of Arabian Nights.

Goblin

An ugly or grotesque sprite.

Usually mischievous and sometimes evil and malicious.

Haunt

To visit or inhabit as a ghost.

However, this is not the original sense of the word.

For centuries, it had a perfectly unfrightening set of meanings: “to visit often” and “to continually seek the company of.”

In the 1500s, it began to mean “to have a disquieting or harmful effect on,” as in “that problem may come back to haunt you.” The meaning here is simply the lingering presence of the problem, not the possibly scary nature of the problem itself; it is applied to thoughts, memories, and emotions.

The noun haunt retains this fright-neutral definition, “a place that you go to often,” as in “one of my favorite old haunts.”

A lingering idea, memory, or feeling may have led to the ghostly meaning of haunt, or one by a disembodied or imaginary spirit.

Specter

A visible disembodied spirit.

Specter originally meant “a visible disembodied spirit” in English—a good synonym for ghost. But, unlike ghost, the notion of being visible is paramount in specter, which came to English from the French word spectre, which developed directly from the Latin word spectrum, meaning “appearance” or “specter,” itself based on the verb specere, meaning “to look.”

Specere is also the root of many English words that have to do with appearance: aspect, conspicuous, inspect, perspective, and spectacle.

Vampire

The reanimated body of a dead person believed to come from the grave at night and suck the blood of persons asleep.

Legends of bloodsucking creatures go back to Ancient Greece, with harrowing tales of them rising from burial places at night to drink peoples’ blood before hiding from dawn’s daylight. These stories were popular in eastern Europe.

Originally comes from the Serbian word vampir, which then passed from German to French, coming to English in the 1700s.

The extended senses of vampire, “one who lives by preying on others” and a synonym of vampire bat, were both in use within a few decades.

Wraith

The exact likeness of a living person seen usually just before death as an apparition. The distinguishing quality of a wraith, compared with other ghosts, is its specificity.

Originally, it referred to either the exact likeness of a living person seen as an apparition just before that person’s death as a kind of spectral premonition of bad news, or a visible apparition of a dead person.

When referring to a living person, it’s a synonym of doppelgänger, or the “spirit double” of a living person (as opposed to a ghost, which refers to the spirit of a dead person). Doppelgänger is now frequently used in a broader sense to mean simply “someone who looks like someone else.”

When referring to a dead person, wraith is a synonym of revenant, which originally referred to a ghost of a particular person and subsequently has been used for a person who returns after a long absence.

ORIGINS OF HALLOWEEN

The traditions of Halloween have their origins in Samhain, a festival celebrated by the Celts of ancient Britain and Ireland.

Samhain marked the end of summer and the onset of winter, and occurred on a date that corresponds to our November 1st.

It was believed that during the Samhain festival, the world of the gods was visible to humans, and the gods took advantage of this fact by playing tricks on their mortal worshippers. Those worshippers in turn responded with bonfires on hilltops and sometimes masks and other varied disguises to keep ghosts from being able to recognize them. Things tended to get spooky and dangerous around Samhain, with bloody sacrifices and supernatural phenomena abounding.

Samhain chugged along for centuries, until Christianity poked its nose in: in the 8th century CE, All Saints' Day, a somewhat new Christian holiday, got moved from May 13th to November 1st.

The evening before All Saints' Day became a holy—that is, a hallowed—eve. Within a few centuries, Samhain and the eve of All Saints' Day had been merged into a single holiday. Protestants of the Reformation and all that came after largely rejected the whole thing, but the holiday persisted among some communities.

19th-century immigrants to the U.S., including many from Ireland, brought their Halloween customs with them and deserve no small amount of credit for the holiday as it's celebrated in the U.S. today.

More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Word List: October

[theguyinthemathexamples]

Sunday meeting the Creation while (unknowingly) ascending to Aeonhood !!

A lil' something for y'all after my longlonglonglonggggggg disappearance :3

If the sinners couldn't be rid of by Their divine hand, then he shall do it himself. But his— her God pertains the notion of sparing the evil and giving them a chance to seek solace in THEIR thousand voices, or the ones of the Primaxus Deus.

Sunday wishes to see her vision one last time, to see with his own eyes if these sinners could truly turn back to the right path. He's done this before countless times before— but he wants to put this belief of hers to yet another run. Was it to reminisce on lost time, or run from his own sacred beliefs?

And yet still, he doesn't see nor hear the sounds of the battle, neither could he speak in this newfound space; all he can see was this shining path, a separating rift from the boundless luminescent seas it tore through.

He takes a cautious step forward and all of the nearby stars were already flocking towards his shoes with reverence, whispering things of the comprehensable mortal plane to the maddening knowledge of the divine. Some know of his current predicament, while some predict how his future would be another footnote in history, success or otherwise.

Time seems to slow here, atleast that was how Sunday saw it. His path was solid yet it made ripples with each step he took but, it never splashed water. He had half a mind to keep walking.

The stars do not have eyes— as if it would ever, yet he still feels as if he was being stalked, being followed by a presence. He wants to ask, yell out who it was, but his mouth was sealed shut. With no other choice does he continue walking. Faint cackles, and the sound of distorted heavenly choir whispers could be heard in the distance.

At last he sees something in the distance other than endless starry seas: a large, disembodied arm. Well, it looks that way anyways. The rest of the body looks to be shrouded in darkness.

Sunday got closer and closer to this arm when a sun suddenly rose up just ahead of his path. He can't help but feel familiar with this sun. The ones beside his feet tell him it's the one in his solar system of origin. But... he's seen and looked at countless stars upon the starry skies, how can he remember something that glowed hot and bright on the days when he was trying to keep survival closer with his sister?

The smaller beads of light beneath his legs gently pushed him towards the right direction, humming familiar tunes along the way.

Yet again, it was another long walk to his new destination. Sunday doesn't feel tired, if at all from walking all this way when he'd usually need a break by now. The stars provided decent entertainment along the way, luckily enough.

He carefully approaches this large hand, now as big as one of the walls in the Dewlight Pavilion. Memories of his death resurfaces in his mind. A small curse is stifled under his breath. No matter, he'll get rid of the concept of death in his promised dreamscape soon enough.

And just as he begins to tentatively sit on the beckoning heat of the hand, exactly as the stars excitedly encouraged him so, the space shook harshly and he falls. Sunday looks around in a panicked apprehension, which the beads of stars expressed as much if not more.

The large hand brushes along his figure in an almost comforting way, till it disappears after a few swipes. The stars dissipate as well in fear, leaving him in the neverending darkness.

He clutched his chest, almost in agony, a baffled look on his face when he tried to search for the warmth of the hand. Sunday hadn't asked them his question yet.

"So... Why does life slumber?..." He asks to the dark, not expecting answers. Machine parts clammer along his movements.

"Because... someday..."

"We will wake up from our dreams!"

And so does he, too wake up from his own slumber. And along with his shattered will, the stage beneath him crumbled and fell.

Sunday lets himself drop untowards the Golden Hour, reaching out to the world where he promised an impossible pledge to countless souls, unable to fly back where he wished due to his clipped wings.

The night is still... too short...

Arms cradle his figure and bringing it to a tight hug. This action brought him out of his stupor, embracing his sister in reflex.

He dipped his head low, imminent defeat having already been accepted. Yet again do memories flash his mind, but they were only about his 'dream.' What did it all mean?

"Brother..."

"The dream... is over."

[porcelaininkpot]

I viscerally need a series of ghost stories narrated by the redacted cast

Just imagine the kinds of stories shifters have, passed down through their packs. Tales of ghoulish wolves made of rickety sticks and stones, with eerie, ghostly pale bodies, wolves that hunt by the light of the blood moon, looking for their worldly counterparts so that sticks may become bone and stones claws, so that they may be one with the living, passing on the curse of undeath to whatever poor shifter stumbled across them by ruby moonlight.

Or the ancient ghost tales preserved in vampire culture, vampires that miraculously survived after being beheaded, and travel as disembodied heads trancing humans for food and transport, or vampires that walked through daylight and lived to tell the tale, and now hold sunlight in their fangs, that lurk in the shadows and can turn any other vampire to ash with just a bite

Or how elementals may have stories of an ancient witch that can possess bodies by controlling a person's blood, using them for devious rituals till their souls leave their bodies and they can become vessels for all kinds of otherworldly entities, entities that seek to slowly control and dominate the world through the elements it's humans harness

The possibilities are endless and I need Vincent and Milo and Damien to whisper midnight ghost stories to us like now

[serpentface]

A witch of the Naig-Troibadnnas (Yellowtail river valley) people, resting and enjoying a smoke of the mild stimulant brolge leaf on a hot summer day.

Witches are a small part of the everyday cultural framework among the Hill Tribes. They are individuals considered born possessed by a virgranul, a type of disembodied wild spirit that seeks to inhabit human flesh, either entering the body at the moment of conception, or entering the body at the moment of death. The latter is a dire circumstance that requires significant intercession to fix (the dead body may wander off without rites, leaving the person's soul trapped and liable to warp into the dangerous fuldaigh spirit), while the former circumstance is what causes a person to be born a witch.

In the case of those afflicted in the womb, possession by virgranul is lifelong, and is both a curse and blessing- it divides and isolates them from the human world and causes other wild spirits (both benevolent and malicious) to be perpetually drawn to them, but also allows for them to be attuned to the subtleties of spirits, and able to work magic and divination that the everyday person is incapable of.

Witches are usually recognized from a young age due to marked behavioral differences or atypical development, though are sometimes simply identified as such without obvious behavioral indications, by other witches having read signs of their coming. Their occurrence is not frequent, usually once in a generation for any given tribe. An identified witch child will be taken from their family (the timing varies by tradition, though is usually upon puberty) and into mentorship by an established witch, who will impart their accumulated knowledge and skill and teach the child how to best harness their condition.

One can be a witch regardless of their gender, with the only commonality being that they must remain unmarried, and are expected to never have children (deemed too dangerous, unavoidably placing a child in the path of potentially harmful wild spirits). With no spouses or children to support them in holding a household and herds, witches are instead supported by their communities as means of payment for their services. They typically live in semi-isolation in the boundaries between the village and wilderness (a reflection of their own division between the world of people and of wild spirits, and a protective measure for their communities), and will periodically be brought needed supplies. They do not commonly enter villages unless summoned, or for the sake of certain holidays and festivals, and live most of their lives in seclusion aside from any given mentee (who will in turn care for their mentor in old age).

The societal function of witches is as intermediaries between people and their ancestors, people and wild spirits, and as especially skilled performers of practical magic (most commonly weaving protective spells into worn items, such as clothing or the nose rings of cattle). Forms of practical magic and intercession with ancestors and spirits are performed by all members of society, but a witch has intimate, detailed knowledge of such things and tremendous natural skill that makes them an invaluable asset.

Witches personally discern the identities of the spirits living in any given area and will attempt to familiarize themselves with them, learning in depth about their ways, giving warnings of where the particularly dangerous (or mischievous) ones are, and giving recommendations on which will be receptive to offerings in return for boons. When a village needs to commune with a particularly powerful or dangerous spirit (such as a wildfolk witch), they will commonly send their own witch as an intermediary.

They are ascribed have the ability to directly summon ancestors (who otherwise come and go of their own volition, and rarely ever deign to come at the call of one who is not their descendant). This is of great use when a person finds themselves punished by their ancestors with no certainty as to why, or cases where an orphaned child's ancestry must be identified to gain them proper spiritual support.

They are also regarded as having innate qualities of divination, particularly in reading birdsign (itself generally acknowledged as communication from ancestors, and occasionally gods). The average person has basic knowledge in reading omens of birds and a learned repertoire of key signs, but a witch can divine the messages of birdsign in immense and specific detail, through a vast knowledge system of the meanings of the species, sex, flight direction, gaze, prey, number, and songs of birds. It is common for people to approach a witch for a reading of the skies before undertaking a significant venture or life change, in order to receive detailed and specific advice.

Witches are always literate (and will be taught to read and write by their mentor if they cannot already) and will record their repositories of knowledge in tomes. These are items of absolute secrecy and taboo for a non-witch to touch (the consequences can be severe, you really don't want a witch ancestor-spirit upset with you). Witches can often become competitive about the knowledge stored in these tomes and are known to organize heists amongst themselves in order to gain access to each other's secrets. Most people avoid getting themselves entangled into the complicated rivalries of witches, as these competitions can get ugly and result in many a petty curse if one gains a witch's ire.

---

The only visual cue distinguishing this man as a witch is the tattoos on his forearms, otherwise usually regarded as inappropriate to mark in the contemporary Hill Tribes cultural sphere (the face, upper arms, and sternum is reserved for important clan/tribe/ancestry identification, hands and forearms are reserved for witches, and the rest of the body is appropriate for decoration). These unique forearm tattoos indicate his ancestral connection with a lineage of witches, not blood ancestry but rather the generations of mentors that have produced him. The lines extending down to his fingers are the newest, indicating that he has fully mentored another witch and gained a place in this ancestral line.

The rest of the tattoos here are tribe and blood ancestry identifiers (on the face and upper arms respectively, worn by all members of society), and purely decorative imagery (visible here is a deer, horse, eagle, and a dragon). He also has a snake on his forearm, applied decades ago in an act of youthful rebellion, which has since gotten in the way of critical open skin space.

His clothing is otherwise typical wear for warm seasonal conditions- a man's wool shawl and woven belt, short trousers, decorative deer hide (distinct to the Naig-Troibadnnas), and sandals (these are imported Wardi style sandals, which have been modified with preferred elevated heels). The horn shaped torc on his forearm identifies him as an esteemed elder.

[mountainrusing]

problems

962 words, jegulus, platonic prongsfoot, platonic moonchaser, wolfstar

He was not bad. He was not engaging in incest. What the fuck, James? Shit, he’d just sworn. And again. In his head. It was fine. It was not fine. He was in love with his brother’s brother. Shit, he shouldn’t say it like that.

James was in love with his best friend’s brother.

Except he thought of his best friend as a brother.

So was he now thinking incestual thoughts? And how to stop? And on a scale of rottenness, how bad was he? Should he get thrown out for this? Put in jail? Someone needed to absolve him of this crime. It didn’t feel like a crime.

That’s the rottenness speaking!

He shouldn’t be in love with the brother of the person whom he thought of as a brother.

But he didn’t think of Regulus as a brother— Shut up, James. Just accept that you’re awful. He didn’t want to. He argued with the voice in his head – he was going insane – he refuted it, I’m not awful, but it rolled its eyes at him, the disembodied voice now had disembodied eyes, and James should be send to a psychiatric ward to be fixed for his mental problem of having a crush on his brother’s brother— He was normal. He really was. He just needed to keep it to himself and bottle it up and hopefully he wouldn’t do anything illegal.

Maybe seeking help was a good idea. He’d say, Hey, McGonagall, sign me up for therapy? You see, I have a problem—

You have many problems—

Shut up, voice, anyway, I have this problem where I’m crushing on my brother’s brother, please fix me—

You can’t be fixed.

James really hated his brain. If it weren’t for his brain, he wouldn’t be here finding Regulus attractive, because he wouldn’t have the thoughts to do so. He would be empty and calm and peaceful, the ultimate goal of meditation, and that was a good idea, he should meditate, breathe in deeply, cleanse his mind of all this dirt, and stop thinking about the dirt!

He was meditating.

He had problems, and he would pretend they didn’t exist. That’s not meditation, James.

The voice was supposed to go away when he cleared his thoughts.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to fill his brain with only air and nothing else. He was lighter than a cloud, nothing weighed him down, he’d float away and be forever untied from the Earth and all his troubles. Far away in space, where time would lose all meaning, and he would simply be particles of dust in a nebula. Imagine being a nebula. A lovely haze of starry explosion.

Regulus was a star.

James took in another deep breath, trying to suffocate his thoughts with the expansion of his lungs, he’d make room for nothing else except air and air and air and he couldn’t breathe—

“James!” Remus’s voice cut through to him, with a hand on his back, thumping it once, before he returned to the room and opened his eyes.

He latched onto Remus, flickering over Remus’s expression, and he knew exactly how to get rid of the concern written across it. All he had to do was make Remus hate him, so he blurted, “I’m in love with my brother’s brother.”

Remus’s eyes widened slightly, before he coughed, choking on a laugh, “Don’t say it like that, James, or people will get the wrong idea.”

Wildly, James gesticulated, “There is no right idea!”

“James,” Remus calmly caught James’s arms before they swung off his body. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t—”

“Regulus isn’t your brother,” Remus stared at him seriously. “You’re doing nothing wrong.”

“But—”

“You’re allowed to think of him in a romantic way. He’s not related to you, he’s a person you met on the journey of your life, and it’s okay for you to fall in love with him. Sirius is another person you met on the journey of your life, and you’re allowed to think of him in any way that you want to as well, and you chose to think of him as a brother. That doesn’t mean that all the random strangers in his family are also yours.”

James collapsed into Remus’s arms, head on his shoulder, mumbling into his neck, “I’m being stupid, right?”

He could imagine Remus’s smirk as he replied, “Nah. You’re never stupid.”

James scoffed, still clinging to Remus as he sought out more advice. “How should I tell Sirius?”

“Tell me what?” The door slammed shut as Sirius entered the room. He paused, looked at James and Remus, and pointed between them incredulously, “Are you telling me that you’re dating?!”

Laughing, James slipped out of Remus’s hug to sling an arm around his shoulder, “Nah, Remus is a brother to me.”

Sirius’s eyes widened, “What?! No, I’m not in love with my brother’s brother!”

Aw, he and Sirius were so similar. James burst out laughing at how stupid his honorary brother was.

With a deadpan expression, Remus added to Sirius’s distress, “I’m also younger than you.”

Dramatically, Sirius protested, “I’m not a pedophile!”

Jumping to his feet, James realised, “Regulus is younger than me! I’m an awful human being—”

“You’re a pedophile for Regulus?!” Sirius turned on him. He waved a condemning finger, “And you’re incestual!”

“You’re incestual!” James contested.

“Neither of you are incestual nor pedophiles,” Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. He continued with a heavy sigh, “James, Regulus is in love with you too.”

Before Sirius could question this onslaught of upsetting revelations (apparently there was reciprocated romantic love between his brother and honorary brother), Remus mumbled as an afterthought, “And Sirius… I’m in love with you too.”

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (8)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For all the parts to this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 7

- Next part: 9

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The night is amassed with shadows, the kind that seem to creep from every corner, swallowing the light, until only a faint glimmer of moonlight filters through the cracks in the curtains. The air in your chamber is heavy, stifling, clinging to your skin like a second layer, and you toss restlessly in your bed, caught between sleep and wakefulness. The events of the day have left a mark deeper than any wound, a scar on your very soul, and even in sleep, you find no escape from them.

The dream begins innocuously enough—an echo of familiar places and faces. The Red Keep looms before you, its towers stretching into a sky darkened with storm clouds. You walk through its halls, but something is wrong. The walls seem to shift, to warp around you as if the castle itself were alive, breathing, watching. You pass a mirror, and in it, you see yourself, but your reflection's eyes are not your own—they are molten gold, like the eyes of the dragon that hatched from your blood.

Then the voices begin, disembodied whispers that slither into your mind like vipers.

"Make the tallow from the fat of a hangman."

You spin around, searching for the source, but the corridor is empty, save for the flickering shadows that dance along the walls. Your heart pounds, a drumbeat of fear, as the whispers grow louder, more insistent.

"Sealed with the kiss of swine."

The words curl around you, filling your ears, your head, until they are all you can hear. They are followed by images—horrifying, grotesque images that sear themselves into your mind. You see a man, faceless and featureless, his body twisting and contorting as if consumed by fire, and beside him, a grotesque beast with the head of a pig and the wings of a dragon.

"Whishes and words sprout from the same seed."

The final whisper is the most haunting, carrying with it a truth you cannot yet comprehend. You feel a pull, a deep, visceral pull, towards something—or someone—just beyond your reach. The air around you crackles with heat, with the scent of burning flesh, and you realize with a start that you are no longer in the Red Keep but in the throne room. The Iron Throne looms before you, and at its base lies the dragon, your dragon, with its golden eyes fixed on you. There is a chain around its neck, heavy and cruel, and as you step closer, you see that it is not just a chain—it is a part of you, binding you to the beast, to the throne, to your father’s madness.

You try to scream, to pull away, but the chain tightens, digging into your flesh, and the dragon roars, a sound that shakes the very foundations of the dream. 

With a gasp, you wake, bolting upright in your bed. Your heart races, pounding against your ribcage as if it might burst free at any moment. Your skin is slick with sweat, your hands trembling as they clutch the sheets. It takes a moment for the familiar surroundings of your chamber to come into focus, for reality to assert itself over the lingering terror of the dream.

But the fear does not dissipate; it clings to you, wrapping around your bones like a cold, suffocating shroud. You cannot shake the feeling that the dream was not just a product of your mind, but something more—a premonition, a warning. You fear that you are now bound to your father’s madness in ways you cannot yet understand.

The door to your chamber creaks open, and you instinctively reach for the dagger hidden beneath your pillow. But it is only Arthur, his face drawn with concern as he steps into the room, the soft glow of a candle casting shadows across his features. 

"Y/N," he says softly, his voice a balm to your frayed nerves. He crosses the room in a few long strides and kneels by your bedside, reaching out to brush a strand of damp hair from your face. "You cried out in your sleep. What happened?"

You stare at him, struggling to find the words. How can you explain the horrors you witnessed in your dream? How can you tell him of the chain that binds you, of the dragon’s eyes that haunt you?

"It was just a dream," you say finally, though the words feel hollow, a poor attempt to convince yourself more than him. "But it felt… so real."

Arthur’s hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. There is something in his eyes, a sadness, a fear that mirrors your own. He knows the weight you carry, the burden of your bloodline, and it tears at him as much as it does you.

"You are stronger than any dream, Y/N," he says, his voice firm yet gentle. "Whatever darkness your father has unleashed, it will not claim you. I won’t let it."

His words should comfort you, but the fear lingers, gnawing at the edges of your mind. You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, drawing strength from the warmth of his hand, the steady beat of his heart. But even as he holds you, a part of you cannot shake the feeling that something has changed, that the dragon now bound in chains is not the only one tethered to the Iron Throne.

"And the dragon?" you whisper, your voice barely audible. "What of him?"

Arthur hesitates, and in that moment, you see the truth in his eyes. He knows as well as you do that the dragon is not just a creature born of fire and blood, but something more—something that ties you inexorably to your father’s will.

"He is strong," Arthur replies after a moment, his voice laced with the same uncertainty that plagues your own thoughts. "But he is yours, Y/N, not your father’s. Remember that."

You nod, though doubt still lingers in your heart. You can feel the pull of the dragon, the bond forged in blood, and you wonder if it is a bond you will ever truly break.

Arthur pulls you close then, wrapping his arms around you as if he could shield you from the darkness that stands on the horizon. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and for a moment, you allow yourself to believe that he might be right, that you might be able to defy the fate that seems to be tightening its grip around you.

But deep down, you know that the dragon has awakened something within you, something that cannot be so easily silenced. And as you drift back to sleep in Arthur’s arms, you can’t help but wonder if that something is the same madness that has consumed your father—or if it is something far, far worse.

The echo of Rhaegar’s footsteps resonates through the darkened corridors of the Red Keep, each step a reminder of the burden weighing heavily on his shoulders. The scent of wildfire still lingers faintly in the air, mingling with the stale, musty odor that always seemed to cling to the throne room and its cursed Iron Throne. Rhaegar pauses before the door, taking a moment to steady his breath, knowing full well the volatility that could await him on the other side.

The door creaks open, revealing King Aerys II sitting at a large wooden table, papers strewn about, and a goblet of wine in his hand. His hair, once silver like the moon, now hangs in greasy strands, framing a face etched with madness but, at this moment, unusually calm. His eyes, however, still gleam with the dangerous fire that had consumed him over the years, a fire that now burned brighter with the hatching of the dragon.

"Father," Rhaegar begins, his voice soft, measured. He steps into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Aerys does not immediately acknowledge him, his gaze fixed on the flames crackling in the hearth. Rhaegar can feel the tension in the air, the precarious balance of his father’s mind. He must tread carefully.

"Rhaegar, my son," Aerys finally speaks, his voice surprisingly even. "Have you come to see our child? My dragon... our creation?" The king's voice carries an unsettling blend of pride and possessiveness, his eyes shifting to meet Rhaegar's with an intensity that makes his son’s heart tighten.

Rhaegar inclines his head slightly. "I have, Father. The dragon is a magnificent creature, a symbol of House Targaryen’s strength, of our blood." He chooses his words carefully, keeping his tone respectful. "But it is not just the dragon that concerns me."

Aerys narrows his eyes, suspicion flickering across his features. "What concerns you, my son? The dragon is ours by right. It will be the weapon that ensures our enemies bow before us."

Rhaegar takes a breath, steadying himself. "It is Y/N that concerns me, Father," he says, his voice steady but laced with concern. "She is still weak from the ritual, and Pycelle says her wounds will take time to heal. She needs rest, care. We cannot risk her health, not when she is so important to us… to you."

Aerys’s gaze sharpens at the mention of you. "She is important, yes. More important than any of them realize," he murmurs, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "She brought forth the dragon. She is its mother, its rightful queen. No harm must come to her, do you hear me?"

Rhaegar nods, carefully concealing his relief that, for now, Aerys seems focused on your well-being. "Of course, Father. No harm will come to her, I swear it. But she needs time away from the chaos of the court, away from prying eyes and those who might seek to use her or the dragon for their own ends."

Aerys frowns, suspicion clouding his features once more. "What are you suggesting, Rhaegar? That she be hidden away? That she be kept from me?"

"No, Father," Rhaegar says quickly. "I would never suggest such a thing. Only that she be allowed to recover in peace. Perhaps at Dragonstone, where she can be close to her dragon but away from the eyes of those who might seek to control her... or it."

The mention of Dragonstone seems to catch Aerys’s interest, and Rhaegar seizes the opportunity. "Dragonstone is a place of power, a place where our ancestors ruled and raised their dragons. It would be fitting for Y/N to be there, with the dragon, away from the prying eyes of the court. There, she can grow stronger, and the dragon can be raised in the safety and secrecy it deserves."

Aerys considers this for a long moment, his eyes flickering with the flames of the hearth. "Dragonstone," he muses, the word rolling off his tongue as if tasting its possibilities. "Yes… yes, it is a place of power. She will be safe there. But I must see the dragon, must know that it is truly ours."

Rhaegar bows his head. "Of course, Father. The dragon will be brought to you, but it must be done carefully, slowly. It is still young, still growing. It needs time, as does Y/N."

Aerys nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer. "Yes, yes, you are right, my son. But remember this, Rhaegar," he says, his voice suddenly cold, his eyes locking onto his son's with a ferocity that makes Rhaegar’s blood run cold. "She is mine. The dragon is mine. They are my legacy. Do not forget that."

Rhaegar swallows, his throat dry. "I will not forget, Father."

Aerys's gaze lingers on him for a moment longer before he turns his attention back to the fire, dismissing Rhaegar with a wave of his hand. "Go now. Ensure that my dragon is well cared for. And see to it that Y/N is taken to Dragonstone, where she will be safe... and where she will remember her place."

Rhaegar bows low, retreating from the room with a sense of urgency. Once outside, he allows himself a breath of relief, though the weight of his father's obsession with you and the dragon still presses heavily on his chest. He must speak with Arthur, ensure that you are protected, hidden away from the madness that now grips Aerys.

As he walks back through the dimly lit corridors, his mind is consumed with thoughts of you—of your safety, of the secret you share with Ser Arthur Dayne. Rhaegar knows he must act swiftly, for the shadow of his father’s madness is long and ever-reaching, and it is only a matter of time before it threatens to engulf you both.

The salty breeze tugs at your hair as you stand on the edge of the harbor, the morning sun glinting off the choppy waters of Blackwater Bay. The sight of the ship bobbing gently at anchor fills you with a sense of unease, the iron cage being carefully loaded onto its deck a pogient reminder of the strange and terrible events that have led you here. Inside the cage, your dragon, the one born of death, lets out a low, restless growl. His golden eyes, now a little larger, still burning with the same fierce intelligence that haunts your dreams. You feel a strange pull in your chest, as though something within you is tethered to the creature, a bond that tightens with every beat of your heart.

Your hand instinctively rises to your chest, pressing against the spot where you can feel the faintest echo of warmth, as if your own blood still burns with the wildfire that hatched the dragon. The world around you seems distant, your focus narrowing to the creature in the cage, to the strange connection you share. A soft, persistent whisper at the back of your mind urges you to draw closer, to reach out and touch the iron bars that keep him confined, but the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you back to reality.

"Y/N," Rhaegar’s voice is gentle but firm, grounding you. He appears beside you, his presence solid and reassuring amidst the swirling chaos of your thoughts. His arm slips around your shoulders, pulling you into a comforting embrace. The warmth of his touch dispels the strange pull you felt toward the dragon, anchoring you firmly in the present.

"You will be safe at Dragonstone," Rhaegar murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. "I wish I could go with you, but I will see you again soon. I promise." He pulls back slightly, his violet eyes searching yours for any sign of distress. "And I will make sure our father remains... distracted for as long as possible."

You nod, though words seem to fail you in the face of all that has happened. The sight of the dragon, your dragon, being locked away, the very creature that should have been a symbol of your family's strength, instead treated as a dangerous secret to be hidden away—it all weighs heavily on your mind.

Before you can voice your concerns, another presence joins you. Queen Rhaella, your mother, approaches, her face pale but composed, as if she has steeled herself for what is to come. Her gaze is tender as she looks at you, though it is clouded with the same sorrow that has shadowed her for years. "Y/N, Rhaegar," she says softly, her voice carrying the weight of a mother’s love and the pain of long-endured suffering.

"Mother," Rhaegar greets her with a bow of his head, stepping back to allow her to stand beside you.

Rhaella’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently. "Aerys has allowed me to accompany you to Dragonstone," she says, her voice tinged with both relief and resignation. "He... he sees no use for me here any longer."

The words hang in the air, a bitter reminder of how far your father has fallen, how little regard he holds for those who were once dearest to him. Rhaella’s gaze flickers to the dragon in its cage, a flash of fear and sadness passing over her features before she turns back to Rhaegar. "Take care of yourself, my son," she says, her voice wavering slightly. "You carry the hopes of our house."

Rhaegar nods, his expression softening. "And you carry its future," he replies, his gaze lingering on you. "This is likely temporary, as you well know. Father will not be content to let you remain away from him for long. And when the time comes... the small council's debate may soon become more than mere words. Our marriage may no longer be just a possibility, Y/N."

Your heart tightens at his words. The idea of marrying Rhaegar has always been one tangled with duty, obligation, and the preservation of your house. Yet, there is another side to this—a secret part of you that yearns for someone else, for Ser Arthur Dayne, whose presence you can feel even now, standing at a respectful distance near the Queen’s retinue.

Your gaze drifts to where Ser Arthur waits, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his helm, though his eyes—those familiar, intense eyes—never leave you. Beside him, Ser Lewyn Martell stands ready, prepared to accompany you and your mother to Dragonstone. The two of them, Arthur especially, have been your protectors in more ways than one, and you feel a sense of calm knowing they will be by your side during this exile.

But before you can take a step toward them, a sudden shift in the atmosphere halts you. The harbor grows quiet, the bustling activity of sailors and dockworkers falling away as Aerys, your father, arrives with the Kingsguard and his entourage. The sight of him makes your blood run cold, the sharp contrast between the man he once was and the mad king he has become all too clear in the daylight.

Aerys’s presence is unsettling, a mix of unpredictability and danger that makes everyone around him tense, as though they are all walking on the edge of a knife. You straighten your posture, reminding yourself not to show any sign of weakness, any sign that might provoke him into changing his mind about letting you go.

Your mother, however, is less successful in hiding her fear. As Aerys approaches, she takes a small step back, her eyes lowering to the ground, her entire demeanor shrinking as though trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. You sense her anxiety, feel it in the way her hand trembles in yours before she quickly releases her grip, folding her hands in front of her as she stares at the ground.

"Y/N, you are my daughter, my blood. The mother of my dragon.” Aerys croons, his voice unexpectedly warm, though there is a manic edge to it that makes your skin crawl. He steps closer, his eyes—once sharp and clear—now filled with the flames of his own madness. Without warning, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, the touch of his lips cold and unsettling.

As soon as his lips make contact, a voice—a dark, twisted whisper—echoes in your mind, repeating the words from the nightmare that has plagued you ever since the ritual: "Sealed with the kiss of swine."

The words send a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, the world seems to tilt, the harbor, the ship, the dragon, all fading into the background as the voice reverberates through your thoughts. But you force yourself to remain still, to show no sign of the terror that grips you.

Aerys pulls back, his smile unsettling as he examines your face as though searching for something only he can see. "Remember, my child, the dragon is ours—yours and mine. We are bound by fire and blood."

You manage a stiff nod, your voice catching in your throat. "Yes, Father," you reply, keeping your tone as even as possible.

Before Aerys can say anything further, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his eyes gleaming with that cold calculation that always unnerved you. "Safe travels, my lady," he says, offering you a bow that seems more like a formality than a genuine gesture of respect.

As he straightens, the voice in your mind returns, louder this time, dripping with malice: "It has two mouths to lick from."

The words almost make you recoil, but you manage to keep your composure, nodding at Tywin in acknowledgment. The tension in the air is suffocating, the weight of all that is unspoken hanging between you and everyone present. But you know this is not the time or place to question the meaning of these strange, disturbing messages. Not when so many eyes are upon you, waiting for any sign of weakness, any reason to doubt your loyalty to the crown.

Finally, with a nod from Aerys, the entourage begins to withdraw, allowing you, Rhaella, and your escorts to make your way toward the waiting ship. Rhaegar lingers for a moment longer, his gaze meeting yours, filled with a mixture of worry and determination.

"This will not be forever," he says quietly, his voice meant only for your ears. "I will do everything in my power to protect you, to bring you back safely."

You nod, though the certainty in his words does little to quell the unease that churns within you. As you turn to follow your mother and the Kingsguard toward the ship, your gaze once again finds Arthur. His presence, as always, brings a small measure of comfort, even as the weight of the future presses heavily on your shoulders.

But as you step onto the gangplank, the whisper in your mind returns once more, a final chilling reminder of the darkness that shadows your path: "Two mouths, one kiss."

You force the voice back, focusing on the solidity of the wooden planks beneath your feet, the sound of the waves against the hull of the ship. Soon, you tell yourself, you will be at Dragonstone, far from the madness of King.

The wind fills the sails of the ship as it cuts through the waves, the rhythmic rise and fall of the sea a steady backdrop to the tension that hangs in the air. The sun is dipping lower in the sky, casting the waters in a warm, golden hue, but the beauty of the scene does little to calm the storm within you. You stand on the deck, your gaze fixed on the iron cage where your dragon, your bond, waits restlessly.

The creature paces within the confines of its prison, its golden eyes flicking toward you with an almost knowing look, as if it can sense your inner turmoil, the conflict between duty and the strange, irresistible pull that has been growing ever stronger since you first laid eyes on it.

Beside you, Ser Arthur Dayne stands silently, his presence a comforting weight, a reminder that you are not alone in this. His silver armor gleams in the fading light, the sword at his side a symbol of the protection he has always offered you, even in the most dire of circumstances. Behind you, your mother, Queen Rhaella, stands with Ser Lewyn Martell and a handful of retainers, all of whom have chosen to accompany you and the queen on this journey to Dragonstone. Their expressions are a mix of concern and uncertainty, none of them quite sure what will happen next.

Arthur’s voice breaks the silence, soft but firm. "Are you sure about this, Y/N?"

You turn to him, meeting his gaze. The concern in his eyes is evident, but there is also a trust there, a belief in you that gives you strength. You nod, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. "Yes, Arthur. This is something I must do."

He studies you for a moment longer, as if searching for any sign of hesitation, but when he finds none, he nods, stepping back slightly to give you space. You take a deep breath, feeling the salt air fill your lungs, the cool breeze against your skin. The moment has come, and you know there is no turning back.

With slow, deliberate steps, you approach the iron cage. The dragon inside, still young but already formidable, stops its pacing and watches you, its golden eyes locking onto yours. The connection between you flares to life, that strange bond you share surging with intensity. You feel it in your blood, in your very soul, a pull that goes beyond words or reason.

You reach out, your fingers brushing against the cold iron bars. The dragon shifts, lowering its head slightly, as if in acknowledgment. Your heart pounds in your chest, but there is a sense of rightness in this moment, a clarity that cuts through the fear and uncertainty.

Slowly, you unlatch the cage, the metal clanging softly as you pull the door open. The dragon hesitates for just a moment, as if testing the air, before it steps out, its movements fluid and graceful. The others on the deck watch in stunned silence, the anticipation is visible as they wait to see what will happen next.

As the dragon emerges fully from the cage, it spreads its wings, shaking them out as if testing their strength. It lets out a low, rumbling growl, more a sound of satisfaction than threat, and then it turns to you, its eyes glowing with that same golden light.

You feel the bond tighten, that pull in your chest growing stronger until it is almost overwhelming. And then, suddenly, you hear it again—that voice in your mind, the one that has haunted you ever since the ritual, the one that whispered dark and terrible things. But this time, the voice is different. It is clearer, more certain, and it speaks a single word: Terrax.

The name echoes in your mind, filling you with a strange sense of completion, as if something that was always meant to be has finally fallen into place. You whisper the name aloud, your voice trembling slightly. "Terrax."

The dragon’s eyes flash, and you feel a surge of recognition, a deep, primal understanding that passes between you. This is his name, the name that binds him to you, the name that seals the bond.

Arthur steps forward cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though his posture is more protective than threatening. "What did you say?"

"Terrax," you repeat, your voice stronger now. "That is his name."

Arthur’s gaze shifts to the dragon, his expression a mix of awe and concern. "You named him?"

You shake your head slightly, still trying to process the enormity of what just happened. "No... he named himself. I just... I just heard it."

Arthur’s brow furrows, but he does not question you further. He knows better than anyone how deeply intertwined your fate is with this creature, how the ritual that brought Terrax into the world also bound you to him in ways that neither of you fully understand.

Rhaella, who has been silent until now, steps closer, her eyes wide with both fear and wonder. "Y/N... what have you done?" she whispers, though there is no accusation in her tone, only a mother’s concern for her child.

"I’ve released him, Mother," you say, turning to face her. "I couldn’t keep him caged. He... he’s a part of me."

Rhaella’s expression softens, and she reaches out to touch your cheek, her hand trembling slightly. "You are so much like your father, in ways that both terrify and amaze me," she murmurs. "But you must be careful, Y/N. There are forces at work here that we do not fully understand."

"I know," you reply, your voice quiet but firm. "But I can’t ignore this. Terrax is mine, and I am his."

Ser Lewyn, who has been watching with wary eyes, steps forward, his voice calm but laced with concern. "Your Grace, if the dragon is to remain free, we must ensure he is properly guarded. Dragonstone is a place of power, but it is not without its dangers."

"Terrax will not be caged again," you say, your tone leaving no room for argument. "But he will not harm anyone unless provoked. I feel it... he knows who his enemies are."

Arthur exchanges a glance with Ser Lewyn, and then he nods. "We will keep him safe, Y/N. And we will keep you safe, too."

The tension eases slightly at his words, and you offer him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Arthur."

As the ship sails on toward Dragonstone, the sun sinking lower on the horizon, you stand beside Terrax who is perched on taffrail, your hand resting on his small, scaled flank. The bond between you is stronger than ever, a living connection that pulses with the rhythm of the sea and the beat of your heart.

You are no longer just a princess of House Targaryen. You are the mother of a dragon, and your fate is now entwined with his, bound together by the ancient forces of old Valyria.

The streets of King’s Landing are alive with the hum of daily life, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread mingling with the less pleasant odors of the bustling city. The setting sun casts long shadows across the cobblestones, painting the world in shades of gold and orange. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen walks among his people, his presence alone enough to draw hushed whispers and admiring glances from the smallfolk. His silver hair catches the light, making him appear almost otherworldly, a living embodiment of the storied Valyrian bloodline.

Though he often brings his harp on such walks, today it remains in the Red Keep, for Rhaegar’s mind is heavy with thoughts too dark and tangled to be soothed by music. At his side, Ser Barristan Selmy, the most loyal of his Kingsguard, walks with a steady, measured pace, his watchful eyes scanning the crowd. Even in the heart of the city, danger is never far, and Barristan’s duty is to ensure that no harm befalls the prince.

As they move through the narrow streets, Rhaegar can hear the murmur of conversation, snatches of talk that filter through the air like the wind. The people adore him, even now, when the shadow of his father’s madness looms large over the realm. They speak of his kindness, his wisdom, and, more recently, his possible marriage to you, his sister. The idea of such a union has stirred a mix of hope and curiosity among the smallfolk, who see it as holding true to the old ways, a reaffirmation of House Targaryen’s ancient customs.

Rhaegar’s thoughts turn to you, the sister he has sworn to protect. He pictures your face, the strength you’ve shown despite everything, and the bond you now share with the dragon. One that ties you both to the darkest aspects of your family’s legacy. He remembers Varys’s words, spoken in the shadows of the Red Keep: “If the nature of her relationship with Ser Arthur becomes known, it will not just be Aerys’s wrath you need fear, but the whispers of treason, the seeds of rebellion. Even the gods cannot save her from the court’s judgment if this becomes public knowledge.”

A chill runs through him at the thought. He knows Varys speaks the truth; the court is a nest of vipers, and the truth of your relationship with Ser Arthur would be more than enough to destroy you—and by extension, him. He cannot let that happen. He will do whatever it takes to protect you, even if it means denying his own desires.

As they turn onto a broader avenue, the crowd parts slightly, and Rhaegar catches sight of a familiar figure moving toward them. Cersei Lannister, her golden hair shining like a beacon, approaches with a small entourage of Lannister guards and retainers. She is dressed in rich red and gold, the colors of her house, and she wears a smile that is both charming and calculating.

“Prince Rhaegar,” she greets him warmly, inclining her head with just the right amount of deference. “It is a pleasure to see you out among the people. They adore you, as well they should.”

Rhaegar offers a polite nod, though his expression remains distant. “Lady Cersei. It is always a pleasure to see you.”

Cersei steps closer, her green eyes gleaming with a mixture of ambition and something else—something deeper, more personal. “I heard the most delightful rumor today,” she says, her voice smooth and honeyed. “They say that you may soon be betrothed. To your sister, Y/N. How... traditional.”

Rhaegar inclines his head slightly. “Rumors often carry more weight than truth within the walls of the Red Keep,” he replies, his tone noncommittal.

Cersei’s smile widens, though there is a hint of steel beneath the sweetness. “Perhaps. But some rumors hold the promise of great alliances. The smallfolk are not the only ones interested in your future, my prince. There are many who believe a strong union could secure the stability of the realm—especially in these troubled times.”

She moves even closer, her voice lowering so that only Rhaegar can hear her next words. “House Lannister, for instance, has always stood ready to support the crown. We are the wealthiest house in Westeros, and our influence could be invaluable to your father... and to you, when the time comes.”

Rhaegar meets her gaze, recognizing the offer for what it is: a calculated move to entwine her family’s power with his own. Cersei’s ambition is as bright as her beauty, and while he understands the allure of such a match, his heart remains steadfast in its devotion. Not to her, but to you, and to the dangerous game he must now play to protect you.

“I appreciate the loyalty of House Lannister,” he replies, keeping his tone neutral. “The realm benefits greatly from your family’s wealth and influence.”

Cersei’s smile falters for just a fraction of a second, a flicker of frustration crossing her features before she recovers. “And it could benefit even more from a closer alliance,” she presses. “Together, our houses could usher in a new era of prosperity and peace. A union between us would be celebrated across the Seven Kingdoms.”

But Rhaegar’s mind is elsewhere, replaying Varys’s warnings, the weight of his responsibility to you, the unspoken truth that lies between you and Ser Arthur Dayne. He cannot allow himself to be swayed by Cersei’s words, no matter how tempting the prospect of a secure and powerful future might be.

“My duty is to the realm, Lady Cersei,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “And I must consider what is best for it. The future is uncertain, but I will always act in the interest of peace and stability.”

Cersei’s expression tightens, the charm slipping away to reveal a flash of cold determination. “Of course, my prince,” she replies, though the sweetness in her voice has turned brittle. “But remember, peace and stability often require strong alliances. And some alliances are stronger than others.”

Rhaegar nods, signaling the end of their conversation. “I thank you for your counsel, Lady Cersei. I will give it the consideration it deserves.”

She offers him one last smile, though it no longer reaches her eyes. “I hope you do, my prince. For all our sakes.”

With that, she turns and sweeps away, her Lannister entourage following in her wake like a pack of gilded lions. Rhaegar watches her go, a sense of unease settling over him. He knows Cersei will not give up easily, but his heart is resolute. His duty to the realm, to his sister, and to the truth is clear.

Ser Barristan, who has remained silent throughout the exchange, steps closer. “She is not one to be underestimated, my prince.”

“I know,” Rhaegar replies, his gaze distant. “But my path is already set. Whatever the cost, I must protect my sister, and ensure that our house survives the storm to come.”

Barristan nods, his respect for the prince evident in his eyes. “Then we shall be ready, whatever may come.”

Rhaegar resumes his walk through the city, though his thoughts remain troubled. The weight of the crown feels heavier with each passing day, and the future looms uncertain and dark. But he knows that, for now, his course is clear. He must guard the secrets that could destroy his family, even if it means walking a perilous line between duty and desire.

And above all, he must ensure that when the time comes, he is ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead—with or without the support of the lions of Lannister.

The wind whips through your hair as you stand on the balcony of your chambers, the salt air of the Narrow Sea filling your lungs. Below, the waves crash against the rocky shores of Dragonstone, their rhythm a constant reminder of the power and isolation of this ancient seat of your ancestors. The sky is overcast, but the clouds part just enough to allow slivers of sunlight to dance on the waters, turning the sea into a shimmering expanse of silver and gray.

Far in the distance, soaring above the waves, is Terrax. His black scales glisten in the weak sunlight, and his wings beat with a powerful grace that makes your heart swell with a mixture of pride and fear. No longer the size of a hound, Terrax has grown in the past months, now large enough to be mistaken for a small horse. He has claimed the fiery caverns of Dragonmont as his lair, where the heat of the volcano suits his nature. The dragon is fed a steady supply of cattle, and though he still has much growing to do, his presence has already brought a renewed sense of awe and reverence to this ancient fortress.

Yet despite the majesty of the dragon, a shadow hangs over your thoughts. The voices in your nightmares have returned, whispering dark and twisted things that leave you shaken and fearful. You clutch the stone balustrade of the balcony, trying to draw strength from the solidness of the ancient castle, but the whispers are persistent, gnawing at the edges of your sanity.

A soft sound from behind you draws your attention, and you turn to see Ser Arthur Dayne stepping out onto the balcony. His presence is a balm to your troubled mind, and for a moment, the tension in your shoulders eases. Here on Dragonstone, away from the prying eyes of the court, you can afford a small measure of relaxation in each other’s presence. But even here, you must remain vigilant; the risk of discovery is always lurking in the back of your mind.

Arthur’s expression softens as he approaches, his lilac-gray eyes searching your face. "You’ve been out here for a while," he says quietly, his voice filled with concern. "Is everything all right?"

You offer him a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "I find the sea calming," you reply, turning your gaze back to the horizon where Terrax is now a distant silhouette against the sky. "But even here, it’s hard to escape... the nightmares."

Arthur steps closer, his hand resting on the small of your back. The touch is gentle, comforting, and you lean into it, grateful for the warmth of his presence. "The nightmares are back?" he asks, his voice tinged with worry.

You nod, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. "Yes. The same voices, whispering in my ear. I... I fear I’m going mad, Arthur. Just like him." You don’t need to say your father’s name; the fear of Aerys’s madness running through your veins is a constant shadow that you’ve never been able to shake.

Arthur’s brow furrows, and he gently turns you to face him, his hands resting on your shoulders. "You are not going mad, Y/N," he says firmly, his voice grounding you in the moment. "You’ve been through more than anyone should have to endure, but you are strong. You’ve always been strong."

You shake your head, frustration and fear bubbling to the surface. "But these dreams, these voices... they feel so real. They say things that make my skin crawl, that make me doubt everything I know. Sometimes I think I can hear them even when I’m awake."

Arthur’s hands tighten slightly on your shoulders, a silent offer of support. "You are not your father, Y/N," he insists, his gaze never leaving yours. "Whatever these voices are, they do not define you. They do not control you."

"But what if they do?" you whisper, your voice trembling. "What if I’m losing myself, just like he did? What if Terrax is more than just a dragon to me? What if... what if he’s part of this madness?"

Arthur’s expression hardens, and he cups your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Listen to me," he says, his voice low and intense. "Terrax is not a curse. He is a part of you, yes, but he does not dictate who you are. You have a bond with him, a bond that is forged in something deeper than the madness of your father. It is your strength, not your weakness."

You search his eyes, finding only sincerity and the unshakable belief he has in you. The warmth of his hands against your skin anchors you, and slowly, the cold knot of fear in your chest begins to loosen.

"You’re not alone in this," Arthur continues, his voice softer now. "I’m here, and I will do whatever it takes to help you through this. We will find a way to silence these voices, to banish these nightmares."

A tear escapes the corner of your eye, and you lean into his touch, drawing comfort from the man who has been your steadfast protector, your secret love, in the midst of all the chaos. "Thank you, Arthur," you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath.

He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, a gesture that is both tender and filled with unspoken promises. "Always," he replies.

For a moment, you allow yourself to close your eyes and simply breathe, the sound of the sea and the distant cry of Terrax filling your senses. Here, with Arthur by your side, the voices seem further away, their power over you diminished. You can still feel them at the edges of your mind, but they are no longer overwhelming. 

When you finally open your eyes, the fear is still there, but it is tempered by the knowledge that you are not facing this alone. You have Arthur, you have Terrax, and you have your own strength—strength that you will need to draw on in the days and months to come.

"We should go back inside," Arthur says softly, though there is a reluctance in his voice. "It wouldn’t do for someone to see us out here alone for too long."

You nod, though you linger for a moment longer, casting one last glance at Terrax, who is now circling back toward the island, his powerful wings cutting through the air with ease. There is something majestic, something undeniable about the dragon, and despite your fears, you can’t help but feel a deep connection to him, one that transcends the nightmares and the whispers.

With a final sigh, you allow Arthur to lead you back inside, where the warmth of the castle wraps around you like a comforting embrace. The darkness of your fears may still lurk, but here, within these ancient walls, you have found something to hold onto—hope. 

[starkparade]

STONY BINGO! 2024 Round 2 Masterpost

Saying goodbye to my first and favorite bingo card! I really loved all these prompts, and I'm so glad some of them made it to my new @cap-ironman bingo card so I still have a chance to create for them. I know it doesn't look like it, but I MANAGED TO GET A BINGO!!! I needed to use two Monthly Missions for it to replace squares, but I did it ❤️

Below are the 9 MCU and 3 comics (616 and Avengers Twilight) stevetony fics that filled my squares!

S4 - "Good Morning, Beloved."

Morning Light (MCU, E, 1.8k)

Morning Sex, Mild Somnophilia Tony can’t sleep in complete darkness, and Steve can’t stay asleep once the sun comes up. Most mornings, Steve just gets out of bed quietly so he wouldn't disturb Tony's sleep, but this time he can't bring himself to.

S5 - Writing Format: Non-Linear

Go Away (Please Stay) (MCU, M, 4.6k)

Divorced Tony, Getting Back Together Steve and Tony were together for four years before breaking up due to the events of Civil War. Since then, Tony got back together with and divorced from Pepper. When seven years after their breakup Steve seeks Tony out in his lakehouse, Tony has to decide if he has it in him to give their relationship another chance.

T2 - Super Soldier Serum

Who Wants to Live Forever (MCU, T, 2.8k)

Major Character Death, Immortality It turns out that not being able to get drunk is far from being the worst and only unfortunate side effect of the serum. As the years go by, Steve notices he has not been aging. Everyone else, including Tony, has been.

T3 - Universe: MCU

all the same (or even more) (MCU, E, 3k)

Amputee Tony, Intimacy Issues The worst part of every day since using the Stones to stop Thanos cost Tony his arm is baring himself and laying his prosthetics to rest for the night before joining Steve in bed without them. That's until Steve decides to show him just how much he adores every single one of his scars.

O3 - FREE SPACE

with you (in never-ending twilight) (Avengers Twilight, E, 5.1k)

Body Dysmorphia, Intimacy Issues In the dystopian future of Avengers: Twilight, Steve found out that Tony had survived the devastating H-Day that had claimed the lives of many heroes and led to the rise of a totalitarian government twenty years ago. After Steve rescues Tony from captivity, they must face their feelings for each other. The problem is, Tony's body is now reduced to his disembodied head. How could he ever be good enough for Steve like this?

O4 - Canon: Casualties of War

The Price (616, M, 2.1k)

Major Character Death, Anger Issues Steve never meant for this to happen. He agreed to meet Tony at the Mansion, hoping the fact that Tony asked him to meet meant he reflected on his mistakes and was willing to see Steve's side. But he wasn't. He kept insisting, and kept telling Steve that he needed to stand down. And Steve— Steve saw red.

O5 - First Kiss

Romcom Fantasies (MCU, T, 4.8k)

Too Many Beds, Misunderstandings Tony runs into Steve at the airport, and when the hotel Tony booked in Washington DC abruptly cancels his reservation, Steve offers him to stay the night at his place. It sounds like something straight out of Tony's romcom fantasies starring Steve, except Tony is convinced that Steve is in love with someone else.

Y2 - After The End

Close It (MCU, T, 3k)

Major Character Death, Soulmates AU Steve had to make the hard call to prevent the nuclear blast going off inside the wormhole from reaching the island of Manhattan. As a result, Tony Stark never made it back. Steve did what he had to, and yet his guilt is eating him alive and he can't figure out just why he is so affected.

Y4 - picture prompt (after a mission)

The Fun Way (MCU, E, 1.7k)

Blow Job, Resolved Sexual Tension Tony is convinced Steve keeps harping on about him putting himself in danger on missions because he is frustrated about something else entirely. He has an idea how to relieve that frustration.

Y5 - Wrong Number

Making the Right Call (MCU, T, 6.1k)

Civil War Fix-It, Getting Back Together Tony and Steve have not spoken to each other since that fateful day in Siberia. However, when Steve gets gravely injured in a fight and thinks he is going to die, he goes to find Tony in his workshop so he can see him one last time.

November Monthly Mission: Getting Together

love (if it means you) (MCU, E, 10k)

Demisexual Steve, Abandonment Issues Steve isn't a puritan prude, thank you very much. He may not have had partnered sex, but it's not because of some moral conviction or a conscious choice of abstinence. He simply never felt like he needed a partner. Even with his serum-enhanced libido, the idea of sex never meant much to him before he's fallen in love. With Tony, however, it does. Even if Tony doesn't think he's the right partner for Steve.

January Monthly Mission: Intimacy Issues

My Home in Your Time (616, E, 15k)

Falling in Love, Sexual Dysfunction Before Tony knows it, he's head over heels in love with Steve. Which isn't surprising, it's just a lot more complicated to want to be in a relationship with someone now. Even if he could tell Steve that he is Iron Man, there's still the stupid chestplate. Steve seems to be keeping him at arm's length anyway, and Tony can't figure out why. Steve wakes up in the 21st century, and all he wants is to go home to his time. That's until he falls in love with Tony Stark. Unfortunately, he can't tell him how he feels. Tony deserves someone who can give him everything he wants. And that someone can't be Steve, considering he lost all erectile function as a side effect of the serum.

[hailturinturambar]

Sauron's trajectory in The Rings of Power

Well, this analysis took a little longer. But better late than never, right? Just like Elrond and Míriel, this analysis is not about dynamics or relationships.

But an analysis of who Sauron is, or rather, who he once was and what led to him becoming The Lord of the Rings.

Long before Sauron lived in Middle-earth and sowed chaos and violence against all peoples, he lived in Valinor. In the Beginning of Time, when Arda was young and the Valar lived in Valinor, Sauron was an apprentice.

Mairon, he was called, was one of the Maiar of Aulë. And he was one of the most powerful. A great smith in mind and power was Sauron, and he learned much in his time as an apprentice.

Mairon, then, always sought perfection and judged everything that did not achieve his greatest goals. This would prove to be his greatest flaw, which would lead him to betray all who once trusted him.

For in Melkor, the most powerful of the Valar, Sauron found his match. The one who would lead him to achieve his goals. When Melkor departed from Valinor and ruled in Middle-earth once more, Sauron departed, declaring his support for the Dark Vala.

In the First Age of Arda, Sauron was known by many names. Gorthaur he was also, to the Elves of Beleriand. And all his names, like his deeds, were accursed. For Sauron was Morgoth's greatest and most trusted lieutenant, and his deeds were as wicked as his master's.

Sauron also took many forms to deceive his enemies. Many facets of a being who sees nothing but power and victory. And he was present at many of Middle-earth's tragedies. And when Morgoth was defeated one last time by the Valar, Sauron was alone.

He might be able to find forgiveness, but was that enough? Sauron, like Lucifer, had brought about his own downfall because his pride was too great. And he was determined to continue Morgoth's deeds, to succeed where he had failed. To heal Middle-earth.

Morgoth Reborn, he aspired to be. Gaining control of the Orcs created by Morgoth and all evil creatures in Middle-earth, Sauron would now assume his new position, the new Dark Lord.

In the Second Age of Arda, Sauron was ready to rule and heal Middle-earth, as far as healing was possible according to his standards. However, Morgoth was a Valar, a god according to the beliefs. Sauron, while powerful, did not inspire the same level of power and devotion as his former master.

It is in Adar that Sauron will seek to gain sufficient strength. For Adar is like a Father to the Orcs, his Uruks. If Adar is loyal to Sauron, his sons will follow him into battle. Before Morgoth's destruction, Sauron was there when Adar was remade, and reached out to him.

Probably, on some twisted level in Sauron's mind, Adar was like a friend, an ally. Someone who should return his favor. To my mind, at the moment when Sauron is being crowned, he seems visibly insecure.

An insecurity, understandable, even. Once an apprentice, and now master of all things. A very heavy burden, but Sauron's ambition is greater. And with Adar, I suspect he sought some kind of support, of companionship.

However, Sauron knows only his wants and desires and nothing more. To heal Middle-earth, yes, some Orcs must die, but for Sauron, it is a small price. But not for Adar. And this is the point of no return between former allies. Adar, behind Sauron's back, I bet fearing that he would be as wicked to his Uruks as Morgoth had been, plots his downfall.

Vulnerable, yet powerful, Sauron succumbs to the attacks of the Orcs. Sauron, however, as a Maia, does not live confined to his form, to his body. His power is much more than flesh. His former flesh may have been destroyed, but Sauron survives.

For ages, for centuries, Sauron is a virtually non-existent life form, a disembodied consciousness, dragging itself along for centuries. I quite appreciated the analogy of Sauron needing to feed on other creatures to survive. In a way, Sauron is like a parasite, always consuming his host until there is nothing left.

Sauron spent many centuries almost asleep, powerless. Now, he has returned and he must choose which path to follow. His form has been restored and he can either pick up where he left off, or accept this second chance and start over.

Honestly, it is not something Sauron is capable of understanding. He was given a second chance before, he just had to ask the Valar for forgiveness. But he never tried.

Sauron, alone once again, sets out. Wandering for a long time, anger and hatred taint his desires. Adar betrayed him, destroyed his body, and made him an undefined and inferior being for countless centuries. Sauron needs to recover what is rightfully his and destroy the man who destroyed him first.

By intervention of the Valar or mere chance of fate, Sauron comes across wanderers who had their homes and lands destroyed by the Orcs. They are setting out in search of a new beginning, far from the destruction of Middle-earth.

I really like the theories about Diarmid being a mysterious representative of the Valar. Because in this way, we can believe that Sauron was presented with a new chance, a new beginning.

Because in Beyond the Sea, there are lands where a man can choose to start over and be better. Sauron, still lost, still without a defined purpose, sets out with Men.

Setting sail for what we believe to be Númenor, the ship is attacked. Come on, I have a few different theories about this event. Perhaps the Valar attacked the ship, and Ulmo tried to stop Sauron from finding Númenor and poisoning the last Men still connected to the heritage of the Valar's allies.

Or, perhaps, fate simply happened, and the Serpent attacked the ship. I've said it many times and I'll say it again, it may mean nothing, but loose ends, or holes, are great for creating new assessments. The Serpent destroyed the ship, but it moved away from Sauron.

An acknowledgement, perhaps? Of the evil and profane being that was in the waters. Because if this is the same Serpent (which I believe it is) present at Míriel's trial, it is loyal to the Valar. Or, perhaps, as a master of all creatures, Sauron was able to keep the Serpent away and survive, while Men were attacked.

What matters is that Sauron survived. Along with him, a few mortals accompany him on a raft, lost and adrift. The fate of everyone in Arda is linked and whether they are responsible for the encounter, Galadriel reaches Sauron.

And when Galadriel finds the raft, she does not know that she is falling into the clutches of her greatest enemy. Sauron is as old as Arda, and I have no doubt that he recognized Galadriel. When he looks at her, he could not (if he were a mortal man) realize that she is an Elf.

Yet he looks at her intently and his words are enigmatic. Did he recognize her? I believe he did, and it was then that Sauron found his purpose again.

As with Adar, Sauron sees a purpose in Galadriel, someone who can lead him to achieve his goals. He was obviously aware of Galadriel's hatred for him, as were all the Elves. However, this form is not Sauron, but Halbrand.

A man without lands, without a past, a blank canvas for his future goals. To gain Galadriel's help, Sauron needs to remove the obstacles in his path. And for me, the obstacles were the humans on the raft.

Why did the Serpent strike again? In my opinion, Sauron wanted this, so everyone perished, leaving only him and Galadriel, of all the survivors. No one else could unmask Sauron's past, because no one alive knows Halbrand.

Sauron tells Galadriel about his land, destroyed and taken by the Orcs, nothing but ashes now. And, strange as it may seem, Sauron was being truthful. Yes, his lands were taken, he lost everything, and he was forced to wander the world. However, this is not the truth Galadriel expected to know.

But it is the truth that Sauron can offer. Sauron did not become known as the Great Deceiver for nothing. With Adar, Sauron recognized what he most desired, and now he is doing the same with Galadriel.

He sees her desire, her revenge, her anger, and he exploits it. Telling the truth covered by lies from his past, acting as if nothing else matters.

And the new obstacle arises, a great storm. An event of chance or intervention? Because it seems that storms always follow Sauron at sea. Much is thought about why Sauron saved Galadriel. In my opinion, Sauron saved Galadriel because he needed her.

Sauron is always looking for people who will be useful. Like Melkor, Adar, Orcs and now Galadriel. She is his chance to start over and conquer all that he has lost. But, unbeknownst to Galadriel, when Halbrand saves her, she has found an ally.

Not even Sauron can see all the paths, but he is indeed always favored by fate. Galadriel and Halbrand are found by Elendil of Númenor. In the books, it is said that Sauron feared Númenor. Númenor represents a threat to Sauron, a risk to his control over Middle-earth, and now he is leaving for it.

Halbrand does not matter to the people of Númenor, they are too blinded by the presence of Galadriel, an Elf, in their lands. At this point, Sauron may simply disappear. If we are to be faithful to the books, I cannot believe the idea that Sauron wanted to start over in Númenor.

Start over in Númenor with the Scepter in his hand? Yes. But as a mortal? Never. After all, this is Sauron, greatest and most terrible lieutenant of Morgoth, great smith, master of beasts, the Great Deceiver. If he refused the Valar's forgiveness, he would never live as a common mortal in Númenor.

Sauron is very good at letting others fight on his behalf, and I think this will become even more evident in season two. While Galadriel is fighting in Númenor, demanding answers and help, Sauron is just enjoying the moment. A vacation, right? After all those centuries of crawling around in a damp cave.

In Númenor, he is an unknown, Galadriel may scream that he is the Lost King, but Sauron is not worried, he just lets things happen. He pretends not to care, to be determined to start over and live a free life.

I believe that, without Sauron realizing it, Galadriel's trust in him encourages him. It is always good to have faithful servants around you. Galadriel believes that fate acted on their behalf, crossing their paths. Probably not, not in the way she expects, but still, it is enough for him.

Halbrand is walking through Númenor, being pleasant and winning over everyone. His disguise is always carefully calculated. He also acts as a friend to Galadriel, helping her discover what Míriel is hiding. At this moment, Sauron shows his true face. By betraying Galadriel, Sauron earns his place among the smiths.

It must have been intoxicating for Sauron to be with the smiths once more, doing what he is most experienced and powerful at. I imagine that over time, Sauron hoped to gain the esteem and trust of the people of Númenor, and eventually conquer the island.

Yet his life takes a different turn, because Galadriel tells Míriel who she believes he is. Halbrand says he has no desire to return to Middle-earth, to the place where he lost everything. An act? Perhaps. Sauron is good at deception, and perhaps he just wanted Galadriel to believe he was being forced by her.

He emphasizes that Galadriel wants to crown him, but that this is not something he wants. Lies? I bet so. Everything with Sauron, even the truths, are distorted by his lies. Sauron is playing his role very well, his facade of a defeated Halbrand.

His refusal only intensifies Galadriel's attempts, only increases her desperation. I believe that it was at this moment that Galadriel lowered her barriers against Halbrand, to convince him to leave with her.

Because by being honest with him, she showed all her pain, all her suffering. And he shares his. For Galadriel, they are creating a bond, understanding each other. But I will never completely believe Sauron's actions.

Sauron then, after all his reluctance and denial, sets off for Middle-earth. He must be present in the fight against Adar; it is his moment to get his revenge, to destroy the traitor who destroyed him. I doubt he would stay in Númenor while everyone pursues his enemy.

And in Middle-earth, Halbrand is revered. There he is, fighting alongside the Sea People, an Elf, saving those people from the hands of Adar and the Orcs.

He protects them, as mortals see it, from their enemies, without knowing that Sauron is their greatest enemy. Galadriel is essential to Halbrand's role as a hero; the prestige of an Elf is the ideal mask for him.

It must have been almost impossible for Sauron to control himself, having to face Adar, without Adar knowing who he was, what he took from him, without being able to kill his enemy.

But Sauron holds himself back; he is great at maintaining his facade. The lost king, the man who lost everything, the man who has a feud with Adar.

Adar has been captured and Halbrand shares his grief with Galadriel. Once again Galadriel is letting her barriers down, believing in Halbrand, believing that she is being seen by him, and that she is no longer alone.

Did Sauron feel a connection with Galadriel? Perhaps, for me, this connection was born from the thought that he had found a kindred spirit, someone seeking power like him, the same as he had with Melkor. And thanks to Galadriel, everyone believes that Sauron is truly their king.

However, even with all his deceptions, I do not think Sauron expected Adar to awaken the volcano. Sauron is quick to adapt and he uses everything to his advantage, to his own benefit. Galadriel and Sauron were separated by Adar's surprise attack, but that doesn't faze him, not when Galadriel finds her friend injured and in need of help.

Galadriel, no doubt, trusted Halbrand enough to take him to an elven city. As in Númenor, once again Galadriel is leading Sauron to his goals. He doesn't have to do anything. In her solitude, in her search for understanding and companionship, Galadriel served Sauron's purposes perfectly.

The end of all things happens in Eregion. Sauron, unlike in the books, arrives accompanied by Galadriel, just a wounded mortal, trusted by King Gil-galad's Commander, who could not be better for him.

Sauron is now where he needs to be, and his deception leaves Galadriel, he now needs someone else. Celebrimbor, the greatest of the elven smiths, the one who can help Sauron. His deception begins, disguised as friendship, always friendship.

And Halbrand is always very convincing. He has deceived Galadriel, Miriel, Númenor, and now even Celebrimbor. The Rings are being forged, but Galadriel no longer trusts Halbrand as much.

Galadriel has become a threat, a risk to Sauron. She can choose two paths, ally with Sauron and take part in the reconstruction of Middle-earth, or be destroyed.

Sauron is clever and tries to convince Galadriel, to prove his point, to make her believe that his way is the only way. As always, right? She can now see the deception and refuses to be with him, in his dirty plan for control and domination.

He needs to destroy her, then. Sauron is driven by his rage, if he loses an ally, he will not rest before destroying that person. He leaves Galadriel to drown, to die for having rejected his offer. Sauron's path takes a new direction. His new victim is Adar, and he sets out from Eregion.

Far from the Elves of Eregion, Sauron walks towards Mordor. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? To me, Sauron went to Mordor for many reasons.

His cover was blown, yes. But he could also have wanted to see the kingdom that Adar was creating, how the Orcs responded to him, how everything worked. Field research, you might say.

He maintains his role as the king who only wants the best for his people, who accept being put behind bars by them. Sauron knows how to create allies even in the most unlikely moments.

Who knows, maybe he just wanted to prove to Adar that he had returned, that he could not be killed. I doubt that Adar still believed Halbrand's facade. At first? Yes, but no, not now.

They both play a long game, pretending not to know the truth about each other, and Sauron tells lies, claims to know where Sauron is (how ironic!) and leaves Adar's camp as a free man. Sauron is the master of his fate, and he is more convincing than the others thought.

Halbrand is free to go, and mortals still know him as their king, the king who continued to fight for them. But his goals now are different; he must reach Eregion before Galadriel destroys everything.

In her shame, Galadriel hid Halbrand's true identity, which greatly favored Sauron. He must have imagined that she would continue to lie, too ashamed.

That was all it took for him to reach Eregion unstopped, unfeared. Because Galadriel may have told others not to trust him, but they never knew what they were truly up against. The Elves are fighting their own battles, it is the perfect time for Sauron to act.

In Eregion, Sauron faces a new obstacle, because Galadriel warned Celebrimbor before he left. At this point, Sauron must have decided that he needed a new disguise.

But his deception is gradually taking hold. He shows Mirdania a different face. A wounded mortal man who has been through much and simply needs help. Mirdania, unaware of Halbrand's true nature, feels sorry for him.

Like Galadriel before her, Mirdania is a means to his ends, someone who speaks for him, who defends him, who makes others believe that he is who he says he is. She plays a great role in her innocence.

Celebrimbor, however, is harder to convince, because he truly trusts Galadriel. Celebrimbor may have appreciated Halbrand's knowledge, but he will not be convinced by that alone.

To buy time, Sauron needs to isolate Eregion, delaying the arrival of the other Elves, and of Adar's army. Celebrimbor, through the influence of Mirdania, also takes pity on Halbrand.

This is his greatest mistake, believing Sauron's delicate and persuasive words, his great talk. And Sauron knows how to deceive Celebrimbor, appealing to his pride.

It is a great honor to receive an emissary of the Valar, someone who recognizes Celebrimbor's art. As said above, Sauron always recognizes the weak points of his victims, what they most yearn for, what they most desire.

Having gained Celebrimbor's trust, Sauron cannot help but put his plan into action. If Sauron is to heal Middle-earth, he must control the wills and minds of all beings.

His work as an emissary then begins. He tells of how the Rings helped the Elves and how they can help the Dwarves, who have been affected by Adar's actions.

But unlike the Three Elven Rings, Sauron has his part in creating and corrupting them. The Dwarves are not easy to convince, not like the Elves, who have been desperate for help for much longer.

Sauron, however, always achieves his goals and Celebrimbor invites the Dwarves and speaks on behalf of Annatar, on behalf of the Elves, about how the Rings will change everything for them. In their desperation, they agree and Sauron once again seizes more victims.

The Rings for the Dwarves have been made, but it is not enough for Sauron. He is insatiable, he always wants more. More servants, more subjects, more power.

And time is not entirely on his side, Adar may arrive in Eregion before all the Rings are ready and Sauron cannot take that risk.

So he uses his mask once again, of the defeated emissary, who only wants the good of Middle-earth, but he is so insistent that he ends up making mistakes. Celebrimbor is no longer so confident in his friend's intentions.

However, Sauron will not lose Celebrimbor's help and trust, as he lost Galadriel's. He appeals to the Ancient Times, to the great heroes.

In his greed, Sauron no longer needs only the Rings of the Dwarves, he wants Rings for Men. Celebrimbor, of course, does not agree, is too dangerous.

The Rings for Men will be forged, even if Celebrimbor does not help them. Whether it is part of Sauron's plan to convince Celebrimbor, or simply a lack of actual success, the Rings do not work.

Time is running out, and Sauron is wasting time. Mirdania, by chance, sees Sauron's true evil. I don't think he expected this. Perhaps he does not thought someone could see through the deception.

He cannot risk her discovering the truth, not when he is so close to achieving his goal. So, as with all who have crossed his path, Sauron persuades Mirdania.

Convincing her that Celebrimbor is the true evil, that the Rings have cost him dearly. Thus, once again, Sauron is gaining more allies, convincing more people to speak for him.

Celebrimbor is forced to participate in the creation of the Rings, he does not even realize how he is being influenced by Sauron until it is too late.

Eregion is under attack, and as a good leader, Annatar decides that it is time for Celebrimbor to be alone, in peace, forging the Rings. Let Annatar take care of the city, of the attacks, he can solve everything.

As long as Celebrimbor finishes the Rings, before Adar arrives. Annatar is a figure of importance, of power. Everyone ends up believing his word, his truth.

Sauron is convincing wherever he goes, be it Númenor, Middle-earth, or Eregion, he never fails to achieve his goals. However, Celebrimbor is not his only problem.

The Dwarves are a risk to his success, after they begin to distrust Annatar's Rings. Is that why he decided to let them meet their own destruction? Probably. If they are not his allies, Sauron does not need them.

For Sauron, things are getting worse in Eregion. Celebrimbor is trapped in an illusion, unable to go against Sauron's orders, but Adar's army is getting closer and closer. It's no wonder Sauron's temper is getting worse.

He needs the Rings, and he needs them soon, but despite all the illusions, Celebrimbor continues to thwart his plans until the army arrives. The Siege of Eregion begins, and Celebrimbor needs to be distracted.

But Sauron is in the middle of a siege, keeping Celebrimbor in his illusion, while protecting Eregion, it's clear that he's been careless. Celebrimbor can now finally see the deception. Sauron is no longer Annatar, he can show who he really is, how damaged his true nature is.

Everything can be done quietly, or by force. Was Sauron honest about Morgoth? Well, I would say yes and no. I don't believe the relationship was captor and victim.

But if we think about the books, where Tevildo fears Morgoth, I imagine that Sauron feared Morgoth in some way. Perhaps in Celebrimbor he would see the apprentice he once was.

Celebrimbor continues to slip through his grasp. Like a cornered animal, Sauron begins to destroy his loose ends, his possible threats. Like Mirdania.

Is it a shame to truly get rid of Celebrimbor, his last equal? ​​Perhaps.

But it is the sacrifice he chooses to make. Eregion has fallen, but the Rings must be saved. Galadriel once again thwarts Sauron's plans by departing with the Rings.

Like in the first season, when Galadriel discovered Sauron's identity, we come to the end of everything between Celebrimbor and Sauron. The masks have fallen, everything comes to an end, right?

Destroying Celebrimbor must have bothered Sauron. In some twisted way, he was alone again, his last equal erased from Middle-earth. Sauron is always alone, isn’t he? Morgoth has been defeated, Adar has betrayed him, Galadriel has abandoned him, and now Celebrimbor is dead.

Sauron is Morgoth’s Shadow, indeed. A shadow, but never complete, never enough. Always doomed to end alone, to long for solitude. Now the Orcs are on your side, but is it enough?

Sauron then sets off in search of the Rings. It is the first time he and Galadriel have met in so long. His last enemy, Adar, has been defeated and Galadriel is the last obstacle. Did Sauron see in Galadriel someone who could be as he was to Morgoth?

Who knows, that's why he says so much that the door is still open. That if she hands over the Rings, heals Middle-earth by his side, she can gain power. But, unlike Morgoth, Sauron will not find a semblance of himself in Galadriel.

Galadriel accepts Sauron's blows, illusions, and tricks, but she never gives in. Sauron uses his tricks on Galadriel, all the tricks he hopes will destroy her, as he has destroyed so many others.

He fails, once again. Galadriel may have lost the Nine, but he still doesn't have Nenya. And Galadriel must have affected his pride, no doubt. Sauron may have his body, but he is at the same point where Adar destroyed him.

Alone, living in a kingdom of ashes with untrustworthy servants. To start over on his own and fix what is broken, but cannot be fixed. It's common for Sauron, isn't it? He always ends up alone, without allies, defeated.

And this will always be his journey, no matter how much time passes, how many ages have passed. His journey begins and ends alone.

[madelynhimegami]

Crimson Soul Guide

Oh, did you think you had seen the last of me today? Foolish! This one's a bit different, as I concluded it was a good idea to include information on the status and capabilities of everybody's favorite book-bound disembodied soul.

Also, if you have a character you'd like to see me make a summation for next, then please by all means let me know! I've been doing these as they've been suggested to me anyway.

Anywho.

The demon from whence the Crimson Soul came was once a demon lord/overlord before being sealed away, possibly on a scale similar to Satan?

At the time they were sealed, the Arka civilization was prosperous-- though the exact relationship between Arka and the demon is currently unknown.

The demon was a massive bibliophile, which is a trait the Crimson Soul has kept

The above three points are all we know for certain about the demon prior to sealing, specifically. Everything else comes from the account written by the Tome of Sealing's author.

(Said account is of dubious credibility at points, but that's beyond the scope of this post.)

As for the Crimson Soul themself (ie, regardless of what may or may not have applied to the demon), they despise filth and trash. They will not abide by any litter in their presence and will get rid of it on sight.

They are extremely dramatic, theatrical, and verbose. The Crimson Soul is the ultimate theater kid. Once again, possibly on a level similar to Satan.

While it has been demonstrated multiple times that their red power is dangerous, if not outright malevolent on its own, there's been little indication to suggest they are evil themself.

They describe their magic as "a crimson power [that is] hidden within [their] soul" in Fever 2's sound test.

Fever 2 also has a curious item-- a lithograph from Arka's prime that has a prayer for the land to be forever bountiful written on it. Using it in-game immediately puts Possessed Klug (and only Possessed Klug) into Fever mode

It is not particularly clear what might happen to Sig, should the Crimson Soul successfully claim his body. For a long while, it was speculated that the demon's will would overpower and eventually erase Sig. Recent developments have called it into question.

It hasn't been entirely ruled out, though. Akuma, Accord, and Popoi all say that Sig interacting with the Crimson Soul will put him in danger, and Amitie has come to the same conclusion semi-independantly.

The ritual that Klug had performed with the tome in Fever 2 not only ended with him getting possessed, it also irrevocably altered the seal, making it not as airtight as it used to be.

Consequently, Klug gets possessed more easily, can faintly sense the vibes of the Crimson Soul, and the Soul may have some influence on Klug's thoughts (e.g., they can subliminally plant feelings in him, like extreme interest on specific items).

Klug can also be swapped out by mind-swapping procedures that target both himself and the Tome.

It seems that the artifacts listed in the Tome are not the only ones that can lift the seal. Sufficiently powerful sources of energy from the sun, moon, and stars will also get the job done.

Whether the above two points were true before the events of Fever 2 is currently unknown.

Although regaining their lost power is their ultimate goal, the Crimson Soul does not appear to be actively seeking out Sig with much urgency.

The soul tends to possess Klug while he's unconscious, and maybe in mortal peril.

Most tellingly, there was one occasion where they took over Klug's body and they were in the closest proximity they had ever been to Sig since Fever 2. Despite this, they never address Sig. Instead, they first lament that they can't fight off a dragon with Klug's body, and second urges (if condescendingly) for the main Primp kids (and Feli) to work together.

As far as I know, the only time they intentionally hijack Klug's body while he's still conscious was to yell at tourists visiting the Arka ruins to get of their lawn.

The Crimson Soul can also pull Klug in a direction they want him to go, via the book.

Under most corcumstances, Klug can only get fleeting impressions of the soul's emotional state if said state is at a high level (e.g, agitation, restlessness, panic). This can compound with the above, as well.

The soul can telepathically communicate with Klug if they both happen to be in a dream or a dreamlike environment.

More than once they have seized the opportunity to speak directly by… insulting Klug. Their favored jab is "pathetic excuse for a glasses-holder."

Given how frustrated Klug was over the noise they kept making in Puzzle Pop, they were likely too frantic to speak in a readily-understandable manner.

On top of Klug's body just not being powerful enough magic-wise to the soul's liking, they don't like his physical state, either. "Has this brat never heard the phrase 'a healthy mind in a healthy body?!'"

Despite this, they have been show to be protective of Klug multiple times while in control, keeping both his body and soul safe by defending them from a dragon, drowning, water saturation, and Yu.

They also seemed to have shielded Klug from Marle's corruption. Whether that was a conscious effort or just the nature of the red power (Sig was also unaffected, but his arm became frenzied) is left vague, but Lemres was pretty confident that was what had happened.

Their ulterior motive for doing so-- at least on the surface-- is the convenience of having Klug as an emergency vessel. The body-swapping incident mentioned earlier in this post left them practically gleeful at the fact that their swap with Klug had bypassed the seal entirely, leaving Klugs body to be theirs.

Another instance of the seal being negated had the Crimson Soul desperately fight against having the seal restored and forcing them back in the book.

When others speak to them while in Klug's body (post Fever 2), they generally sidestep, evade, or point-blank to refuse to answer any questions directed at them. Especially ones regarding their true identity or intentions.

They also want to avoid direct interactions with Akuma when possible.

Their understanding of machinery is "punch it until it starts working again."

As the Crimson Soul was themself sealed away for who-knows-how-long, they will voluntarily release other, similarly-sealed entities if they can.

The Crimson Soul does not seem to share Sig's enthusiasm for bugs.

[apesoformythoughts]

"The Church will always be a hopeful sign of contradiction, though what it corrects will vary with the errors of the age. The pagan world the Apostles confronted was one of suffocating immanence: an eternal universe of cyclical time, the heavens a ceiling, one’s station one’s fate—with most stations leaving their holders vulnerable to the whims of capricious gods or, more likely, of men who acted like those pitiless deities. The Gospel was truly good news: the cosmos had a beginning and an end (in two senses of “end”), that heavy sky would be torn like a curtain, and our ultimate station was to be united, should we so choose, with a God who made us in His image and was love Himself. Given the dark, stuffy stasis of the pagan dispensation, it was not surprising and perhaps altogether fitting that the Holy Spirit came as fire and wind. Nor, given the oppressive concreteness of the previous metaphysical regime, was it surprising that the countervailing temptation would be toward an all-spiritualizing Gnosticism.

Our current age, by contrast, flees concreteness of any kind. It is by now a cliché to bemoan the fact that most of us live in a world of distracted virtuality, but that does not make it any less true or urgent. Antón Barba-Kay’s bracing book, A Web of Our Own Making, explores how digital culture is changing, indeed rewiring, our very understanding of ourselves and our world. We reckon ourselves in terms of what is digitally quantifiable (and commodifiable), and we spiral toward a frictionless existence of distraction and distance from others—a world of avatars engaged in mimetic rivalry with other avatars, not a community of persons. When we unlock our phones, the eyes we are most likely to look into are our own. In this world acedia is not just one vice among others, but the way of life. This arrangement combines both unhappy dispensations discussed above: the suffocating immanence of the pagan cosmos with the abstracted angelism of the Gnostic. We are disembodied, capricious sublunar gods, fleeing death by living an infinite doomscroll.

We are not made to be this way, so of course we are unhappy. Nor can we lifehack our way out of this discontent; seeking out an app for that only reinforces those imprisoning structures. The Church, as it always manages to do, can name, speak to, and cure this current ailment. In a disembodied time, it is resolutely concrete: the splash of holy water, the smear of oil, the pinch of exorcising salt, the smell of incense, the quiet voice of absolution in your ear, the gentle slap of confirmation, Blaise’s candles on your throat, the laying on—or grasp—of hands, the gentle ache of the knees at consecration, the weird, withered relic of a saint, and, of course, the taste of bread and wine that are, mysteriously, His flesh and blood—suffering embraced and given loving meaning. This revolution will not be digitized. Yet unlike the pagan pinch of incense, this materiality does not point to things sufficient unto themselves, but rather to the resurrection of a body mysteriously spiritualized, a hypostatic union that is the heavenly inversion of our slothful abstraction."

— Jeffrey Pojanowski: "Being There: Pope Francis’s Death and the Future of the Catholic Church"

[vixstarria]

Kinktober Day 21 - Free Use

For every day of the month of October I will be posting a little snippet following prompts listed in this post. Most of these will not be full fics, but rather short snippets, set-ups, and, in a few cases, copied bits and pieces of fics I have already published. But, if there is a lot of interest and feedback on any of the snippets, they might just evolve into full fics, so keep that in mind.

Disclaimer / TW: Sex club shenanigans. And yes, yes, I know I'm late... It did take me a full 3 weeks to fall behind, at least.

The masquerade masks were, of course, completely inadequate for concealing anyone’s identity. However, they served a different purpose: acknowledging mask-clad acquaintances as such within the mansion, as well as mentioning their presence at the party outside the manor grounds was an unthinkable taboo, and would result in the irrevocable banishment of the offender and their immediate connections. Attendance at the events was a great privilege, one not to be squandered.

Astarion and Asmodea had been invited to the soiree by the owner of the establishment herself. They were encouraged to peruse and, if they so wished, partake, though the actual purpose of their visit was business, not pleasure: they were exploring the possibility of forging business ties between their cabaret theatre and the Scarlet Veil.

“Why this is even more strange than being on the paying end of a brothel,” Astarion murmured to Asmodea upon their emerging from the cloakroom.

"Are you sure you want to be here?" she frowned. "I'm happy to deal with the owner myself."

He waved a hand dismissively before responding.

“I will only ask two things of you: make no assumptions, and ask no questions you do not want to know the answers to.” Not waiting for her to respond, and likewise not giving her a chance to voice any more concerns, he sauntered towards a nearby room, sectioned off by a velvet drape.

"The Burrow," he read a plaque at the entrance. "Hmm, let me guess..."

Asmodea had no choice but to follow him as he disappeared behind the curtain.

Her eyes widened as she was immediately greeted by the sight of a splayed pair of legs protruding from a nearby wall at about hip height. The ankles were in restraints, bound to the wall. The rest of the body disappeared behind a window cut-out, concealed by strip curtains. The figure, or at least the visible part of it, wore absolutely nothing but a pair of torn silk stockings.

"...Ah," Asmodea blinked. "Gloryholes. ...Of a kind."

There was an entire row of these holes further along the wall, she now realised, most of them occupied by grunting, thrusting masked men, their trousers gathered unceremoniously at their ankles.

"Harengon holes, they're called," Astarion corrected. "Because harengons-"

"...live in burrows and fuck like rabbits, yes, I've gathered."

Despite herself, she glanced up at Astarion, and, perhaps reading the unasked question in her eyes, he elaborated further.

"If the manor events are run the way I think they are, the participants here are all thrill-seeking guests, not paid staff. Concealed attendants should be keeping an eye on things on both sides, in case anyone doesn't know how to behave."

They passed further along the wall, observing the activities around them. A halfling, scorning a nearby stepladder which must have been provided for those of their stature, simply stood with their face buried between the disembodied legs. A chorus of muffled moans and howls sounded from somewhere beyond the wall.

The scene appeared increasingly more comical the longer Asmodea observed it, and she bit her lip to hold back a titter.

"Shall we move on before we're kicked out..?" Astarion asked, seeing her reaction. "I don't believe this is intended as a comedy show."

They continued on to the next room.

My Kinktober masterlist and prompts post

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hello, i was wondering if you had any information on mediums (like, able to communicate w ghosts)? thank you

Writing Notes: Medium

Medium - a person who appears to be able to talk to the dead or, more generally, appears to communicate with invisible intelligences or receive “energy” from other dimensions of reality (Barušs, 2003a, 2014a).

They are sometimes sought out by the bereaved as a way of trying to confirm the continuing existence of the deceased, so that mediumship also has relevance for the treatment of grief (Beischel, Mosher, & Boccuzzi, 2014–2015).

Medium - (in occultism) a person reputedly able to make contact with the world of spirits, especially while in a state of trance.

A spiritualist medium is the central figure during a séance and sometimes requires the assistance of an invisible go-between, or control.

During a séance, disembodied voices are said to speak, either directly or through the medium.

Materialization of a disembodied spirit or of a specific part of a human body can allegedly take shape from a mysterious, viscous substance called ectoplasm that exudes from the medium’s body and subsequently disappears by returning to its original source.

At times the medium, or a material object, appears to float in the air (levitation).

Trance - a state that is like being asleep except that you can move and respond to questions and commands like a person who is awake

Séance - French “sitting” (in occultism) meeting centred on a medium, who seeks to communicate with spirits of the dead.

Because strong light is said to hinder communication, a séance usually takes place in darkness or subdued light.

It generally involves 6 or 8 persons, who normally form a circle and hold hands.

Believers assert that communication has been established when a disembodied voice is heard, or a voice speaks through the medium, or a ghostly apparition appears.

Sometimes music of unknown source seems to fill the room, objects appear to move for unnatural reasons, or a hand, a limb, or an entire body may take shape from ectoplasm (a peculiar viscous substance said to issue from the medium’s body).

Other alleged means of communication include automatic writing, trance speaking, or a ouija board or planchette.

Many of the seemingly mysterious phenomena manifested during séances are effected by the medium to validate his or her claim to supernatural powers.

That some spiritualists actually possess the ability to communicate with spirits, however, remains open to debate.

Dissociation, especially derealization or depersonalization, can readily be misconstrued as paranormal.

Example: Dissociation as an alternative hypothesis for the following:

After intense chanting, a medium enters a “trance” and is no longer aware of his surroundings (dissociation). He then communicates with a dead relative.

Good mediums can produce correct information, at least some of the time.

That is consistent with some cases of spontaneous and induced after-death communication.

But is that information coming from dead people? Could mediums, and others experiencing apparent after-death communication, just be good at picking up information from the living or from physical sources wherever the necessary information might be found?

The former explanation has been called the survival hypothesis, whereas the latter explanation has been called the super-psi hypothesis (Braude, 2003; see also P. F. Cunningham, 2012).

History of Spiritualism. Spiritualism is a collection of beliefs based on the claim that spirits or departed souls live in a realm beyond our material universe. In the 19th century, seances, ceremonies in which mediums communicated with the dead, became fashionable winter night parlor entertainment. Popular mediums would roam from city to city and amaze thousands with their astonishing communications with the departed. In the United States, in time spiritualism became a social movement that offered hope of an afterlife for those grieving the slaughter of the civil war and skeptical of a Christianity newly challenged by science, especially Darwin. Spiritualists fought against slavery (in the afterlife all are equal) and the movement provided women with a rare public role not unlike that enjoyed by male priests (mediums were female). This movement set the stage for current widespread interest in channeling, psychics, parapsychology, and faith healing. Organized scholarly research into the paranormal began with serious investigations of spiritualist claims.

Psychic vs. Medium

As an adjective, psychic means “of or relating to the human soul or mind,” or something mental as opposed to physical.

It’s also defined in psychology as “pertaining to or noting mental phenomena,” which describes being in tune to some nonphysical force or agency.

For example, Having heard that colors can provoke a psychic response, I decided to paint the room a calming blue.

Psychic can also mean “sensitive to influences or forces of a nonphysical or supernatural nature.”

So if someone or something is influenced by a mysterious force that’s outside physical science or knowledge, it’s a psychic influence.

For example, it was a psychic feeling that led him to run out of the building right before a fire started.

As an adjective, some synonyms for psychic are:

spiritual,

supernatural,

paranormal,

psychological, and

metaphysical.

As a noun, psychic refers to “a person who is sensitive to psychic influences or forces.”

For example, since she was a little girl, John’s grandmother has sworn she’s a psychic and can tell when something bad will happen.

In addition to medium, other synonyms for psychic as a noun include clairvoyant, fortune-teller, and prophet.

First recorded in 1855–60, psychic originates from the Greek word psȳchikós, meaning “of the soul.”

Types of Mediumship

In modern spiritualism, mediumship can be generally divided into 2 forms:

Physical mediumship generally involves anything happening of a physical nature that can be perceived by the medium and others present.

Mental mediumship involves communication from the spirit world which is interpreted through the mind and consciousness of the medium.

Examples: Famous Mediums

William Stainton Moses: Moses, a medium from the late nineteenth century, would hold séances during which psychic lights would appear. He also had experiences of levitation, and the appearance of scents like musk and freshly mown hay. Musical sounds would often be heard with no musical instruments in the room, as well as the materialization of luminous hands and pillars of light. Moses also produced a great number of automatic writings, including his most well known scripts, Spirit Teachings (1883) and Spirit Identity (1879).

Fransisco (Chico) Xavier: Born in 1910, Xavier was a famous Brazilian medium, often appearing on television. He produced his first automatic writing in grade school, where he claimed that an essay was given to him by a spirit. He went on to amass an enormous number of automatic writing scripts in various scientific and literary disciplines, and is one of the world's most prolific automatic writers.

Daniel Dunglas Home: Home was one of the most well-known mediums of the nineteenth century. Scottish born, he performed a number of séances for royalty and other well-respected people. He was most famous for his levitations, one of which took place outside a third story window. Though many, including Houdini accused Home of trickery, he was never once exposed as a fraud.

Psychologist Terence Hines, in his book Pseudoscience and the Paranormal:

Modern spiritualists and psychics keep detailed files on their victims. As might be expected, these files can be very valuable and are often passed on from one medium or psychic to another when one retires or dies. Even if a psychic doesn't use a private detective or have immediate access to driver's license records and such, there is still a very powerful technique that will allow the psychic to convince people that the psychic knows all about them, their problems, and their deep personal secrets, fears, and desires. The technique is called cold reading and is probably as old as charlatanism itself... If John Edward (or any of the other self-proclaimed speakers with the dead) really could communicate with the dead, it would be a trivial matter to prove it. All that would be necessary would be for him to contact any of the thousands of missing persons who are presumed dead—famous (e.g., Jimmy Hoffa, Judge Crater) or otherwise—and correctly report where the body is. Of course, this is never done. All we get, instead, are platitudes to the effect that Aunt Millie, who liked green plates, is happy on the other side.

Some Related Character Tropes

I See Dead People: Mediums are a special category of psychic; people with a sixth sense that allows them to see, hear and/or touch ghosts for better or for worse.

Magnetic Medium: Psychics tend to attract things only they can perceive. Whether they're unknowingly sending out psychic signals or just bad luck is anyone's guess.

Unhappy Medium: Having psychic powers can suck.

Examples

Dante in Coco can see the spirits of dead relatives and interact with them, because he's an alebrije. Miguel temporarily gains this when he steals Ernesto de la Cruz's guitar, causing him to cross over to the spirit realm.

A big part of the classic Charles Dickens tale A Christmas Carol, wherein Ebenezer Scrooge is visited by the ghost of his old partner, Jacob Marley, heralding the coming of the three spirits of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Future, "yet to come".

Cassandra from Classical Mythology, though not at first. The curse was separate from the prophesy part — she got prophesy as a blessing from Apollo, then pissed him off, so he added on a curse that she'd never be believed.

Everything Everywhere All at Once: Jobu Tabaki can see all possible outcomes of every action because she is present in all her alternate selves simultaneously. This has driven her to total nihilism and a desire to destroy the entire universe just to make it stop.

In The Sixth Sense, Cole Sear is frequently harassed by the spirits of the dead, whom only he can see and hear (and get mauled by, occasionally). Since he's only about ten years old, he is understandably freaked out by this.

The X-Files: Seeing ghosts is the X-file of the episode "Elegy". People report seeing wounded women who seemed silently asking for help in strange places where they had actually never appeared when alive. They always brought the ominous message "s/he is me". It turns out the apparitions happened very close to the moment of their death and only people who were close to death themselves could see them.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hope this helps with your writing!

[ladyhoneydarlinglove]

{one piece fic} blunt force comfort — robin & zoro

{previous chapters: nami | usopp | sanji | chopper } CONTENT WARNING: this chapter has depictions of self-harm, specifically cutting. it’s nothing graphic, but anyone who could be triggered by that might want to skip this one. i haven’t been part of the one piece fandom long enough to know if robin self-harming could be considered a controversial take, but based on my own experiences with severe to suicidal depression (including self-harm tendencies), i think it makes a lot of sense.

Rating: T Notes: takes place somewhere between Skypiea and Water 7

{Read on Ao3}

~~~~~

There’s a strange physiology to the limbs summoned with Robin’s devil fruit powers. For all intents and purposes they function like extensions of her real body, complete with sensory feedback; temperature, texture, even pain—though the damage they take doesn’t transfer to her physically. But, for whatever reason, they don’t bleed the way that real limbs would.

Robin doesn’t remember exactly when she discovered this particular quirk that’s quite useful, in its own way. Good for things like sneaking and spying, keeping her from leaving any kind of physical trail behind. But the place that she makes the most use of it is alone, in the quiet and the dark, with a sharp knife and a heart full to bursting with pain.

See, Robin’s existence is defined by suffering. To live is to hurt, and there is no escape from it, not really. This is a fundamental truth of her world that Robin has known since she was only eight years old, watching Ohara burn for the crime of daring to seek out what others didn’t want them to know. 

The problem is, the pain she feels on a day-to-day basis is largely on the inside, where no one else can bear witness to its existence. A festering wound that only she can see, a toxic sludge born of all the tears, the anger, the screams that she can’t afford to let loose, lest it draw the attention of the World Government. And that pain will just keep building and building and building inside of her, until finally Robin can’t bear it any longer.

She read in a medical text once that when a boil becomes filled with pus, it needs to be lanced before infection sets in. So when all the pain and hurt inside her becomes too much to bear any longer, Robin will sit down, knife at the ready so she slice and slice and slice, until finally it feels like all the suffering of her existence has been made tangible.

Of course, if she tried to do that on her real body, she would have run out of space—and blood, for that matter—a long time ago. That’s where her powers come in handy; Robin can summon arm after arm, and no physical evidence will be left behind. No wounds, no blood. Just pain. Easy and clean.

She’s been doing it for years. No one else has ever known, though even if they did, Robin doubts they would have cared enough to try and stop her. It’s gotten to the point where she barely even thinks about it when the need arises, which is perhaps why Robin doesn’t take more precautions not to be caught the first time she does it onboard the Going Merry. She figures doing it in the storeroom in the middle of night when everyone else is asleep should be enough to ensure no one walks in on her, so it’s a bit of a surprise when Zoro does.

“Oh, Robin,” he says, standing in the doorway to the storeroom, holding a bottle of what Robin presumes is liquor. “What are you doing in… here…”

Robin watches as he blinks several times in rapid succession, clearly trying to process the scene in front of him, which is two blossomed limbs already cut to (bloodless) shreds sprouting from the floor, while Robin works on a third, her knife point still buried in its disembodied flesh. She doesn’t usually vanish them until she’s done, because she likes—or needs, maybe—to see the physical evidence of her handiwork. She supposes she could get rid of them now, though there doesn’t seem much point; from the bewildered frown she watches overtake his expression, Zoro’s probably already seen enough.

“What… are you doing?” he asks, an entirely uncharacteristic hesitation in his tone.

Robin smiles at him blandly, trying to be as disarming as possible. “Just a little ritual of mine,” she says lightly, like it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

“Oh.” Zoro blinks slowly. “What, uh… what… kind of ritual?”

Now it’s Robin’s turn to blink. She wasn’t actually expecting him to ask.

“Call it… a catharsis ritual,” Robin says after a moment, which is true enough.

Zoro’s frown deepens, taking on a slightly harder edge. “What kind of catharsis?”

Robin blinks again.

“I—” she begins, and suddenly her mind blanks, tripped up by the fact that Zoro is even asking. Before she can stop herself, Robin blurts out, “Pain.”

One of Zoro’s eyebrows shoots up almost comically high. “Pain?” he repeats, and there’s something in his tone that Robin hasn’t heard directed her way in a long, long time.

Concern.

Robin is suddenly, horribly, acutely aware of two things.

The first is how macabre this little ritual of hers must seem to the outside observer. The second is that despite their rough and tumble exteriors, the Straw Hat Pirates are all, at their cores, fundamentally kind people. The type of people who, when they see someone in distress, rush in to help, heedless of consequence. And Robin doesn’t want help, not for this. It’s her strange little habit, her burden of pain. Accepting help would just feel… wrong. 

(Wouldn’t it?)

“It’s not… It isn’t a bad thing,” she says hastily, feeling entirely out of her element, which does not often happen to Nico Robin. “It’s sort of like, um…” 

She casts about frantically for a metaphor Zoro might understand that will satisfy him while also stopping him from pressing any further. “When you train really hard, your muscles get sore afterwards, right?” she says after a few terribly tense moments of silence. “It hurts, but doesn’t it also feel good because you know you’ve accomplished something?”

“… Right,” Zoro says slowly, clearly not buying it. “Except that when muscles are sore after a workout, it’s because you’ve been breaking them down so that they can become even stronger. This—” He gestures at the shredded arms in front of her “—just seems like you’re trying to hurt yourself.”

There’s something about the way Zoro says it. No hesitation, no doubt; just a simple, honest, brutal truth. It cuts right through to Robin’s core, and she finds that she can’t help but answer in kind.

“… I suppose I am, in a way.”

She thinks that might be the first time she’s ever said so out loud.

For a long moment, Zoro simply looks at her. There’s nothing particularly scrutinizing about it, and yet Robin still feels like she’s being flayed alive under his gaze. Then, after an interminably long silence, Zoro suddenly nods and says, “Okay.”

Robin blinks. “Okay?” she repeats, surprised.

“I mean, I don’t get it but…” Zoro shrugs before reaching up to rub at the back of his neck awkwardly. “This doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you quit doing just because someone tells you to. So if this is how you need to find ‘catharsis’ or whatever, I’m not gonna tell you to stop.”

That wasn’t what Robin was expecting him to say at all. On one hand it seems almost callous and uncaring, like Zoro’s trying to wash his hands of the whole thing. But on the other, she finds it… strangely reassuring. Like he’s acknowledging it’s a problem he knows he can’t fix, but he still wants her to know that he’s aware of it.

It feels… kind.

“… Thank you, Kenshi-san,” Robin says after a long, quiet moment. It doesn’t seem quite adequate enough, but she’s not sure that anything would.

Zoro nods again before he moves to leave the storeroom, but then pauses for a moment in the doorway before turning back around. 

“Hey, uh…” he says, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck again. “You know, if you ever want to try a different kind of catharsis, I could… teach you how to start lifting.” He coughs nervously before adding, “You can, um. You can get pretty sore. If you do it right.”

There’s a rising lump in Robin’s throat, and she has to swallow around it before she can respond.

“I’ll… keep that in mind.”

[steviewashere]

It would've been so cool if during the scene when Steve hears Dustin "in the walls" of the Wheeler's house, he's the only one who could hear it.

Like he tries to tell the others that Dustin's there or his voice is there. But in reality, it's Steve being lured in by Vecna.

And Dustin's voice goes from normal talking to something panicked. A danger is lurking kind of panicked. And Steve's protective instincts kick in and he can't turn that part of him off. He's just stuck in fight mode for too long. Getting jumpy and putting himself in front of the others. Nancy, Robin, and Eddie think it's weird, but get more and more concerned the more that time passes and Steve is...panicked beyond belief, gasping and hiccuping at every sound, spinning in place, arms up and blocking, eyes wide and searching, silently listening and uncharacteristically serious. He gets to the point where all he can hear around him is the screaming for help from the party members. And the only thing that gets him resolved is a tape playing and somebody holding onto him, urging him to relax.

The moment he thinks it's safe to take his headphones off (because he thinks the screaming and the urgent voices have stopped) Vecna gets him in his hold. And oddly, the only way that gets Steve away from Vecna and back to regular Hawkins, is the genuine urgent pleading of his friends, begging for him to come back to them. To fight Vecna's control and to follow their voices. (Whereas before, the panicked words were coming from everywhere with no sign of stopping, no real instruction as to where the disembodied voices were coming from.)

Also, Steve would definitely offer himself as bait in the Creel house. Imagine he gets Vecna'd and the other person there with him is Robin. And he dies in his best friend's arms. But this time, Robin realizes his death is very real. She knows what holding a limp and bleeding and broken body is like. She knows what it's like being present for the death of Steve Harrington. And all she can think, besides the obvious that her best friend is dead, is that she didn't sign up for this. (But she'd do it all over again if it meant that Steve didn't die in the end.)

Obviously, he wouldn't die. But imagine the angst. Imagine him coming back to himself in the hospital. He comes back different, not wrong, but different. He's no longer playful. Doesn't want to talk. Always staring, unfocused and frightened. Doesn't even care that his key feature, his hair, has been shaved down from how unruly it got during his time in the hospital. He's a shadow of himself. Lingering in what Vecna inflicted onto him. Not placing himself as an outcast, constantly outside of the group. In fact, he's practically too intertwined with everybody. Too much in people's space. Fitting himself between gaps. Needing to be close. Needing to be alert. Barely sleeps. And if he does, it isn't for long, awoken by voices. Has to call everybody, hear their voices soft and natural. Doesn't seek out romantic relationships because he knows he won't be able to explain what happened to him. He's overprotective and awfully afraid. Can't sit in silences because he imagines his friend's screams.

And even when he dates Eddie (because I'm going to make this Steddie, bite me), he is content to just listen to Eddie ramble. On and on. Doesn't allow him to stop. Will ask questions if only to keep the silence at bay. Needs to be close in his sleep. Needs the constant touch and the constant affection. Needs to be reassured. Won't leave Robin's side either. At work or in social functions. She relies on him and he relies on her. They often have late night phone calls that stretch on for hours. Steve in his kitchen, hunched over the phone at his island, repeating over and over that he's alive and reasonably okay. And Robin on the other side, comforting him that everybody is safe and that she's not in danger and nobody is going to need him this late at night. Eddie getting out of bed to Steve slumped and asleep at the counter, phone still tight in his grip. Lugging him to the couch to sleep. Sitting nearby, on the floor or at Steve's feet. One hand on his ankle or his wrist or on his shaved scalp.

Just Steve growing dependent on everybody. Instead of them being dependent on him. And also being tremendously traumatized. And just...abnormal.

Anyway. Maybe I'll write this. If not, here's an idea lol.

[youremyheaven]

I thought I would share another observation I had concerning swati people is when they do stalk, they tend to stalk solar nakshatras. I’ve seen this happen with the swati girl I told you about she used to stalk this uttara ashada man and his exes (who were solar too, they were mostly uttara phalguni) and she used to stalk me too ( I’m Krittika). I’ve seen this with Olivia Rodrigo (shatabisha) too she made songs about solar women (Sabrina carpenter and Madelyn cline). I know also a Moroccan movie (the name is bouchaib le bienheureux) about a swati stellium man who’s obsessed with a krittika woman and wants to force her to marry him. I’ve also seen a shatabisha guy who’s heterosexual but is obsessed with an uttara phalguni man to the point where he would constantly stalk him.

It completely makes sense that Rahuvians are drawn to/obsessed with Solar people. Sun creates its own light and Solar people have an abundance of light. Rahu is in the darkness, they're constantly chasing the light and trying to feel grounded in it

I have noticed a similar pattern with Jupiter & Ketu, Jupitereans are emotionally spacious and can hold so much within them/have an immense capacity to care/indulge but Ketu's disconnection does not allow it to indulge in the way Jupiter does even though Ketu is also virtually limitless. They often become obsessed with Jupiter people because that energy helps them feel more stable. Jupiter natives in turn initially like having some of their excess energy "drained" by someone but soon enough they feel like their soul has been sucked out as Ketu seeks to absorb as much as possible and these relationships turn toxic.

Both shadow planets are constantly striving to draw in light and are drawn to strong Yang energy (Rahu is extreme Yin) to feel grounded and tethered. Since Rahu is the head, it's drawn to more Solar energy and Ketu, the disembodied body is drawn to Jupiter energy.

[hey-august]

time for some fem!buggy x GN!reader 🤤

Word count: ~770 Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, fem!buggy x GN!reader, buggy is afab, no use of Y/N, vaginal fingering, lil bit of chop chop but not a misuse of powers, multiple orgasms.

you wake up with the softest pillow caressing your face. tits. plump, plush tits, covered by fabric thinner than sun rays. you drag a hand up to rest on a soft mound while nuzzling the other one. a gentle, content sigh emanates from a different part of the bed, from your companion who is literally sprawled out. 

hardening nipples encourage you to loll out a tongue and seek out the nearest pebble, which you find easily and bathe in kisses, nips, and licks. you pull away and blow on the spit-soaked fabric, adding to the cooling sensation. your other hand, which had been busy groping, squeezing, and jiggling, tilts the supple flesh so you can greet the other nipple. sliding up the cloth barrier, you suck the sensitive bud into your mouth and replace the tickle of fabric with swipes of your tongue.

“nnh, m-more,” breathes buggy. her voice is slow, lazy, and horny.

you reach down and find nothing. the portion of body next to you abruptly ends at the ribcage. extending your search, you find more - a ticklish ankle, a shoulder to rub, a warm wrist - but not what you’re looking for. releasing buggy’s nipple from it’s warm moist prison, you lift your head just enough to find your treasure.

stretching your arm out, you hook a finger into a waistband and drag the pink panty-clad ass closer. buggy whines at the movement, but she does nothing to help. you reward the lack of effort with a smack, enjoying how her ass bounces under your hand, before rolling her hips over.

“you’re soaked through,” you say excitedly while sliding your fingers along the wet fabric covering the lush folds. “you needy thing, you like this?”

buggy bucks her hips against your touch, wanting more contact, more friction. “j-just give it, please”

you chuckle and carefully tap her sensitive clit, which receives a delicious whimper in response, before slipping your hand into her panties. the slick-coated fabric is cold against the back of your hand, so you seek out buggy’s luscious heat. she moans as your middle and ring fingers slide in her weeping cunt. you thrust and scissor, manipulating her entrance and depths, before pressing into the spongy rigid spot that makes her unseen toes curl.

a disembodied hand presses buggy’s breasts towards your face for more kisses and sloppy attention, which you gladly provide. you slurp, suck, and nibble, earning sweet moans and squeals of ecstasy. your hot breath tickles buggy’s skin as you move locations, changing from soft skin to hard nipples, from one heavy breast to the other.

“m’close” the shake in buggy’s voice matches the tremor in her body.

groaning excitedly, you rub your thumb along her swollen clit. swirling circles and harsh pressure that explodes within her spread out body.

“o-oh fuck!” cries buggy as the climax courses through her disconnected body, before tethering it back together. 

in an instant, her body is whole. thick thighs clamp around your hand as she grinds into the orgasm. arms wrap around your head, pressing your face into her chest. her body trembling and shaking as you continue your assault inside and on her sensitive clit.

“one more,” you beg between her tits, “gimme one more”

buggy meekly shakes her head above yours while spreading her legs, a coy act she likes to put on in these moments. “mmmh, one more,” she repeats.

you squeeze your hand against buggy, palm pressing onto her mound and surrounding the hidden bud with pressure that feels good but won’t get her anywhere. she whines and wiggles under your touch. biting back a grin, you harshly suck on a forlorn nipple and slip your pointer finger inside buggy’s heat, nestling it with the other two.

buggy threads her own fingers in your hair, pressing herself ever harder into you. craving your touch, your being. you. dusting kisses up the swell of her breasts and along her neck, you arrive at her parted lips.

her red nose is pressed against your cheek as you greedily drink her moans and cries of joy from her coil quickly retightening. a coil that is just as quickly snapped when you draw shapes on her aching clit. first a circle, then a triangle, but it’s the messy shaky heart that she cums to. bucking against your hand, sliding from how much slick her pussy has gushed.

finally, her body stills against yours. her sweet sounds get quieter, eventually becoming heavy breaths. you pull out of her heat but leave your hand nested against her body.

“g’morning,” you mumble against her lips, watching buggy's ocean eyes flutter open.

“morning,” she sighs back.