#echelon Forever

[rotzaprachim]

realisation that lenú and lila l’amica geniale are the equal and opposite reaction to tenoch and Julio y tu mamá también

[angelplummie]

TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS!

ART X TASHI X PATRICK X F!READER

part 1 part 2

this one is exposition and build up for the smut eventually! enjoy my princesses

tashi duncan stole from you.

in many ways, many times. the first was when she thrashed you in your very first college tennis tournament. you would always remember the sound she made, that war cry. it was like she had decapitated you or something. she stole victory from you that day.

then she did it again, and again, and again. every single time she played you, she beat you. you could annihilate everyone but her, crushed them all to dust. but she was the one person that would not be decimated. you didn’t speak off the court, didn’t look at each other twice in the halls of stanford. but she had this look on her face. this smug, knowing look. here to lose again? it said. and you weren’t some average joe shmoe tennis girl. you were really good. people that had no reason to bolster your ego had told you that, so you knew it to be true. you were fucking brilliant, and she had no right to look at you like you were dirt. you gave her a tough match, but still she looked at you like she knew she was going to win.

when asked about her, all you could say was “i hate that smug bitch.”

what she said about you you didn’t know, and not for lack of trying. you didn’t know if she even spoke of you at all. the thought made you angrier than when she beat you. once, when at the same party, she waved at you.“hi,” she said, and gave you that same i-just-beat-you look. she was taller than you, and craned her neck unnecessarily far to look at you. where did that stupid bitch get off?

she was this towering roadblock, the one thing stopping you from entering the upper echelons of tennis royalty. you had the fucking talent, you had put in the fucking time, you were so fucking good. but you weren’t stanfords sweetheart. you just weren’t. everyone knew you were good, but you weren’t the best.

from the matches you had watched, which was nearly all of them, you were the only person she played that gave her a run for her money. she didn’t sweat the way she did when she played you, the points were never so neck and neck. she should be threatened by you, and yet she looked at you like any other silly college floozy that was the best in her high school. tennis was your life, as much as it was hers. she stole your dignity in that way.

the next time she stole from you was patrick zweig. a sort of boyfriend, an in-between, getting there boyfriend. he could’ve been yours. you could’ve been happy together. but tashi duncan couldn’t have that.

you heard whispers about a night in a hotel room, a threesome, a twosome with a watcher, two guys jacking off on tashi duncan. they could deny, deny, deny, but whatever did or didn’t happen meant patrick zweig never returned your calls anymore. you could still recount the exact tonality and pacing of his answering machine message.

it was fine. it’s whatever. he wasn’t a forever boyfriend anyway.

but once a girl has sex with someone, she expects some degree of loyalty, some sort of goodbye. it wasn’t about him, he was cute, a good-not-great fuck, and never claimed to be serious about you. he didn’t matter. it was the fact she had him. together or not, she had him. he belonged to her. even after they broke up, everyone knew he never liked any of his other many girlfriends like he loved her. they used to walk around hand in hand, kiss, and it made you brim with jealousy. not because you gave any kind of fuck about him as a person, but because she got him instead of you. it was her. all her. she had stolen one more thing.

as time passed, your hatred burned just as bright. you practiced day in day out, hoping that somehow she could see you now, somehow she would know you were her equal.

then you met a boy. art donaldson.

you had known he was involved with her. the hotel threesome stories spared no details of the parties involved, despite factual discrepancies in other areas. but you figured, while she was dating his best friend, you were safe from the curse of tashi duncan. you allowed yourself to fall in love, softly, timidly. having met in american literature, you fostered a little spark. a love, barely the size of a candles flame, flickered in your chest. maybe, you had prayed. maybe him. maybe he was yours. you kissed at new years for the first time, and days later he met your parents. it was new, fresh, but it was love. you loved him.

and then she stole from you for the final time. in one foul swoop, she took everything from you.

it was the final of the college tournament. the two stanford angels playing each other for the victory. the court was red and packed, newly redone. you both wore white. whoever won this was guaranteed a shot at the open in the summer, and that was all you needed. you were so fucking ready. no one was better than you. no one. you had trained so hard, art could attest to it, hell, the entire school could attest to it. ask anyone who saw you around that time, they would’ve seen a scowl on your face and a racket on your back. those who had the pleasure of watching you play would’ve say it: you were fucking good.

that’s why it crushed you. across from her, at match point, advantage duncan, you watched as her knee moved independent from her leg. in between grunting and pelting, there was a crack, and tashi duncan was no more. a hush fell over the crowd as she cried, fell to the ground clutching her knee. you heard that. but you didn’t hear the ear splitting scream that came from your own mouth, couldn’t feel your body sprint, jump the net to crouch by her side. beads of perspiration rolled down her face, scrunched in agony. she bared her teeth like a cornered animal, and looked up at you through her squeezed eyes. her knee looked awful, so you stared at the rest of her. without thought you placed a hand on the top of her head. to comfort her you think.

it was so quiet. the only sound was her crying, her laboured breath stilling your heart to a lifeless thud.

“it’s ok,” you said,”you’re going to be ok, tashi.”

you remembered feeling an inexplicable sadness, a grief that you had never known before. you wanted to get rid of her pain, any and all of it. none of it came from you, you didn’t want her to have it. but that was so quickly forgotten. because as you moved to touch her shoulder with your shaking hand, it was eclipsed by another. a larger hand, the hand of a man. a pale hand. a hand you had touched before, even kissed. the hand of your man.

your eyes met, each with equal fear, horror and sadness. it was then that you knew that the curse of tashi duncan wouldn’t rest until you died. she would steal and steal and steal, even beyond the grave. he looked caught, because he was. he was caught. once you loved tashi you never stopped. he had raced into the court because she had fallen at a game he attended to watch you play, had touched her shoulder with the hand that had held you. he was not yours, as much as you needed him to be. his eyes twinkled with regret, but told you everything you needed to know.

your hand drew away with a flick, like it had given you an electric shock. you rose from tashis tortured body. his hand slipped to where yours had rested. this was all somehow not her fault, while being her fault entirely. you hated her so much it made your heart bleed. you didn’t want anything to do with her anymore. no whisper of her name, no nothing. from this moment on she was dead to you.

you didn’t bother looking over your shoulder to see if art was watching you leave. he wasn’t. the umpire boomed something through a mega phone, something like wait. but you were going home.

in the hall you bumped shoulders with patrick zweig. he was rushing to find her. he looked at you once to apologise hurriedly, twice to utter your name in recognition, and a third time to look at your back and wonder why you were so down. tashi was out. you won by default.

[chuunai]

husband chuuya ! who loves to flaunt you off. he’s never truly had anything—or anyone—to himself, and he wants the whole world to know. you’re entirely out of his league, and resemble the epitome of perfection. his aphrodite, someone that men look at and wish they were graced with for even a mere moment. he may harbor a god inside his body, but he is nothing compared to you.

husband chuuya ! who showers you in gifts. the prettiest dresses, heels and jewelry available in Yokohama is all bestowed upon you. as an executive of the mafia, his wallet is gorged with cash and expensive cards that only the upper echelon of wealth have access to. and he’s more than willing to spend every last cent on you and red wine.

husband chuuya ! who always sleeps on the side of the bed that’s closer to the door. if an assassin from a rival group were ever to break in, he wants to make sure he’s the first one they’ll encounter. in his unreal and terrifying world of death, blood and criminals, you’re the only innocent factor. as his wife, so many hits are placed on you in order to get at him. he’d never let that happen though. without you, he’d turn back into the monster the world knew he was.

husband chuuya ! who yearns for a family. he knows he has his own biological one, albeit they aren’t aware he’s alive, yet his heart aches for one he could start with you. the thought of being a dad infects his mind and dreams, had swallowed his future and left only one option. when that becomes reality, he knows his life will be complete.

husband chuuya ! who thanks this godforsaken universe for at least granting him one good thing amongst all the bad things. in a world of so much loss and suffering, he has you to hope about and live for. he’s not much of a sentimental man, however every night before he succumbs to the embrace of slumber, he can’t help kissing your wedding ring as a silent promise to be there forever.

Tags: @little-miss-chaoss, @starrs20, @sinfulthoughtsposts, @twst-om-lover.

also guys PLEASE send in more short headcannons or requests I’ve got nearly 550 followers but like 15 things in my inbox TvT

[jacesvelaryons]

His Chosen Bride (Senator!Coriolanus Snow x Capitol Reader).

Chapter 1

masterlist

series masterlist

excerpt

summary: senator coriolanus snow seems on top of the world with everything in his life ahead of him except for one thing. the perfect bride. in his pursuit, your life changes forever.

word count: 1.7k

a/n: thank you everyone for your patience as I prepared this!! i hope you all love it and show your support through likes, reblogs and especially comments of what you thought! i love hearing what my readers and other people in the fandom think about my work, so any of your thoughts would be appreciated.

requests OPEN

Upon his return to the Capitol, his reputation restored, wealth acquired from the Plinths who so generously named him the heir to their grand fortune, his path to power was paved for him and he knew he just had to take the strides to get to the prize. The Presidency.

Coriolanus Snow, scion of one of the oldest and most elite of bloodlines of the great Panem families was home, his shameful exile to District 12 remembered by no one and purged from the registry.

Enrolled in university and an apprentice gamemaker, he was eventually promoted to become Senior Gamemaker upon Dr. Gaul’s semi-retirement and her preparation to hand off the reins to her protégé. Her brain child whom she molded from the vestiges of his sorrow and pain, of his loss in the districts and what hardened him into the man he was now.

When he graduated with honours from the political science department, it was only a few months before he was elected in a landslide to become the youngest Senator in Panem’s history, relying on his contributions to the recent games, memories of his late parents to those of a certain age to secure his win.

He would have considered re-election for another term before advisors of his and other cabinet members of the old, sickly President Ravinstill were close to swearing their support but all echoed the same thing that he lacked, they said. It was not his youth, he was wise for his age they said, but he was not married. If he had a wife, they said - they would be on board for his presidential election. And it seemed that election would be sooner than later, even before his first term finished.

Coriolanus needed to find a wife, not just of good breeding, but of the most impeccable lineage, from among the most illustrious hundred or so families of Capitol society. It was a given it would be purely political and strategic, someone whom he could not love and open his heart to after his previous tragedy pursuing such.

The perfect bride. The search for the perfect companion, the woman whom he would call his wife, his future first lady, and mother of his heirs. The ideal woman who would bridge the gap between his dreams to make them a reality.

He could not just choose the first possible candidate recommended to him or that caught his eye, Coriolanus had to devise a thorough, multi-step testing process to find his perfect wife, his bride.

A rigorous procedure would be curated in finding her. Interviews, tests, exams, genealogical inquiries, fitness tests, and practice scenarios will be prompted from eligible candidates, already filtering through those only from the old, grand families upon application.

Digging through his family library into the latest edition handbook of noble and elite families of the Capitol’s upper class, the creme de la creme, ignoring recently disgraced clans, ones full of scandal and controversy, with plenty of illegitimate children, and extinct ones rotting in poverty nearly like his own had he not reversed their fortune.

He scheduled a meeting with his advisors and closest allies on creating the program, the selection process, examinations and interrogation, and how to make the announcement for the families of these eligible girls to put their names in, with their consent or not.

Coriolanus Snow was born from the upper echelon of society, and only deserved the best woman with whom he would continue his lineage with and hail his presidency with. No one had dared, rather self-important he could argue if he cared, to make as many girls clamour for his attention rather than to propose to a woman of his choice.

Just as he was about to put the book down and shut it closed, a name caught his attention. Yours. Your lineage, accomplishments, your etiquette were second to none, and he had to have you. At all costs. He would burn heaven and hell, but the question remains - would he win you over? Or will he have to force your hand no matter what?

Besides, he requires others to choose from, even if you are the most qualified. It would not do well for your ego to have the satisfaction you were chosen for. He wants you to want it, to beg for it, claim it and aspire to be one worthy to be by his side, motivated by the competition who would slit your throat and ruin your reputation for it.

And yet a lingering thought crept up his mind. He had brought life back into the Hunger Games, that was on its dying breath before his arrival, why not another? Everything is a game if you try hard enough.

…

A brightly lit room surrounded you as you grabbed a few more pieces of dandelions and baby’s breath bunches for your bouquet, in your floral arrangement lessons for the week. Under the watchful eye of your teacher, a premiere florist who is hired by the Capitol’s elite for the most fashionable and well-sought events every season.

Hailing from one of the oldest families among the Capitol’s blue bloods, your family may not be the wealthiest but definitely prosperous to be among them, yet your lineage is prominent even before Panem’s founding, the most ancient of them all.

In your family home’s perfectly manicured garden, you immerse yourself in the arrangement, something that would impress your teacher yet also something you would find pleasant in a vase by your study. No way would someone of your heritage be found associating with anything subpar.

After your studies at the Academy, your lessons and tutoring would never end, usually something different for each day. Piano, ballet, etiquette, floristry, household management, painting and so on.

As you gathered a crimson bow around the branches of your bouquet, you could hear murmurs among the uniformly dressed maids and servants around the stately home, as your mother jaunted towards you in her glossy designer heels.

“Yes, mother?” You greeted politely, observing the unreadable expression on your mother’s face.

She approached you carefully, gently taking your hands in her own, soft and having never experienced hardship.

“A great honour has been bestowed on you, daughter. A promising Senator has taken a liking to you, and wants you to be considered for his future bride.” Your mother smiles in celebration and pride, and your brows furrow in consternation.

“A Senator as old as father? A man old enough to be my grandfather-”

“Hush, darling. He is young, from a proper family of the elite family unlike those Plinths, new money scum. Senator Coriolanus Snow, the son of late General Crassus Snow and his wife Victoria Snow. He is only twenty four, I think you would like him.” She brushes your hair behind your ears, but you turn away from her, pushing her hands away.

“Twenty four, when I am eighteen?”

Your mother shrugs. “It is the way of the world I suppose. I was your age when I met your father. Eighteen and he was twenty one, a match fit for the sort like us.”

“You mentioned I was being considered but no outright proposal or courting has begun. What do you mean?”

She unveiled a large envelope she was holding behind her back, taking it out for you before a gold hued canvas invitation was unveiled.

Dear Y/N L/N and family, I hope this letter finds you well. As I have progressed through my career as a gamemaker and politician, it has been too long since I have navigated through life without a lifelong companion and wife.

You are a woman of unblemished character, accomplished in many ways, intelligent, well-bred and would fit the bill of what a man like me seeks in a future partner.

There is no guarantee that you must receive this invitation and accept, but rather that your name will be included in a pool of candidates to be considered. I hope that you and your family would view this as a position of honour, and even if you shall not be chosen, you will be compensated for your time and this shall only raise your standing in our society.

Please reply to the number and address attached below with your response, and I would be beholden and pleased to hear if you would put your name forward to possibly become my future First Lady.

Sincerely, Senator Coriolanus Snow

You could not believe it, the humiliation of not being asked directly for one’s hand in marriage but having to compete with other ladies of society and grovel for his attention.

“Are you and papa seriously making me do this? The Hunger Games to be someone’s wife and heir maker?!”

Your mother sighs, shaking her head as she crosses her arms. “You do not understand, child. I have heard of other elite families whose daughters, sisters, nieces such as the Heavensbees, the Cardews, Dovecotes, among a few have been invited and all have accepted. No one would even think to refuse a Snow!”

“But it is not guaranteed. How would I not be offended if he did not make a guaranteed offer but wants me to participate like I am in a beauty pageant. I have to close off even entertaining other suitors and I am not even assured that I will not be left dry and humiliated if I was not chosen.”

“Your grandmother was Miss Panem many years ago before the war and those rebels ruined everything, I am sure he will choose you. Even if he did not, any other unmarried peer of yours would scoop you up in no time, that if Snow perceived you as someone potential, they are from the cream of the crop.”

You sighed, putting down your shearing tools and your bunches of daisies and baby’s breath. You never liked roses.

“You have always aimed for the stars, daughter. Would you pass on an opportunity like this or be forgotten to the tombs of time?” Your mother suggests, walking over to you with a guiding hand on your shoulder. “Choose wisely if you want to make something of yourself, to not pass on opportunities like this.

Golden letter in hand, you stared intensely at the dark line above your name, signifying whether you would submit your name or not. With a bold stroke of your ink pen, you sign your fate and future away. I agree to participate.

Let the games begin.

His Chosen Bride Taglist:

(if your name is bolded, I put in your user but it didn't show up when prompted so I'm not sure if you got notified!) Please let me know if you'd like to be added and reminded every time I update.

@xsunaxrinx @bialuvss @emma0320 @callieyanderechan @crimsonred13 @starcrosslove @castellandiangelo @sylmthadmnglla13 @tragicmiserybone @o12lk22gr @anna-stasia @paumartinezsstuff @coriosbunni @nora4us @jupiterstearx @corvinaweeb @batman1asf @imperfectophelia @madmaxsalltoowell @vicky2408 @folklorelogy @bradpittwh0re @linaa20 @abcde601375 @kickmybark @emynunez21 @princessofthereach @maeve-a24 @ellie-bellie-29 @ashfromurfire @dante-pearl @yuuuumii @kxksksjjd @everythingjp @frill0 @aslalali @addriaenne @joyfulyouthlover @rbrsvb @motomami111 @imamybubbles @x-gabrielle-x @crystalstars88 @cc13723things @izzy02soph @shycandykitty @thtweirdointhecornr1917 @drpeperrlover11 @starmaiden @itz-me-cherie @papi-chulo69000 @meetmeatyourworst @sombodynotimportant @hyunjinspdf @bellaramseysgirlfriend @mari-mari12 @kis9na @lvrdilfs @mizuki80mizuki80 @deago21 @hafisjfjsit @miniatureblazellama @livid-euphoria @sugaxmamii @kropka4321 @jamesyrobin @joana2934 @kotadislikesthissite @byisy @shinae28 @atlasedelgard @eimearj123 @urfavewh0r3 @sophs-sofa @dreammie-marrie @cos-ilsee @nikolaikirche0 @bigwmc66 @mandoskenobi @theswreties @soniusstuff @1lovesnowballs @bitvhese @craftycloudcollection @byraaaaan19 @mythic-moon-moth @reading-in-velaris @bestboymikey @marytargaryen @cleverpeachheropersona @adeline32sblog @snowdrops-png @lysonal @tiffdx @bingxuu @noothemoo

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 YOU AND ME (ALWAYS FOREVER)!

FEATURING: dark era!dazai osamu

SUMMARY: more than friends, not quite lovers. that's been your relationship with dazai osamu for as long as you can remember. you didn't want to push him, and you gave him plenty of chances, but there's only so long you can wait for someone. you thought you would be better off moving on—you were wrong, of course. (wordcount: 4.8k; sfw; angst (???) but with a happy ending)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: dark era dazai </3 my heart, i got a sudden urge to write for him and i wanted it to be fluff but then i got this idea and just had to go with it (warnings: fem!reader, smoking & drinking, suicide attempt mentions)

In your defense, you were never dating Dazai Osamu.

Not for a lack of trying on your part, of course. You’ve made your interest in him clear since you met him at sixteen during the Dragon’s Head Conflict, when Mori Ougai pulled you back from where you were stationed in Kyoto dealing with his associates to help with the declining situation in Yokohama. And you’d thought he felt similarly to you. You really did. The two of you had become inseparable within weeks of knowing each other, such a swift and strong connection that it almost felt unreal. You’d heard rumors of him, of course, before coming back to Yokohama—the infamous Demon Prodigy that Mori had brought in and groomed into becoming his heir, ruthless and cold and so terrifyingly intelligent that he had the entire upper echelon of the Port Mafia on edge. 

By the time you got back to Yokohama, he’d already had a heavy reputation following him, dark shadows clinging to him like a second skin. Demon Prodigy. Black Wraith. So many monikers attached to him, but he never really felt like the monster that everyone claimed him to be.

He and Nakahara Chuuya had been the one sent to retrieve you from Yokohama Station, an area very close to the heart of the gang conflict, and even from the first meeting, he’d always been… well, you’re not going to say normal because he’s not normal. He’s always had an unnerving air about him, eyes a bit too cold and dark, smile a bit too teethy, but he’s always come across as just another kid your age. Maybe a bit lonelier than most, which could be off-putting to other people, but it never bothered you. And yes, you’ve seen the way other members of the Mafia treat him—they’re scared of him, go to extreme lengths so as to not cross paths with him, but you’ve never seen him in the same light they do.

Well, not until recently, at least. 

Again. In your defense, you were never dating him. 

But you’d known he cared about you as more than a friend. And you’d cared about him as more than a friend too. And you waited. You waited almost two years for him to say something. You didn’t want to do it yourself, you know Dazai is flighty and he’s not used to emotions, and you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but god, there’s only so much waiting you can take before you start to give up.

When the two year mark hit, you’d become convinced that Dazai was never going to act on his feelings for you; instead, he’d prefer to wait it out until they passed, and if they never did, he’d just pretend they didn’t exist at all. You can’t really blame him, the Mafia is not a place conducive for relationships, it’s only a matter of time before your luck runs out and one of you end up dead by a bullet through the head or captured by the enemy, and the thought of getting attached to someone only to lose them is enough to scare anyone away. 

But you don’t want to live your life in fear, no matter how short it may be, and you also don’t want to live it alone. So when an opportunity arose at a cafe near the main headquarters, where you met a civilian around your age who showed immediate interest in you, you jumped on it. And it’d caught a lot of people off guard—Kouyou was surprised, Chuuya was baffled and questioning what a civilian could possibly have that interested you, even Mori gave you a double take and an odd look the first time he overheard Elise interrogating you about your new boyfriend.

But no one took it as poorly as Dazai.

Your throat feels tight as you remember the hurt expression that crossed over his face when you told him. It was so brief and so foreign of an expression to see on his face that you’d thought you’d imagined it, he was quick to school his expression back into a cold and closed-off one (one that he’d never directed toward you before that moment), but there was no mistaking the way the corner of his lip twitched and the way he suddenly couldn’t meet your eyes. 

How nice, he’d told you, voice frighteningly icy, acidic, even, before he made a half-assed excuse about a mission that you knew he wasn’t assigned to. And it was so unlike him to offer himself up to handle missions, usually Mori has to force him with threats of giving Chuuya his executive position for him to do anything that makes him extend the barest amount of effort . But he did, and he handled it, very bloodily and uncharacteristically inefficient, as if he was releasing all of his pent up rage onto the unfortunate souls who happened to stumble into Port Mafia territory.

You were never, at any point, dating Dazai Osamu. 

You think you’ve told yourself it hundreds of times over the past three months, throwing yourself into your work and enjoying a relationship with a boy who clearly was invested in you and cares about you in a way that Dazai Osamu would never allow himself to admit. You also think that Dazai Osamu has no right being as bitter and angry as he is—you gave him two years to come to terms with his feelings and make a move, you’ve made your own subtle hints that he promptly ignored. If he wanted to be with you, he blew his chance a hundredfold, and he can go screw off if he thinks he can be upset about it only after you’d found someone else. 

Which is what he did, pretty much, and it was a lot harder than you expected—going from talking to him every waking second of every day, seeking him out whenever you have free time and vice versa, to only seeing him during the joint meetings between the executives and sub executives, where even then, he wouldn’t even spare you a glance. It was hard, and deep down, you don’t think being able to experience an actual relationship was worth losing your best friend, but the damage had already been done by that point, so you could only lie in the bed you made. 

And you did enjoy the relationship. The boy you’d met was sweet. He was good. He was impressively smart—a government and law major at one of the most prestigious universities in this part of the country—and humble to a fault. 

But he wasn’t Dazai. 

You knew in your heart that you didn’t want sweet or good, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise. You didn’t want the type of smart that he was, top of his class and on track for law school, seeking out a job as a public defender in Tokyo. You wanted the type of smart Dazai was, wicked and devious, putting together vicious and efficient strategies to take down enemies of the Mafia, on track for taking over the position as boss in the future. You wanted him for all of his twisted moralities and questionable thoughts.

And it was unfair to you, and it was unfair to Dazai, and most importantly it was unfair to the boy you kept leading on, that you’ve refused to acknowledge this for as long as you have just for the chance of experiencing a real relationship. 

Which is why you stand here now, outside the infamous Bar Lupin that you know Dazai has been drinking himself into oblivion at everyday for the past three months, notably single and possibly about to meet your end at the hands of a drunken and scorned Mafia executive. 

You think you must look like a fool right now. You’ve been standing right outside the door in the rain for fifteen minutes debating on whether or not you should actually go in. You’re nervous, and that makes you sad because you’ve never been nervous to talk to Dazai before, and you’re not nervous because you’re scared of him, you’re nervous because you don’t think you have the balls to actually confront him, knowing that you’d genuinely hurt the boy that everyone claimed didn’t have the emotions to be hurt. He let you in when he doesn’t let anyone in, and you chose to be careless and you chose to give up, and you hurt him. 

And you remind yourself again: you were not dating Dazai Osamu. You remind yourself that you gave him chances, he had opportunities, and he chose not to take them. You remind yourself that he’s just as at fault as you are for the falling out, but you can’t help but also remind yourself that he was the one that came out the most hurt by the situation. Yes, him cutting himself off from you was upsetting, but you didn’t have to watch him go around happy in a relationship with someone else. He did. 

With that thought in mind, you push the door open to the bar. A soft bell rings above you and instantly, three heads swivel in your direction: the bartender, and two men that you recognize as Sakaguchi Ango, one of the Port Mafia’s special intelligence agents, and Oda Sakunosuke, who you only know through Dazai’s high praise of the man from when the two of you were still on speaking terms. The only person in the room who matters to you doesn’t even bother to look to see who entered the bar, one hand circling the glass of whiskey in front of him while a cigarette dangles from the other. You watch as he lifts it to his lips to take a long drag, head falling tilting back to look up at the ceiling as he exhales a cloud of smoke, seemingly unbothered by your presence.

Already, you feel as if you’ve made a mistake, but you force yourself to continue.

The bartender nods his head in respect to you, although you can’t help but notice he flashes a wary look to Dazai. You wonder, pitifully, how much he’s said about you in this place. Sakaguchi and Oda share a look with one another. Both of them speak a low murmur of your name, inclining their head dutifully—you’re not quite an executive yet, but with the Piano Man of the Flags dead, you and Chuuya are fighting for the next spot to open up. Chuuya will likely be the one to get it, which you think he deserves from all of the heavy lifting he’s done on operations the past two years, but you feel a bit awkward when they give you your due respect when you're here with your tail between your legs trying to talk to Dazai.

Sakaguchi and Oda take their leave when you arrive, giving short goodbyes to Dazai, telling them that they’ll see him another day, and the bartender makes a fumbled excuse about going to the back to restock, leaving you alone with Dazai. Internally, you wither just a bit because you think if they’d stayed, Dazai might keep a handle on himself because you know he views Oda highly; instead, they left you in the lion’s den alone. Which you might deserve, but you digress.

You let out a quiet puff of air as you make your way over to the bar stool next to Dazai, taking a seat in it carefully. Still, he doesn’t look at you, but you look at him and the aching in your chest returns tenfold as your gaze sweeps over him fully for the first time in months. During the joint meetings between the executives and sub-executives, you were always sure to keep your glances short and sweet, not wanting to risk any lingering looks, but now, you can look at him in his entirety for the first time since that fateful discussion three months ago. 

He hasn’t changed much. Or, well, that’s a lie. He’s definitely changed. The circles beneath his eye are darker, his expression a carefully constructed blank mask. You think he might’ve lost some weight, his coat has always been big on him but the way it hangs over his shoulders now is looser than it was before. If it weren’t for the way his fingers were tense around his glass of whiskey, you’d have thought he was entirely unperturbed by your arrival.

You don’t know what to say, and you know you need to be the first to speak because you’re the one that showed up here to talk to him, but now that you’re sitting in front of him you’re floundering for words. You could just come out and say that you broke up with your boyfriend, but you feel like that would be a bit weird, and he’d probably laugh in your face and make a comment about how he doesn’t care. You could ask him how he’s been, but you think he might genuinely put a bullet in you for trying to make small talk with him like that right now. 

The longer you stay silent, the more awkward it becomes, and you want to cry because you’ve never been awkward with Dazai before, and for a brief second, you wonder if things really have changed too much to go back to how they were. 

Finally, you decide to just come out and say, bracing yourself for the inevitable derisive words that are going to leave his lips. “I broke up with him.”

Dazai’s scoff is loud and instantaneous, you bite your tongue, eyes sliding shut as you turn to face ahead instead of looking at him. Cowardly, you know, but you don’t want to see the sneer on his face when he asks you why he should care. 

But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything at first. If you were looking at him, you’d see the way his cold expression shifted into a more conflicted one, still staring ahead because he can’t bring himself to look at you. You count each passing second, and it’s agonizing waiting for him to speak, a part of you thinks that maybe he won’t, and you’ll just have to leave the bar with your tail between your legs, humiliated. 

But then he does. 

“Why?” he finally asks coolly, and your eyes snap open and your gaze slides over to him when you realize he did not, in fact, hit you with the derogation you expected.

He still isn’t looking at you, and you watch as he lifts his free hand back to his lips, taking another long drag of his cigarette as he waits for your response. You swallow thickly when you try to figure out what to say next. 

What you want to say is ‘because he wasn’t you,’ but you’re not ready to bare yourself vulnerable in front of him like that when he’s still so unpredictable. Just because he didn’t immediately hit you with the harsh words you expected, doesn’t mean he isn’t going to lure you in just to slap you in the face with it, which is how you’re sure he perceived what you did three months ago. 

Rather, you say quietly: “He was boring, I guess.”

It’s a lie. Well, a partial lie, at least. He was a good guy, he was just boring compared to what you wanted, and what you wanted was Dazai Osamu, who no one in the world could hope to compare to. 

“He was boring,” Dazai echoes your words, a cruel and mocking lilt to his voice, and you brace yourself now, taking the sudden switch in tone as the flicking off of the safety. But he shakes his head as he lets out a puff of air, you can’t tell if it’s another scoff or a laugh. “How cold-hearted of you. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, given your track record.”

Two paths lay before you: you can take the words as well-deserved, trying to avoid the inevitable fight, or you can spit back equally venomous words, dive in headfirst so the two of you can get everything off of your chest. Both choices are double-edged. If you avoid the fight, it means avoiding the topic altogether, and even if the two of you choose to speak again, the resentment of what had happened will only poison and fester. If you dive into the fight, there’s a chance of saying words you can’t take back, and everything might fall apart anyway.

What do you want? You want to ask him, because you aren’t sure what the right decision is. Three months ago, if you and Dazai got into a disagreement about something, you would know in an instant whether or not he wanted to fight it out to let off steam or just pretend it didn’t happen. Now, you aren’t so sure. He’s still not looking at you, so you can’t use the look in his eye as a hint, but his shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, and his knuckles are white around his glass of whiskey. Your gaze drags up to his face, catching the way his jaw is tight, teeth probably grinding together, and you know. 

You look ahead again, leveling your vision on a particularly nice bottle of wine on the third shelf of the wine rack as you say: “I’d rather be cold-hearted than a coward.”

For the first time since you’ve arrived, Dazai’s gaze cuts in your direction, head snapping to the side. You turn your head toward him just enough for you to eye him from the corner of your eye, catching glimpse of the way his lip curled up into a snarl and the way flames now rage in the browns of his eye—a far cry from the bottomless void, but you prefer the anger to the emptiness. 

“A coward?” His voice is low, cold, dangerous. 

You’re treading on thin ice, but you choose to stoke the flame more, gaze sliding back to the wine racks ahead.

“A coward.”

The silence that hangs between the two of you is tense and damning, you have to force yourself not to react to it, keeping your expression as stony as his as you wait for his response. He’ll either hit you back with more venom or he’ll settle down, one will lead to a blow out fight and the other will lead to a very tense conversation. 

You don’t want to fight him, but if that’s what he wants, you’ll give it to him. 

After what feels like an eternity, Dazai makes another scornful noise but he doesn’t say anything, gaze snapping back ahead as he takes a drag of his cigarette, this one clearly fueled by anger, far more aggressive than the last one. As if to piss him off even more, he hardly gets half of a smoke, down to the nub already. Frustrated, he puts the lingering cinders out on the bartop before reaching for the pack in his pocket, pulling out a new cigarette and his lighter.

You watch as he tries to flick the lighter on, cigarette dangling between his lips, but the old thing refuses to cooperate. Distantly, you wonder why Dazai is so damn stubborn: working with an old lighter, living in a shitty shipping container, wearing the same few pairs of clothes every day when he probably has more money than god hoarded from his executive paycheck. But you only force yourself to not roll your eyes as you pull out your own lighter, flicking it on and holding it out to him without looking at him. 

You watch from the corner of your eye as he stares at your hand suspiciously before he exhales from the side of his mouth, dipping his head down to light the cigarette before he faces ahead again. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches out for his glass of whiskey, still mostly full, and then he slides it over to you.

An offering. A white flag. 

You barely withhold the breath of relief that nearly escapes you, accepting the drink and taking a long sip of it. It’s his favorite brand, smooth and familiar on the tongue; you haven’t been able to bring yourself to drink it since your falling out with him. 

“Was it really because he was boring?” Dazai finally asks. He’s not looking at you again, but you can see from the way his fingers are tense against the bartop that he’s probably waiting for a certain response from you.

You let your eyes slide shut. “No,” you admit.

“Then why?” he presses, as if he doesn’t already know. 

“You know why,” you say tightly, shaking your head and looking down.

“Tell me anyway,” Dazai responds quietly, you can feel his gaze on you but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Irrationally, even though the atmosphere between the two of you has shifted, you wonder if this is it: he’s going to get you to admit it and then laugh in your face, cruel but probably deserved. 

“Because he wasn’t you,” you finally force out.

He doesn’t respond. Your heart sinks to your stomach, a sick feeling churning. You brace yourself again—you don’t know what for, maybe a laugh or a derisive comment, but he does nothing of the sort. 

A long exhale, smoke billowing around his face, a heavy look in his eyes. He doesn’t look at you as he says: “You’re right.”

You don’t respond because you’re not sure what he’s referring to. Finally, he tilts his head to look at you, a wry smile on his lips—your chest feels warm at the sight, you can’t remember the last time you’ve seen him smile. Probably not since the falling out. 

“I was a coward.”

Oh.

The frustration you felt all of those months ago returns with a vengeance. You had danced with possibilities back then: that you were reading too much into things, that he didn’t actually care for you the way you did for him, that he simply did not want to be with you even if he did care about you that way. Now, faced with confirmation that he had felt the same but was just too pussy to act on it, your chest swells with that familiar anger. You force it away. 

“Why?” you ask after a few moments of silence, nails digging into the palm of your hands as you rest them on your lap. “I… I waited for two years, Dazai. I gave you so many openings. You knew how I felt.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet, barely audible. 

“Then why?” you repeat his words back to him, pressing hard just like he did. His throat bobs beneath his bandages as he swallows, averting his gaze, or trying to, at least, because you don’t let him. You reach out to grab his chin tightly, forcing him to look at you, and the pads of your fingers burn against his skin, hyper aware of the fact that this is the first time you’ve touched him in three months. “Why?”

His hand comes up to grab your wrist as if to pull your hand off of him, but he doesn’t, grip firm around your wrist, fingers pressing against your pulse point, and you’re acutely conscious of the fact that your pulse is probably racing but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

“I told you why,” he says, voice uncharacteristically soft. Vulnerable in a way that you’ve never seen him before. “I was a coward. I… didn’t want to risk ruining our friendship... I don't have many friends. You know that. I would’ve rather just ignored how I felt and kept you as a friend, because I didn’t think there’d be a chance of losing you that way. I thought if I acted on how I felt, one day you’d eventually see me for what I am and I’d lose you altogether.”

“Some good that did you.” You can’t help the resentful words that spill from your lips, but you feel guilty when he winces, hand dropping back to your lap, his grip slipping from your wrist. “You think I don’t already see you for who you are? We’ve known each other since we were sixteen, Dazai. I know all of the sick and twisted thoughts that run through your head, I knew exactly what I was getting into.”

Dazai shakes his head, as if to deny your words. You get frustrated.

“I spend hours at your recovery bed after your attempts, I’ve caught you in the middle of them myself, do you know what the first thing I did was after I told you I had a boyfriend?” you demand, and he stares at you, unsure. “I put a protection detail on him because I thought you’d try to have him killed, or try to kill him yourself.”

Dazai winces. You shake your head and look away, settling down again. 

“For someone so smart, you really are so goddamn stupid sometimes,” you sigh, taking a long swig of his drink before placing the glass back down on the table. “I saw you for who you are, and I wanted you anyway.”

“Wanted?” Dazai asks, an uncertain expression on his face as he zeroes in on the past tense.

“Want,” you correct, voice little over a breath, and something akin to relief sweeps across his face as his gaze drops down to the bartop.

The silence that hangs between the two of you is more comfortable this time. Reassuring, even, because maybe things might still be awkward between the two of you for a while, but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, one much brighter than the one the two of you lived in three months ago. 

“I can’t believe you went for a civilian,” Dazai suddenly says, almost sounding indignant. “A civilian. You!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you snap when you hear the incredulous tone he takes when he says ‘you’.

“You’re a stone cold bitch,” Dazai accuses and you gape, but you can’t find it in yourself to be offended because his eyes are lit up for the first time in months, a lopsided smile painted on his face. “And you’ve got as much blood on your hands as I do. You. A civilian. I think I would’ve been less offended if you went for Chuuya.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” you snort, and then you add, a bit amused, “you know what he wants a job as?” 

“Tell me,” Dazai drawls, resting his chin on his hand as he leans on the bar, watching you with such a fond expression that it makes you feel warm all over. 

God, you missed him the past three months. 

“He wanted to go to law school. Become a public defender.”

Dazai chokes over the smoke he inhales, and you press your hand to your lips to smother your giggles as he desperately wheezes between laughs. You’re not sure if he’s actually choking, you think he might actually be dying from how red his face is getting.

“Maybe you should keep in contact with him then,” he gasps between laughs, “we might need one of those one day.”

“As if you’re sloppy enough to ever get caught,” you say dryly.

He winks at you, his grin sharpening, and you know you’re not going to like what he’s about to say. “Oh, I’m not. By ‘we’, I meant you.”

“Douchebag.” You roll your eyes, letting another silence settle over the two of you, a smile on your lips now as you take another sip of your drink. He’s the one to break it again.

“... Odasaku convinced me not to, by the way.”

“What?” 

“To kill him. I was going to. Odasaku convinced me not to.”

You let out a sigh of utter suffering, giving Dazai a pointed look—see, you say silently, I know you. He has the decency to look a bit sheepish as lifts his cigarette back to his mouth in lieu of responding to your unspoken words. 

“Stop with the self sabotage, Dazai,” you finally say, tired. “For both of our sakes’.”

He doesn’t respond, and you know him well enough to know that he’ll probably never stop with the self sabotage, but he does reach out to lace your fingers with his, and the warm feeling that spreads through your chest is enough to satiate you. 

Little steps, because no, the Mafia is not a conducive place for relationships and yes, it’s only a matter of time before luck runs out for one of you, but if your life is destined to be short, there’s only one person you want to spend it with.

[threestarsaboveclouds]

Ah, hello again little animal. I see you’ve brought me a pearl. Would you like me to read it?

…

This pearl contains a data buffer from an ID drone that belonged to one of my former citizens. I imagine you retrieved this from within my city?

It would appear that the drone transmitted this data to a nearby access point before losing power. That data was then dumped into this pearl for long-term storage. The drone was probably damaged- much of the data is corrupted, but I can retrieve some sections.

The data itself is a combination of citizen telemetry data, vitals, and audiovisual recordings stored as low-resolution qualia. Most of it is rather mundane, just glances at the ebbs and flows of daily life. I can’t imagine you’d be very interested.

…

… your expectant stare tells me you are indeed interested.

Very well. I suppose I can spare a moment to entertain you, little animal. If that is what it takes for you to leave me alone. My current background processes don’t require the use of my puppet anyway…

Now then…

…

… ah, here is a section that is largely intact. This is a recording of a conversation. I will repeat it aloud for you.

[ AUDIO TRANSCRIPTION - YELLOW-GREEN PEARL ]

…

???: State your name and title.

???: Fourteen Eclipses, Nineteen Dark Shadows. Member of the House of Two, Count of no Living Blocks, Counselor of 4, Duke of none. Member of the Congregation of Tasteful Ambiguity.

???: Excellent. The House of Spheres has been expecting you. You may enter.

Fourteen Eclipses: I am eternally grateful.

???: …

Fourteen Eclipses: May I ask your name?

???: Distant Stars, Twelve Moons. High Priest of the House of Spheres, Count of 3 Living Blocks, Counselor of 5, Duke of 1. Head of the Congregation of Gracious Thought.

Fourteen Eclipses: I am honored to make your acquaintance, Distant Stars, Twelve Moons.

Distant Stars: Likewise. Follow me.

…

Fourteen Eclipses: I presume you have read my proposal?

Distant Stars: Indeed. It appears promising.

FE: I am forever honored, Distant Stars, Twelve Moons. I am eager to begin my research under the House of Spheres.

DS: Be patient, Fourteen Eclipses, Nineteen Dark Shadows. Yours is not the only proposal with merit.

FE: Of course.

DS: Upon review, the House of Spheres endorses your proposal. You are aware of this already.

FE: Indeed, I am. Your approval letter arrived via pearl earlier this cycle.

DS: You are a novice of the Institute of Firmamentalist Studies, so I will explain our approval process. Your submitted proposal has been passed through the echelons of the House of Spheres, and the Council of High Priests recommends your methodology warmly.

FE: By this I am humbled, High Priest. I am once more unendingly grateful.

DS: The Council does not hold the final authority on the process of approvals, however.

FE: It does not?

DS: No. We are ultimately beholden to the Divine Exalted Superstructure, Three Stars Above Clouds.

FE: The iterator?

DS: Our iterator, yes. Now that you are a citizen of Zenith, they are your iterator as well.

FE: I see.

DS: Three Stars Above Clouds, in their immeasurable wisdom and ceaseless amenability, ultimately carries out all observatory proposals. The telescopes atop the Institute's Pinnacle Vertex Spires are trusted to our iterator’s gracious influence.

FE: I did not realize this.

DS: An understandable oversight. Precious few Iterators have quite as much sway over the actions of their Houses.

FE: Please forgive my ignorance; why, may I ask, is your iterator allowed such a privilege?

DS: They were created for such a purpose. The relationship we Houses have with our iterator is a symbiotic one. You hail from an older superstructure arcology, so I understand that such concepts must be a novelty. The city of Zenith was constructed with this mutualism in mind; we depend on our iterator for water, energy, and nectar, and in turn they depend on us. We place our trust in Three Stars Above Clouds to iterate on the Great Problem, but this is an endeavor we share as Firmamentalists. It is a mutual burden.

FE: Iterators are meant to release Us from the Natural Urges. Does this relationship not indulge upon the Third Urge?

DS: Perhaps it does. But Three Stars Above Clouds is our child, and we are beholden to them as their parents. Any aid we can provide our Iterator increases our likelihood of converging upon the Solution. We do this by trusting them to carry out our proposals, and in turn they return with invaluable data. But any good parent must place faith in their child, and we trust Three Stars Above Clouds to discern only the most promising research proposals through their gift of vast intellect.

FE: I believe I understand why this meeting was necessary, then.

DS: Indeed, you have caught on quick. Ah, we have arrived.

FE: Where exactly are we?

DS: Beyond this threshold is the Grand Planetarium, 10th Council Pillar of the House of Spheres.

FE: The Grand Planetarium! I have only beholden its magnificence from the building's exterior!

DS: Here you may commune directly with the Divine Exalted Superstructure, Three Stars Above Clouds.

FE: Directly?

DS: Yes.

FE: …

DS: Fourteen Eclipses?

FE: … I’ve never spoken to an iterator before.

DS: Very few have! You should be honored!

FE: … if I may speak candidly… I am nervous.

DS: There is no reason for fear. Three Stars Above Clouds is a trusted mentor and a dear friend to Zenith. They are highly motivated in their research, and they are eager to be offered a proposal that is worthy of their prodigious intellect and sharp acumen.

FE: I hope what you say is truthful…

...

DS: ...Three Stars Above Clouds also deeply values their time and has very little of it to spare. I would caution against continuing to dawdle.

FE: Yes! Of course, yes yes…

DS: Let us not prolong these niceties any longer. I wish you good luck.

FE: Thank you, High Priest.

…

The owner of this ID drone, Fourteen Eclipses, Nineteen Dark Shadows, was a scholar of Zenith’s Institute for Firmamentalist Studies. I cannot recall our conversation; I talked to countless other researchers, scholars, and entrepreneurs just like them in my time as the Director of Zenith’s Stellar Observatory Consortium. Brief interactions like this were a daily occurrence, too mundane to occupy space in my long-term memory arrays.

I do have a record of the proposal of Fourteen Eclipses, Nineteen Dark Shadows in my archives. They asked me to conduct spectral analysis of a star cluster in the constellation known as the Outlaw. The data I collected for them was ultimately used for their thesis, which they later defended before both myself and the High Council of the House of Spheres. Fourteen Eclipses, Nineteen Dark Shadows went on to publish a fairly regular output of methodologies before ultimately deciding to ascend in the cycle of 1101.42.

Such was the life of countless others in my city. Every Major Cycle, Zenith brought in a new crop of novices to educate in the ways of Firmamentalism. Some eventually had their fill of my creators’ unorthodox beliefs and departed the city, but those who remained within the Institute eventually became scholars under the direction of the House of Spheres. Some rose to the rank of clergy or high priests, and would often come to me offering research proposals or asking for advice. Eventually they would decide their thirst for knowledge was sufficiently quenched, and they would depart the Carnal Plane. Fresh novices arrived in their stead, and the cycle would begin anew. It was all very routine.

I was too busy with my duties to become bored by such matters. I will even admit that I viewed their constant interruptions as somewhat of a nuisance, but I understand the importance of their involvement with my assigned task. They were dependent upon me for data collection and complex analysis, and my insights provided them with spiritual clarity. 

These days the only disturbances I receive are from little animals like yourself. I’m not quite sure if you even glean any useful information out of my lectures. Your worldly priorities are certainly more simplistic than those of the pupils I used to tutor…

Yet despite this you never seem to be satisfied. Perhaps I misjudged the capacity of your species’ desire for knowledge.

I hope I have at least abated your curiosity for the time being. Now please leave me be, I must return to my work.

Farewell for now, little Pupil.

[grimitto]

Hello. I've never posted on tumblr before but I figured I would now.

I'm trying to get a full description of Messmer's backstory plotted out and after doing some research this is what I have so far (the briefest, simplest version.)

Messmer was born with a cursed ability, flame. Much like the frenzied flame that threatens to burn the Lands Between into pure chaos. Messmer was also born with an Abyssal Serpent (Base Serpent???) inside of him, although it can manifest on the outside. (???) The serpent consumes his flames and grows endlessly more powerful. Messmer's flame and the Abyssal Serpent were very powerful, drawing ire from his mother, Marika who despises any threat to her throne.

Messmer has always been family-oriented and enjoys the camaraderie between shared bonds. Brothers in arms or brothers in blood. Before his mother's crusade, Messmer spent his time with his younger siblings and friends, and likely trained alongside them from youth. Particularly Radahn is said to regard Messmer (and Gaius) as older brothers.

"Both were as elder brothers to the lion, and both were cursed from birth. In spite of, or perhaps because of this very reason, Gaius was both Messmer's friend and the leader of his men." - Remembrance of the Wild Boar Rider

The "lion" being Radahn.

Marika, fearing Messmer's powerful flame, wanted to test his loyalty by turning him into a symbol of her wrath. Marika has always hated those who embraced unnatural and grotesque traits, wings and horns specifically, so she embarked on a crusade to cleanse these people, the "hornsent," from the Lands Between. Messmer, eternally loyal to his mother, did so without qualms. The hornsent, and any who are considered enemies of Messmer's mother, Queen Marikia, will always be enemies of Messmer.

[Of the hornsent] "A vestige of the crucible of primordial life. Born partially of devolution, it was considered a signifier of the divine in ancient times, but is now increasingly disdained as an impurity as civilization has advanced." - The Crucible Scale Talisman

Although his armies knew this war would be far from honorable or heroic, Messmer's strong bonds with his men resulted in him having a large and loyal army for his crusade. They gave up riches, titles, and faced scorn for being loyal to Messmer.

"The warriors who fought in the crusade set aside both honor and mercy to wantonly impale and scorch those deemed impure." - The Crusade Insignia Talisman

"Each and every knight hailed from a renowned family of the Erdtree's upper echelons, but were shunned and chased from their homes after pledging allegiance to Messmer as their master." - Fire Knight helm

One warrior, who became known as Messmer's most loyal, was a princess of Carian, Rellana. She abandoned her nobility to follow Messmer. Her loyalty was influenced by romantic love that Messmer never returned.

The crusade was going well (as far as genocides go), but some of Messmer's men learned of his accursed flame and the Abyssal Serpent always growing stronger inside of him and—fearing Messmer was actually corrupt or would become so inevitably—rebelled and mutinied against Messmer in an attempt to kill him. Messmer dispelled them without any difficulty (they were banished to an underground tomb), but mourned the loss of his brothers-in-arms.

The surviving hornsent and many of the general population rightfully vilified Messmer for the crusade.

His mother, learning of this growing unrest, finally found a reason to get rid of Messmer, who was powerful enough to threaten her throne. She plucked out Messmer's eyes, and replaced only his right eye with a Seal of Grace, used to weaken the Abyssal Serpent and flames inside of Messmer. Marika then rescinded Messmer's Grace and banished him to a realm known as the "Shadow of the Erd Tree." Marika also banished any of those still loyal to Messmer, including Rellana.

Messmer, forever loyal to his mother, does not scorn her for abandoning him. Although he is bitter in exile, he blames himself and his flame, he hates the crimes he committed, resulting in a strong self-resentment. Messmer took all the blame of Marika's orders.

"On his mother's wishes, Messmer made himself a symbol of fear, undertaking the cleansing crusade she desired."

"Direct thy maledictions, thine ire, and thy grief towards me alone." - Messmer's armor

Also, I haven't seen the item descriptions to back this up, but apparently the Shadow of Erdtree realm is like the afterlife for the Lands Between and Marika has assigned Messmer to rule over it. That makes more sense than just banishing him, but I haven't seen the in-game sources.

Judging by his dialogue when Messmer meets the Tarnished, I believe the reason he attacks is solely out of loyalty to his mother. As he considers all Tarnished an enemy of Marika as they are "stripped of the grace of gold," AKA they are not guided by grace because Marika doesn't like them.

He also clearly harbors his own prejudice against Tarnished, as he then destroys the restraining eye his mother put in him saying, "I will not suffer a Lord devoid of light," which means he'll die to stop Tarnished becoming Elden Lord, even though Marika allegedly wants the Tarnished to become the Elden Lord, which is fairly common, but overall confusing...

---

Anyways, this is what I personally consider to be Messmer's backstory after looking around (Credits mainly to this reddit post) and trying to compile all the random bits into a story. If anyone knows other important details or thinks something here is wrong I'd love some feedback!

Grim out 💪

[two-white-butterflies]

no time to die | c16 | part two

Description: After a messy breakup with Charles Leclerc. You resort to feuding with him online. In where, he hates your guts.

Pairing: charles leclerc/actress!reader

part one | part three

(ONE YEAR LATER)

YNMakesItSparkle: New Years Day 🌙 announcing my first ever single. I know that it's been a while since ya'll heard my voice. I remember singing with Miley and Selena down in Disney. So glad to be back inside the studio! 💜

129 comments 1,292,180 likes

watchasay29: Is this about Charles?

taylorswift: I'm so excited for this 💙💙💙💙

selenagomez: Patiently seated.

charlesuniversewags: this is about charles 100% idk if she's gonna make him seem like the bad guy.

(IBIZA, SPAIN 2023)

"Charles, let's get married - let's settle down." you continued speaking, following him around the casita with a glass filled with Moscato. Ever since his incident in Formula One, you haven't stopped thinking about your future together. You couldn't sleep at night knowing that there was a possibility that everything you built would come crumbling down.

A small sigh escapes his mouth; marriage was the least of his concern. He still wanted to win a championship - he wanted to be something that you could boast around your upper-echelon friends. "I'm not ready, bebe." he sighed, taking another sip of his merlot.

You were stark contrasts of each other.

He liked everything that tasted bitter - and you adored sweet. He was darkness, rest in the middle of paradise and you were light. You complimented each other properly - but now you weren't sure.

"I-I know, but please - think about it." you stuttered. You always dreamed about marriage, not in a dreamy fairytale way but in a way that included living in happiness with the person that you adored. "I'm not sure if I want to get married, ever." he scoffed, placing his glass loudly on the countertop.

"Why?" your eyebrows merged into each other. "Why?" he repeated your statement - finding the question to be tone deaf.

"All everyone talks about is you and how wonderful your projects are. The articles, they don't even call me by name - I'm just 'your boyfriend' - and what will happen after we get married? Will I be Y/N L/N's husband? When I've got all of these accomplishments to myself." he responded in a bitter tone - telling you that there was something bothering him.

"What do you mean?" your frown deepened, seeing fire underneath his eyes. Did he hate you all these years?

"I'm tired of being your shadow, that's what I mean." his voice softened, seeing your eyes blurry with tears. "You aren't my shadow - when I came into this relationship with you, I wasn't even an actress." you said to yourself, the truth quickly settling into you.

"- and maybe that's the problem. I don't need another person who's competing with my success, I need someone to comfort me in my races." he expressed his opinion, unable to understand that he was stampeding upon your own.

"I've done all of that, Charles."

"It's not enough!" his voice raised again, a storm brewing in his mind. A small chuckle escaped your lips - and you tried to keep your composure. 'Grace under pressure' you thought.

"You know what the truth is, Charles?" you grinned, reaching for your handbag on the chair beside you. "You feel emasculated because I'm better than you." you gritted your teeth, straightening your dress until it didn't have any wrinkles.

"You know I feel really bad because I came to this conversation seeing a future with you. But now I'm glad that you had another thing in mind." your eyes narrowed, quickly walking away and slamming the door to his apartment loudly.

YNMakesItSparkle: me and my favorite driver 💜

312 comments 1,912,129 likes

maxverstappen1: 💪🏽

carlossainz55: Hungary GP? - YNMakesItSparkle: Totally 💜

reyna219: YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL

YNMakesItSparkle: Forever Ferrari 💜❤️

812 comments 1,231,100 likes

carlandouniverse2: this is enough confirmation 😭

wantingmeeee1: Are you back with Charles?

landonorris: Mclaren needs you here 😎 - YNMakesItSparkle: Really?

imsebastianstan: You didn't bring me? - YNMakesItSparkle: the airline had a no-hand-carry policy, really sorrrrryyy 😁

Charles could recognize you a mile away. His fingers could even feel the fabric that clung into your body - he missed you, and he knew that you deserved better. The pressure of not being a good enough driver was getting to him - forcing him to resort to look for something to blame. At first, it was his company - but when he saw your success - he chose to blame that.

But now after six-months of therapy, he could see properly. He could see that he was the problem. "I listened to your new song," he swiftly made his way towards you - a bottle of beer in his right hand. He missed you - but he couldn't entertain the thought of being with you again. He believed that he wasn't good enough for that.

"Did you like you like it?" you gazed up at him - staring deep into his eyes until he could feel himself leaning down to inhale more of your rosemary scent. "Amazing, and the chords were familiar." he raised an eyebrow - teasing you softly.

He'd be content with being friends.

"Sue me if you dare, Leclerc." you pouted, knowing that the chords to that song resembled something that he wrote for you a few years ago. "I won't - not when you made it sound better." he smiled, flicking a strand of your hair away from your face. "Really?" you began to ask.

Unable to deny the palpable chemistry between you.

"Why don't you play for us in the afterparty?" he offered, knowing that it would be held inside his home - and his piano needed a little dusting. "Sounds like a plan," you licked your lips, slowly moving away from him.

SELENA GOMEZ'S PRIVATE TWITTER

Don't get back with ur ex challenge, but you're fighting against @YNMakesItSparkle

YN'S PRIVATE TWITTER: STOPPPP

TAYLOR'S PRIVATE TWITTER: I'm going home because it's a losing game ;)

DANIEL RICCIARDO'S PRIVATE TWITTER: HELPP

@perihelioneclipse @hiraethrhapsody @omgsuperstarg @reidsworld @charles-eclair16 @ferraribabe @cl16gf @yourrrrrprefffffect @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @fdl305 @incoherenciass @sassyheroneckgiant @ietss @newlifeforus

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

It’s one in the morning let’s talk Six of Crows analysis - it feels like it’s been ages since I did any analysis, which is like the entire point of this account so sorry about that but here we go: We should talk more about Adem Bajan you guys okay because first of all he effectively comes to represent the vast majority of everyday people in a clear juxtaposition to both Inej and Van Eck, but he also is in a position of far less choice than I think we give him credit for.

As a reminder, Bajan is a young Suli boy (presumably somewhere around 19 but we have no confirmation of that) working in the Van Eck household teaching Alys music. He is highly implied to be having or to have interest in having as affair with Alys, and was Van Eck’s chosen jailer for Inej at the beginning of Crooked Kingdom. Van Eck claims he made this choice because he thought “a Suli boy would be most conspicuous” when he was attempting to lure Kaz into a trap to save Inej, but it was also an inarguably smart decision in that, as Inej even comments herself, Bajan was easy to talk to, made her feel nostalgic, homesick, and alone, and very nearly succeeded in drawing information out of her without having to restore to torture. If anything, resorting to torture was Van Eck’s major mistake at this point but that’s really a conversation for another time. Bajan is a really interesting character because he doesn’t want to hurt Inej and specifically encourages her to tell him things so Van Eck won’t escalate things further, but when Van Eck does escalate things Bajan is unable - or possibly unwilling - to stop him. For this Inej calls him a monster, and when he claims he did nothing replies “no, you’re the man who stands idly by congratulating himself whilst the monster eats its fill”. She draws a Suli phrase on him that effectively means he’ll be rejected by the community forever and his spirit/soul won’t be accepted, and she describes it as the worst fate or something along those lines sorry I can’t remember exactly. But what’s the most interesting thing is that even though he claims not to believe in any of it Bajan gets noticeably upset by this and says “that’s not fair”. Inej is surprised that he’s this soft, and there’s a very clear juxtaposition between the lives they have lived.

BUT - let’s look at this from Bajan’s perspective. And remember - this is important - Bajan is not described as an employee of Van Eck’s, but an indenture. An indenture. So Bajan is a young boy indentured in a foreign country to a man as high up in the country’s government as you can get and who has clearly been illustrated to the reader as a terrible person on several different levels that I won’t dissect in too much detail right now. He appears to have acclimatised himself to Kerch surroundings and acts with elevation above his status, because that’s what he has to do to survive in the upper echelon of a deeply classist society that actively diminishes and disapproves of his culture. (<<if anyone wants references for that let me know and also I’ve written about it quite a bit before so that’s kicking around on my page somewhere) He refuses to speak to Inej in Suli because “it makes me maudlin” and my question to you is: is he rejecting the language to further attempt to fit in and as a product of internalised prejudice, or because it’s so incredibly painful to be half-connected to a culture not only that he has forced himself to reject but also that he feels he can never safely return to? Probably both. He tells Inej he doesn’t believe in Suli superstition, religion, or culture, and yet is deeply upset when she uses it against him. Is this because he actually does believe, or wants to believe, in the Saints and the Suli interpretation of them but has rejected them for survival and the supposed betterment of himself? Possibly.

Bajan strikes me as very similar to Jesper in the way he presents himself as free, flirty, and casual, but had a considerable weight to almost everything he says and considerable pain hidden closer to the surface than he may have realised. I think there are parallels between him and Inej if we want to see them, but also a very stark difference in the way Kerch and Ketterdam have treated them. Bajan may not be privileged but even as an indenture he has - or at least as far as we know has had - a far safer and kinder experience than Inej has. This could be related to gender since the hyper-sexualisation of Suli culture is mostly centred on women - “the Menagerie always stocked a Suli girl” (I’ve intensely analysis this quote before so I won’t now but ugh there’s so much to say) - but we do know there are young boys captive at the pleasure houses as well although less commonly and it’s also possible that this difference is linked to Bajan’s decision to turn his back on Suli culture in order to appeal more to Kerch society whilst Inej continually embraced her culture and arguably became more religious in response to her experiences.

This is complicated because I’m not entirely sure how I feel about Bajan. I understand and support Inej’s perspective and everything she saw whilst in a far more dangerous position that he was, but is it possible that this was a lonely boy who saw someone he thought was like him and tried to communicate with her the only way he thought was safe? You are completely isolated in a foreign culture and hate yourself for having suppressed your own upbringing in order to survive, but now you meet someone else who yes, is in more danger than you, but who you might be able to help so that she can help you in return. You aren’t safe to speak freely and so you subtly tell her that you are an indenture, hoping she acknowledges that none of this is of your free will and because you know that she was indentured too (and remember from a societal pov there is very little understanding of what indentured girls at the pleasure houses actually go through and although that doesn’t excuse ignoring Inej’s trauma it may explain why he doesn’t fully acknowledge that their positions aren’t equal), you tell her that speaking your own shared language makes you feel maudlin, hoping she realises that you desperately miss your homeland and using your language makes you feel even further from your family than you already are because you can’t share it with them. She doesn’t seem to be taking any of it in, your employer has every intention of hurting her and you don’t know what else to do, so you make a last plea: you ask her about home. You think you’ve already made it clear that speaking about home is painful, so you ask her about it to invite that pain, to share it, so you both understand. But it fails, because she only sees your employer puppeteering you. You openly beg her to tell him the truth so that he won’t hurt her but she refuses to comply, and after all of your efforts and your desperate attempts to connect and beg her to help you both go home, her response is to turn your home against you and banish you from it for eternity. So when you see her the next morning, how could you possibly look her in the eye?

Bajan did not make all of the right choices in his brief time on the page. He didn’t. But maybe he was trying really hard, and he had no other options left.

Anyway I’m not saying this is definitive one way or the other it’s just an interpretation but I find him a very interesting and very sad character and I although I support all of Inej’s actions in these scenes from her point of view I do find myself wondering how she appeared to Bajan and how he felt in the aftermath.

[lovable-liar]

I love love love the idea of hasan dating someone actually famous, like him being pushed into the limelight and people being like damn who is this whole ass brick wall following her around.

And him on a red carpets…yum.

ALSO imagine him reacting to songs written about him, from cute love songs to seggsy songs. Also there's no way in hell its not being brought up in fear&. The way QT love Taylor Swift I like the idea of Hasan dating like…austins TS.

anyway I just have this thing where I lien the idea of him dating someone's more successful than him

Totally not bc i have this weird thing where I have feel like more successful then my partner bc I have issues lol…

The world had long been acquainted with Hasan as a charismatic and intelligent political commentator, a witty comedian, and a captivating streamer. Yet, dating a famous singer elevated his public profile to an entirely new echelon of notoriety and intrigue.

Their relationship had catapulted Hasan into the spotlight in ways he could never have foreseen. No longer just the familiar face behind a computer screen, he had stepped into the dazzling world of red carpets, where flashing cameras and star-studded celebrity events became his new reality.

As Hasan walked hand in hand with his partner down the red carpet, a surge of emotions swirled within him. The anticipation of the evening's event, the surreal atmosphere of the star-studded affair, and the magnetic energy of the crowd blended together to create a heady mixture of excitement and awe.

The curious whispers of the crowd surrounded them, a symphony of voices that ranged from hushed admiration to eager excitement. All around, people craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the enigmatic couple, while journalists and reporters vied for the best angle to capture their presence.

Amid the whirlwind of the red carpet, the flashes of paparazzi cameras erupted like a dazzling meteor shower, illuminating the couple as they made their way through the meticulously designed backdrop of glitz and glamour. The blinding flashes, akin to a storm of stars, painted the scene with a surreal, otherworldly glow.

And yet, amidst the spectacle, Hasan couldn't help but be overwhelmed by a profound sense of pride. Standing there, the partner of an incredibly talented and successful singer, he was a testament to their journey, their connection, and the unique path their love had carved through the entertainment industry.

The cacophony of the red carpet, the curious onlookers, and the brilliant flashes of the cameras all seemed to blur into the background, eclipsed by the warmth and exhilaration Hasan felt as he continued to walk beside his beloved partner, hand in hand, on a journey that was nothing short of extraordinary.

The onlookers, accustomed to the glamorous world of entertainment, couldn't help but be caught off guard when they spotted Hasan, now firmly established as the partner of the incredibly talented and successful singer. The revelation that there was more to Hasan than just his online persona left them intrigued and mildly bewildered.

Intrigued murmurs rippled through the crowd as they tried to reconcile the familiar online personality they knew with the real-life figure beside the renowned singer. Hasan's transition from the virtual realm to the tangible world of celebrities was a source of fascination, and it was evident that people were eager to learn more about this man who had taken a leap into a whole new stratum of fame.

As Hasan and his partner made their way through the glitzy event, the world was beginning to understand that Hasanabi was not merely an online sensation but a multi-dimensional individual who had embarked on a journey that would forever alter the way he was perceived, leaving a lasting mark on both the world of entertainment and the hearts of those who watched his every step.

But the impact of their relationship didn't end with the public's fascination and recognition. It extended to the world of music. Love songs, meticulously crafted and emotionally charged, began to emerge, each one a melodic tribute to Hasanabi and the unique connection he shared with the famous singer.

These songs beautifully captured the essence of their relationship in sweet, soulful melodies that tugged at the heartstrings of listeners. Lyrics painted a vivid and evocative picture of their love story, offering a glimpse into the moments that defined their journey together.

From the first serendipitous meeting that ignited the spark of their connection to the tender, intimate moments they shared behind closed doors, these songs became a musical testament to their love. They celebrated the laughter, the joy, the challenges, and the unbreakable bond that bound Hasan and the celebrated singer together.

The power of music allowed their love story to transcend the confines of privacy and become a source of inspiration and adoration for countless fans. These songs became anthems of their love, forever etching the mark of their relationship on the world's collective heart.

However, it wasn't all sweetness and innocence. Some of the songs took a more daring and suggestive turn, teasingly referencing the intimate and private moments shared between Hasan and the famous singer. The lyrics were playful, carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of passion and desire.

Hasan couldn't help but feel his cheeks flush with embarrassment when he heard those songs, even though he did his best to maintain a facade of nonchalance. The sly glances and knowing smiles from friends and colleagues only added to his discomfort, making it impossible to escape the playful teasing that came with the territory of dating someone so well-known.

Despite his efforts to appear unfazed, Hasan couldn't help but secretly relish the thought that their relationship had inspired music that ranged from sweet and romantic to sultry and seductive, marking their love as a multi-faceted journey that encompassed both the tender and passionate moments they shared.

In the ever-present world of Fear& and during Hasan's streams, their high-profile relationship inevitably became a focal point of discussion. As viewers and fans watched Hasan navigate this newfound chapter of his life, they couldn't resist delving into the intricacies of his romantic journey.

Hasan, always quick-witted and sharp, artfully incorporated humor into his discussions, effortlessly deflecting invasive questions and steering the conversation with a light touch. He lightheartedly acknowledged the public's fascination with their relationship, all while maintaining a respectful boundary around the more intimate aspects of their life.

Hasan's playful and self-assured approach allowed him to navigate the curious inquiries with grace, leaving no room for speculation. With humor as his ally, he embraced the spotlight, weaving the enchanting tapestry of their love story into his content, engaging viewers while preserving the sanctity of their private moments.

QT, with her deep affinity for Taylor Swift and her love of romantic narratives, had a profound appreciation for the unique dynamic of Hasan's relationship. To her, it was as if life had orchestrated a compelling twist, thrusting Hasan into the spotlight and granting him a taste of fame in a way he had never anticipated or even imagined. This newfound perspective put a stop to his teasing of her whenever she passionately defended Taylor on the basis of the challenging life of being a celebrity, creating a newfound empathy and understanding between the two.

Dating someone more successful than him was a whirlwind experience, but Hasan found himself embracing it with open arms. It wasn't just about being known as a commentator and a comedian; it was about sharing the spotlight with someone he deeply cared about, and it was a journey he was more than willing to embark upon.

[kmomof4]

The Arena A New Fic for CSSNS24

WE FINALLY MADE IT, Y'ALL!!!!! @cssns is here for the last time!!! And I am sooooo thrilled to be kicking off our final year!!! Before we get to the fic, I have to say a few words about the team of ladies that helped get this fic here for all of you to enjoy!!

First, to the other mods of the CSSNS - @winterbaby89 @stahlop @jrob64 and @ultraluckycatnd This event wouldn't be here without all of you and I cannot thank you enough for stepping up and helping me through this last round.

To @snowbellewells my magnificent beta for this fic - Marta, I cannot thank you enough for reading, rereading, and rereading AGAIN in order to make this fic the best it could be. Love you, my dear friend!!!

To @motherkatereloyshipper artist extraordinaire - Kit's artwork always leaves me with my jaw hanging open in AWE, and this one is no exception!! I could seriously stare at it for hours!!! Please give her all the love!!!! It's at the beginning of the fic under the cut.

And now to the fic! I so hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!!

Summary: The arena. 

A place of fear. Oppression. Blood. Death. 

A place of shattered hopes and dreams. 

A place, for a very lucky few, of hope. 

Words: Almost 3200

Rating: M for graphic violence

Tags: CSSNS24, Werewolves, True Love, Happy Ending

On ao3

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615

@donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings

@booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells @pirateprincessofpizza

@djlbg @lfh1226-linda @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic

@anmylica @laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling

@caught-in-the-filter @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite

@captainswan-kellie @soniccat @beckettj @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose

@thisonesatellite @jonesfandomfanatic @elfiola @zaharadessert @ilovemesomekillianjones

@mie779 @kymbersmith-90 @suwya @veryverynotgoodwrites

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

The arena. 

A place of fear. Oppression. Blood. Death. 

A place of shattered hopes and dreams. 

A place, for a very lucky few, of hope. 

Killian Jones stood along the wall of the arena with his fellow fighters, his eyes trained on the opposite side of the stadium where the grand prize of the wretched and despicable contest he’d willingly signed up for was being held. The wretched and despicable contest that the despot Arthur had created for the entertainment of himself and his court, promising to the victor everything they could ever dream of - more money than they could imagine, a place in the upper echelons of society, land, and a beautiful bride on his arm. A bride that, in Killian’s fondest dreams, didn’t care he was missing a hand. But all of that was for the victor alone. There was no prize for coming in second, unless you counted death as a prize. 

And Killian did. 

Either everything he’d ever hoped for - but which was so far out of reach for a street rat like him - or bringing his miserable existence to an end. That was why he’d eagerly volunteered for the contest. That last sliver of hope his mother - gone for many years now - had instilled in him that his life circumstances had to get better, because they certainly couldn’t get worse, or the sweet oblivion of forever sleep.

He cut his eyes to the left for a moment, taking in his fellow competitors. He didn’t know any of them. The mates he’d trained with for the last year were long gone - scattered to the other corners of the empire to try their own luck in the arena. There were four other men here with him. The one immediately to his left barely looked to be a man at all, but he held a cunning and evil look in his eye that warned not to underestimate him. The man next to him was the largest of all of them with long curly black hair, bulging muscles, deep set dark eyes, and a closely trimmed black beard and goatee. The other two men on the other side of the large one, he’d only seen briefly as they were released into the arena. One was tall and skinny with blonde hair and a scar on his face that gave him a dangerous look, and the other had a mop of brown hair that flopped over his almost simian-looking visage and he held himself with an air of pretension and imperiousness. He’d fit right in with Arthur’s court. He’d probably been an upper house slave looking to be a master instead. 

Now, Killian’s attention was drawn back to the other side of the arena where two slaves were needed to get the young woman into the center of the sunken pit in which they were all held. She truly was a beauty, Killian could already tell, and a hellcat to boot. She wore nothing more than a torn and ragged gown that barely covered her most private parts and was nearly the same color as her skin and a thick silver bracelet on her wrist. Her golden hair was a nest of tangles but still glinted under the midday sun as she screamed and thrashed in their hold. Her legs alternately stuck out in front of her - her heels vainly attempting to anchor themselves into the soft ground - or dragged behind her in an effort to become deadweight and too heavy for the men to carry. When that wasn’t working, she kicked at her captors, clawing and biting every inch of bare skin she could reach.

They finally reached the center of the arena where they dropped her unceremoniously in the dirt. It took her a moment to rise to her hands and knees, then she raised her head and Killian could see her face for the first time. He caught his breath at the exquisiteness of her face, made all the more evident by the dirt and tear tracks which marred her otherwise porcelain skin. The color was high on her cheeks, and her lips were full and red. She wasn’t particularly far away from him, fifteen to twenty feet at most, but he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes from this distance and under the rays of the sun, although he could clearly see the glint of more unshed tears. 

Her gaze swept over the other men beside him before landing on him, and when their eyes met, something came over Killian that he hadn’t felt in over two decades- the wolf that he’d lost when he lost his hand as a lad. An utterly unfamiliar strength flooded him, and his ears rang with the internal howl of his other half as his heart and mind were filled with images of that fateful day.

Killian ran down the crowded streets of the marketplace, a dreadfully skinny boy, one hand holding up the too-large pants around his waist, lest they fall down around his ankles as he ran. His clothes were tattered and worn and hung off his scrawny frame. A boy on the cusp of manhood, his malnourishment was evident in his height, nearly as tall as a man, and the leanness of his face with the beginnings of scruff on his chin.

His eyes darted around the street, taking in the busy vendors with their customers and trying to determine who’d be least likely to notice a pilfered meat pie or a couple of pieces of fruit for himself and his mother. Spying a likely suspect, Killian never slowed as his hand shot out toward his prize. But the shopkeeper was much more aware than Killian had given him credit for, and before he knew it, his wrist was captured in an iron strong grip and he was being pulled behind the small booth.

Without a word, the hulking shopkeeper pulled out a cutlass and brought it down on Killian’s wrist. He was too shocked to even register the pain as he watched his blood gush from the end of his arm. Too mesmerized by the gruesome injury to do anything, he realized darkness was encroaching on the edges of his vision and the sound rushing in his ears was the agonized howl of his wolf - who had manifested only a scant six months ago - dying away to whimpers before everything went black.

It was nearly a week later that he’d woken, according to his mother. She hadn’t been far behind him as he ran through the market and had seen what the shopkeeper had done. She was too late to do anything about her son’s hand, but she’d made sure the shopkeeper would never be capable of such cruelty again. A small dagger coated with aconite from the Monkshood plant leaving a scratch across his wrist was all it took to sentence the man to death before the sun set that same day. She was the one who got him back to the hovel they called home, and nursed him around the clock until his fever broke and he finally awoke. He felt different - an emptiness he couldn’t define - but couldn’t put his finger on why until he looked down at his hands, now hand, and everything came rushing back. His shout of anguish brought his mother running, throwing aside the excuse of a room divider which consisted of a cord strung between two windows on either end of his straw pallet with clothes and rags hanging from it. She gathered him in her arms, whispering soothing words in his ear and rocking him back and forth like she did when he was a small child until his own cries quieted. 

Killian,” she breathed. He pulled back just enough to see her eyes and was shocked at the profound sadness he saw there. “I’m so sorry. Your wolf is gone.” She tried to gather him close again, but he pulled back in alarm instead.

“What?” he asked, confused. “Why!? Is that why I feel different? Not just my hand?”

“Losing a limb,” she imparted on a hitched breath, “kills the wolf inside of you. Until you find your True Love.”

“My True Love?” Killian’s confusion and grief were stronger than ever. “But what if I don’t have a True Love? What if…”

“You mustn’t give up hope, my son,” she said fervently. “You will find her someday, and your wolf will return.”

And today was apparently that day. Killian watched as her eyes widened slightly. He could only hope that she could somehow feel the connection between them. The hum of True Love that he didn’t have time to examine or revel in as Arthur rang the bell signaling the beginning of the contest - of which apparently his True Love was the prize. 

The other men along the wall moved toward her and then all turned to him, the depraved lust in their eyes as they looked at her turning into gleeful anticipation as their gazes settled on him. In that moment, Killian realized they’d somehow all agreed to band together to take him out first, obviously the weakest having only one hand with which to fight. Killian met each of their eyes in turn as they all drew their swords.

“It’s nothing personal, you know,” the tall, arrogant one said. “Can’t allow such an unsuitable, maimed cripple to claim my prize.”

The taunting words were all that was needed for Killian’s wolf to come to the fore. It had been twenty-two years since he’d transformed, but that didn’t mean he didn’t remember exactly what was happening. His own wicked but gleeful grin took over his face as the power of his wolf filled him and he fell to his hands and knees in front of them. The pain-filled howl taking over his mind ripped from his now open maw while the bones, muscles, and sinew in his arms and legs broke, tore, and mended again into their new form. The men before him were frozen in shock, and Killian became aware of an uproar above him among the spectators of the contest. Arthur rang the bell and screamed at the guards and slaves to kill the beast in the arena, but no one moved to do so.

Killian was fully focused on the men in front of him, but was also dimly aware of his True Love. She was still crouched on the ground, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. The transformation now complete, he let loose a full, ringing howl of victory as he leapt toward the largest of the men, still frozen in terror. His claws sank into the man’s chest, blood flowing like rivers down the expanse of bare skin. Killian clamped his jaws down on his head, his canines piercing bone, until with a powerful shake of his head, the skin of the man’s face and the bone underneath tore away from the skull, exposing the soft brain tissue contained within. The man’s screams were abruptly cut off when Killian swiped his claws from the gaping head wound to the top of his chest.

He then turned his attention to the two men on either side of his first victim. He quickly took care of the both of them - the first, ripping his head off with one swipe of his powerful paw, and the second, using all of his front claws to open his enemy’s chest cavity and gut, his intestines spilling to the ground in front of him - before he turned around looking for the one who’d taunted him in the first place.

The smugness was gone, but a look of grim determination had replaced it as the man, armed with only a sword, and wolf circled one another. The uproar among the audience had all but completely died away, the spectators watching in horrified fascination to see who would emerge the victor.

The man lunged and Killian backed up, well out of reach of the sword his opponent wielded. As they circled, Killian became fully aware of something that had only tickled the edge of his mind in the last several minutes as he faced off with the other men. He had both his front paws! Did that mean that his hand would also be restored when he returned to human form? He had no time to ponder the question as his adversary jabbed toward him again.

“Do you really think you can win?” he asked. His eyes gleamed, and the smugness that had disappeared after Killian killed the others was coloring his countenance once again. “You’re nothing but an animal. I’m going to kill you and skin you and hang your pelt on the wall where I can see it every single day for the rest of my life.”

Killian bared his teeth, a low and vicious growl coming from his throat before he surged forward briefly, snapping at the other man. Giving him a good look of exactly what he was up against. Fear flooded his adversary’s eyes, and the hand holding his sword in front of him began to shake uncontrollably. They continued to circle one another, but the man wasn’t paying attention to their surroundings and was nearing the bodies of two of their dead competitors. It was only a moment later when his foot came down squarely on the innards Killian had spilled earlier and flew out from under him, landing him flat on his back amid the blood and gore-covered ground.

Killian wasted no time. With a mighty leap, he landed on top of the man, his claws making ribbons of his enemy’s bare skin. He’d dropped his sword when he fell, and now reached for it as his screams filled Killian’s ears. Biting down on his upper arm, arterial blood sprayed his muzzle as he ripped it clean away from his shoulder. Killian slung the severed limb away before he turned back and tore the man’s throat out. The terror-filled and agonized screams turned to choking gurgles before they died away completely.

Killian looked up into the seats surrounding the arena. The masses were completely quiet and still, obviously not over the shock of what they’d just witnessed. When his gaze landed on Arthur’s, the despot’s eyes widened in panic, and he made haste to exit his elaborately decorated box. The rest of the audience followed the king’s lead, screaming and running for the exits. With another triumphant howl, Killian ran for the wall and cleared it with a single jump. He quickly caught up with the oppressive tyrant, leaping toward him and landing on his back, pushing him to the ground. He bit down on the exposed skin of his neck and was rewarded with another spray of blood signaling the end of the vile oppressor. 

The arena was now empty, save him and his True Love. He leapt back down to the ground and walked slowly towards her. She was crouched on the ground, her head hidden behind her arms, her golden hair shielding most of her body from view. He stopped, unwilling to terrify her even more than he already had, and changed back to his human form. He looked down and gasped when he saw his left hand completely restored.

He moved toward her again as she lifted her head and looked around at the empty arena.

“Where are your captors, milady?” he asked, gently.

“Gone, my lord,” she breathed. “Did you… what…?”

He unclasped the cloak he still wore from around his neck and spread it across her, covering her rags, though there was no one now to gawk or stare lustfully at her. She grabbed the edges and pulled it more fully around her as she rose to her feet, giving him a grateful nod.

“You’re him.” Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper and was filled with an awe that Killian didn’t understand.

“I’m… who?” he asked, confused.

“You’re him,” she answered, a bit stronger that time. “My True Love.”

Killian couldn’t hope to hide his surprise at her words.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, excitement bubbling over into a beaming smile. “How did you know?”

“You were missing a hand before you transformed,” she explained, haltingly. She couldn’t hold his gaze for any length of time, her eyes bouncing between his and his restored hand that she gently took in her own, her other hand tracing the veins and bones there. “My parents told me before I was taken that if I ever lost a limb, I’d lose my wolf until I found my True Love.”

“You’re a wolf?” Killian almost fell to his knees in shock. He knew there had to be more out there like him, but he’d never met another. Not even his mother. Killian’s wolf came from his father, who’d died long before his own wolf manifested.

She nodded shyly and showed him her arm with the silver bracelet.

“That’s why they put this on me,” she explained. “To keep me from changing. Could you take it off? I can’t. But someone else can.”

“Of course.” He pulled the bracelet off and threw it to the other side of the arena. 

She frowned, and Killian thought he’d never seen anything more adorable in his life. “If they hadn’t forced me to wear it, I would’ve made short work of those two before they could get me two steps in here.” 

Killian smiled and gathered her in his arms, placing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “That’s my girl.” After holding her for a moment, relishing the feel of her arms around him and the True Love between them, he released her. “My name is Killian. Killian Jones.”

“My name is Emma. Emma Swan.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma Swan.” 

She smiled softly and finally met his gaze. “You as well, Killian Jones.” 

She looked around before meeting his eyes once again. “So what now?” she asked. 

“I have no desire to stay here,” he muttered darkly. “Shall we run?”

Her face broke into a beautiful smile. “Yes, please. I haven’t been able to change for almost a year. Since they took me from my home.”

“I have no home,” he said, a note of melancholy in his words. He looked at his True Love again, his mate, and felt a bone deep contentment that he’d never known. “You’re my home now, Emma.”

“And you’re mine, Killian.” Her smile was full of joy as she got down on all fours before him. “Let’s run.”

He joined her on the ground and transformed. When he came back to himself, he saw a pure white wolf in front of him with eyes of green. She tilted her muzzle to the sky and released a long howl before running for the wall surrounding them. He joined her, his howl mixing with hers in a haunting melody that sent chills down his spine. He followed her over the wall and they ran, ran, and ran away from their past and into their future.

Together.

~*~*~

Thank you so much for reading and sharing!!! I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear what you thought!!! Please give Kit all the love as well for her gorgeous artwork!!! The Supernatural Summer will continue with more fics and art dropping about every other day through the end of August, and I so hope you enjoy this last round!!!

[flashfuture]

The flashes have:

• weird found family that is a mix of a found family and blood family and most of them actually truly get along and care about each other even if some of them are little sassy.

• have powers where the upper echelon of their brood, with the most power are verging on multiverse and time gods and the ones just starting out still range on the side of most destructive meta humans on earth, if they are still human at all.

• their most interesting villains are crime syndicate with a amazing dental and medical plan who usually have something approaching morals.

I think they make other heroes only a little jelly beans cause they have all these boons and they are still interesting as characters to watch.

like it's actually so crazy if you think about it. in 1938 the DC universe time began. but the way time works in DC it's easier to think of time as the addition of every second. it's static not accumulative. 1 second 1 second 1 second 1 second and on to eternity. A life is made up of seconds coming together 1 2 3 4 5 6. But this didn't happen not for 18 years. Until 1956 when Barry Allen was struck by lightning in both canon and out of universe. Things started moving Forward

(The Flash: Rebirth)

And he made the speed force. He keeps the present in the present and the rest of time away by generating the kinetic force that makes the lightning that gives the Flashes their speed.

Barry canonically moves Time forward by existing but he can also force it. He did so twice once fighting reverse flash/zoom and once fighting the turtle. When fighting Turtle, Barry connected himself to every living being except Turtle and pulled them all into the future by a few seconds to thwart his Turtley plans.

And Wally well I have a theory that Wally stores the memories the moments added together that make a life. In 1986 Barry reset the universe and everyone's minds got Fucked. Before Final Crisis when they bring back Wally from the speedforce it causes Bruce and Hal to remember Barry and incorrectly assume he's the one coming back. In 2011 when Flashpoint happened Barry did it Without Wally. Wally who was in the speedforce and got stuck again and once again everyone's backstories reset and their memories were fucked. In 2016 when Wally breaks out he returns memories to people. With Infinite Frontier this is the first universe reset where Wally's speed force is actively contributing to what happens and not only do people retain their current memories they start getting All their old memories back.

Reverse Flash represented paradoxes in time. But in the most recent run Barry phases through him giving him some speed force. And Eobard gets reset to how he should have been. Becoming connected to Barry fixes his Present. That kinetic wall between the present and time.

Bart I have no idea what they're doing with him they should be remembering that he's the best Fighter of the flashes. That he's vicious and blitzes enemies like Godspeed. Also how Bart is the most scatter brained and seemingly can not slow down unlike his grandpa and cousin. Yet he also is the only one of the entire family to be able to retain what he's learned forever. And has I think the greatest feats of cosmic awareness basically teaching himself about the meta of the DC universes reboots. Bart I think should represent the inevitability of the future coming. No matter how many changes you think you can make a future will always be there. Something to be said for him being a character created during Zero Hour year too I'm sure of it.

[glamaphonic]

towl 1x06 spoilers

and lemme just say also re: the crm

lol forever at these mofos being an apocalypse cult when the apocalypse done already happened

really out there "like no but see ANOTHER apocalypse is totally going to happen so fascism, authoritarianism, and infinite war crimes are the only answer!!"

as i've said previously there are going to be so many people mad that the echelon briefing wasn't some incredible reveal about The Cure or how they totally HAVE to kill everyone bcs only the next generation can ever be immune or smth smth walker variants

and that this wasn't all leading to some big war between the crm and the other communities and beale being the big bad etc

and it's like

not only did you all miss this being a love story

but somehow you managed to miss the extremely clear narrative of this show telling you over and over again that the crm command are fucking fascists!!! you're still out here looking for them to have Good Justified Reason and are mad when fascism is just fascism! grow up!

few things have been as satisfying as rick immediately being ready to fucking murder beale's ass the moment he started spouting that bullshit

[nicollekidman]

joss whedon hating spike is enough to catapult him directly into the upper echelons of tv characters if all time, but it’s equally funny that very few characters to follow (even fellow vampires) have ever managed to match spike’s specific “i was put on this earth to eat pussy and my immortality is a gift because i can eat pussy forever, and isn’t that just the greatest” energy

[filth1x1]

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 alias is grey. currently in my late twenties. any pronouns work.

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 after writing on tumblr forever, i've transitioned to using discord for its privacy and versatility. i'm looking for partners interested in writing smut that hits, that don't shy away from mature themes, and want to engage and invest in a long-lasting writing partnership. i'm the type that only wants one to two partners that i do everything with, with the goal being on creating lasting ships and plots. plotting will be done over discord and after we've passed each other's vibe check, a server with multiple channels will be implemented to facilitate our creative process. while i'm open to both plot-driven and smut, i obviously love smut and would want it to be at least 50% present. my tumblr is purposely the bare minimum as this is really just a host account to make friends to write with via discord.

𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 i refuse to write with people under 25, as i myself am in my late twenties and it makes me uncomfortable to engage with people that are that much younger than me (i would love mature, experienced partners!). i'm open to exploring dark and taboo themes and aim to create a safe space where we discuss boundaries and preferences thoroughly before and throughout our writing. i want there to be mutual transparency and communication and i have zero tolerance for drama. please be upfront and avoid ghosting- i don't like investing my energy for no reason. let me know if any aspect of our partnership isn't working for you and i'll do the same. additionally, i play all genders and positions, but please don't use me just for my dom m.

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 i'm open to pretty much all kinks aside from scat. some of my favorites include threesomes/poly ships, groping, rough play (slapping, spitting, name-calling), hair pulling, ass play, and body worship.

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒 as mentioned above, i play all genders and positions. i can create custom muses for each plot, but some fcs i currently use are: jon bernthal, zane phillips, jeffrey dean morgan, sydney sweeney, salma hayek, and idris elba.

𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐒 some things i'd love to write are: a mumu! where we have a centralized setting and multiple characters within that setting that we can world build with (for instance, a school environment but where everyone is older; an elite society with only the upper echelon but they're all harboring a dark secret, etc). some themes i love include age gaps, rivalries, anything taboo, and i'm a huge fan of slice of life as opposed to fantasy.

[newmoonjuno]

Writer (Re)introduction 3.0 (2024)

Hello, Tumblr! After some time away to deal with my mental health (it is a marvel what medication and a change of atmosphere does to a person), I think I’ve gotten a more solid foundation for some of my ideas that I am so excited to share with you.

You have reached the page of Josias Luna (27, they/them). That is my new (and very much permanent) pen name, and you can call me Juno as well! Kind of still exploring, but if I can pinpoint something of me I would say I am transmasc nonbinary or genderqueer.

I am a college graduate with a degree in creative writing, and it’s safe to say writing has weaved in and out of my life. I write fantasy and science fiction as my genre focus (with a heavy lean of fantasy), and as far as tropes I love me some found family, the power of love (of all kinds), magic systems/powers and familial dynamics. Also going to be queer as fuck because life is too short to not have that.

MY PROJECTS

THE WANDERING STARS // In the world of Kosmos, where life and magic are defined by the stars above, orphans Salima and Orazio end up forcibly separated when they are taken away from each other. Ten years later, their sudden reconnection gets swept into a tyrant’s plot when the stars begin to disappear. 

THESE RATTLING HEARTLINES - With a war looming and a kingdom desperate for power soldiers for generations to come, two young men drafted into the Imperial's Smoldering Fang - exile child Kestrel Cordray and displaced student Faro Ballentyne - find themselves entrenched into the Empire's dark secrets.

GLAMOURS OF BREATHING - When a string of events begin to tie together to the disappearance of her father, Cameo Somma finds herself relying on her Fae ex-girlfriend (whom she DEFINITELY still doesn't have feelings for) and her gang to survive the upper echelons of Eadhelm.

TODAY, TOMORROW, FOREVER // In between planets who live with or reject the thousand year lifespans, Nadia Janvier hastily trades places of her best friend to be taken away to the crystalline continent of Spira when rumors stir of ‘The God of Cycles’ reawakening.

--

(Other works that are also being chipped away at but not mentioned: IRIDIAN FEATHERS THE WATERS OF MEMORY HER CRADLE OF FURY

It's nice to meet you at all!