#fly kin positivity

[fly-kin]

Fly kin positivity! 🪰🪰🪰

This one goes out to all the houseflies aka muscids! You are NOT gross; you are a scavenger! Your gorgeous, iridescent wings, and shining red eyes go often unappreciated in this world.

You just want to join in on the picnic, and I hope you find creatures & beings who let you with open arms & paws - or whatever appendages they may have.

[backjustforberena]

Then we must press what advantage we do have. And what is that? Dragons. 

[burdigel]

So one of the most lore-indepth wildcards of Wild Life would be the superpowers that relates past seasons of the Life Series and acknowledges other series (eg. Hermitcraft and Evo) and their personal lore to attribute to each participant's power.

Starting alphabetically,

Bdubs power is essentially all related to time and his ability to manipulate the day cycle expentially. With the clock being his main motif across all Life Series, the ability to slow and speed time according to his will is easily solvable but with the inclusion of the Hermitcraft and Empires crossover event, his ability to speed time according to his sleep schedule becomes another layer deep. Besides the clock being a main symbol for Bdubs, the concept of sleep is another that has essentially been from the beginning of Hermitcraft. Always carrying a bed and sleeping whenever. The Empires crossover Bdubs was framed as a god of sorts of the Sun. Always bright and always there when the Sun remained as its brightest.

Bigb can summon creaking. He creaking. He is like a king or dimplomant to the players who invade their home and they view him as their kin so he has the responsibility and power to summon them.

Ethoslab based of Kakashi from Naruto is by definition a ninja. An escapee or fugitive at best. So with his ability to jump higher boosted by wind charges can be explained by his connection to the shonen series and the inclusion of the mace could be chalked up to typically stories of protagonists gaining resources or inventory to defeat the "Big Bad" or achieve some sort of goal that is to win the Life Series.

GeminiTay or GeminiSlay named by others intimidated by her, has slayed each participant brutally in the Life Series and on Hermitcraft rewarding her the reputation from her immense PvP skills. So with her power of astral projection, it acts retribution for the slayed to talk and apologise or instigate to those dead for her or others benefit.

GoodTimeWithScar is nortorious for being not PG friendly so the inclusion of one of his powers been the ability to ride people, it's self explanatory. Yet as Scar is commonly associated with and as a vex, his other powers of extreme knockback and thorns can be explained by the hostile and aggressivness of the mob.

Grian as essentially the grandmaster or orchestrator of the Life Series would have access to all the powers and mimic but not fully copy the others' powers. Yet because of his power chained by an omnipresent force, he's unable to fully copy the powers but imitate them for only short periods of time.

ImpulseSV and his teleportation powers could derive from his cyber-theme aesthetic for his Hermitcraft Season X base. With most series of fictions based around cyberpunk civilisations, technologies like teleporation and other advanced transportational devices are commonly utilsed. Resulting in Impulse's power of teleportation and the ability to swap the position of another with himself.

Martyn power is boosted hearing cause he's a Listener.

So Lizzie or LDShadowLady's inflicts blindless or a shadow upon the surrounding people in her radius and resulting her in temporary invisibility and blindess to others around her. But from her endless descent into the void in Secret Life, arises Lizzie with trails of the void clinging to grasp the light of the overworld. Causing the void remnants to spread to others and infect them with blindness in all for the hope to spread towards the light from the cold world of the End.

With the ability to fly, PearlescentMoon carries aesthetics relating to Greek mythology in both her powers and external design choices. As one of the Postmasters of Hermitcraft, Pearl is essentially the builder and additional redstone help of the trio for the postoffice and other aesthetic designs. Hermes the herald or messenger of the Olympus gods delievers messages to other celestial dieties and mortals similar to Pearl's jobs as a Postmaster. Other than the similar professions, both Pearl and Hermes wear a petasos which is essentially a wide-brimmed hat that is commoly adorned for shade and for Hermes, additional wings to the sides of the hat. Symbolising their shared ability to fly quickly and efficiently for a purpose.

As RentheDog is commonly interpreted as a dog-hybrid of sorts by the Hermitcraft and Life Series community, his ability to splice and copy the DNA of others to match their appearance could be an aftermath or positive side-effect from his hybrid mutation.

Similar to Ren, Scott has the capability to transform into any mob in sight and similar to Limited Life where he was depicted as a siren as part of the Mean Gills. His ability to shape-shift into any mob regardless if it's passive or aggressive could be similar to his mutliple origins from New Life SMP and Origin SMP and the reflect the changing nature of his powers.

So Joel with essentially triple jump could be hinting his slimely origins of his Shrek skin in the swamp. Where the swamp generally spawns slimes at a higher rate than other slime chunks and slime blocks harvested from the slimes can be used as jump boosts. Resulting in the triple jump.

After just breaking the Canary Curse two seasons ago, SolidarityGaming or Jimmy has the power to turn fully invisible until someone or something damages him. Ever since his debut to the Watchers back in Evo, Jimmy has been under constant surveillance by the Watchers as an object of their amusement. Always failing to reach even the finale and fumbling to keep alive. Yet when he broke the curse and relayed it too another, he was discarded. Seen invisible to the Watchers as he had become an object of boredom by reaching his resolution. So that's where his invisibility comes from.

Tango with his cowardly approach to things, has constantly ran away from situations but with this power, it supercharges his speed allowing him to become part of the fight and conflict instead of running away. And with his ability to frost-walk on ice, it could recall his Season 9's skin back when he was the Dungeon Master in Decked Out II and became an icy persona.

ZombieCleo and resurect dead people as she's a reanimated zombie.

----

part 32

im tired

[temporarily-your-saint]

Dull Blades Pt. 2

benjicot blackwood x targaryen oc

word count: 2.6k

warnings: slight spoilers from Fire & Blood book, blood/war description

tropes: slow burn, angst, forbidden lovers??

PART 1: https://www.tumblr.com/chels-cosplay/754806134048800768/dull-blades

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The campsite was riddled with mud and bloodthirsty men spread throughout as the princess made her way back. This was war, she thought to herself. So many men lined throughout the grounds ready to die for her family, for her mother’s right to the throne. She found pride in it yet a strain of sadness pinged inside her chest at the thought. A sorrowful notion enveloped her mind as she realized the reality of it all. Many of these men, if not most, will die. But there wasn’t time to dwell for she needed to be strong and prove to these men that it was worth it, that her mother, and that she too was worth it. And she was here to help.

Heads turned toward her as the silver-haired princess threw open the tent flap. Respectful bows followed with mutters of “princess” followed as she passed the men inside to take her position at the head of the table. Her eyes fell down at the map in front of her. It wasn’t quite the extravagant, fire-glowing map she had at home but it would do.

“Princess, the Lannister army holds fast and we’re running out of time. The Kinslayer could fly over at any moment with that beast of his. We must act immediately,” Forrest Frey’s words broke her away from her thoughts. Forrest Frey, or known as Fool Frey, lead his house with nearly eight hundred men.

“Why do you think our queen sent me this way, Lord Frey?” Her words were harsh, challenging the man next to her. Of course she knew they were running out of time. Her dragon, Valax, was the only one that could even come close to challenging Vhagar. And for this reason was the only way she was able to fully convince her mother to send her to the Riverlands to fight.

Lord Frey’s lips parted as if to begin speaking but was quickly interrupted as the tent swung open. Deep brown eyes found Rhaelana’s as she sized up the familiar figure that approached the table.

“Good of you to finally join us, Lord Blackwood,” sarcasm teased the princess’s words as her face remained stoic, gaze never leaving his.

“Princess,” he responded with nod, a mischievous smirk itching at the corner of his lips.

Her eyes scanned across the table to the other lords and then landed back to Lord Frey. “As we were discussing…Yes, time is not our ally at the present. The Lannisters have the disadvantage being on these lands though their numbers are impressive. More than impressive. If I was informed correctly, they stand with nearly twice as many bodies. And as stated before, Vhagar could be in the skies at any moment,” She sighed as she stated the unfortunate facts. The defense of the Greens was a terrifying factor to swallow but they had the North, and she knew they fought like no others.

“Lord Roderick, you will take your wolves to the front. You���ll be leading us.” Her arm reached across the table to move the marker in position. “Lord Frey will follow with his knights and infantrymen on either side to enclose the Greens. And Lord Blackwood,” her voice breathed, meeting those familiar eyes once again. “Lord Rivers will set your archers on the north. We’ll march south to meet the Greens where we’ll attack near Gods Eye.��

She took a deep breath as her voice lowered. “I need all of your fighters to push the Lannister army as close to the water as possible. I came here with my dragon to aid you in this battle but I will not set these lands aflame. These are your kin’s land and I will not dare turn it to fire and ash.”

The lords watched her, understanding her command. Her eyes searched theirs, looking to find respect or horror or disgust, anything to help gage where she stood amongst these men. Then her eyes found the young lord’s across the table once again. He watched her in awe, determined to fulfill her orders and win this war for her mother, for her. She turned her gaze away, a slight blush reaching up her neck to her cheeks from the intensity of his gaze.

“Best make an end to these lions before the dragons come, Princess,” Sir Roderick spoke up, breaking her from her train of thought.

“Ready your forces, my lords. We march at dawn.”

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“It’s over, princess.”

Rhaelana’s eyes darted around the battlefield. It was like casting one’s eyes over a red sea—blood staining the grass as far as their eyes could witness. Death surrounded them.

Water dripped from the princess’s face as rain began to fall. It was as if the heavens cried for them. Gods, it was a cruel world.

Lilac eyes found the lord next to her as he spoke. She nodded, agreeing with him. “Yes,” she began, reaching up towards her own face to wipe splattered mud and blood from her face. “But more is coming. We will need to prepare but tonight we rest, Lord Blackwood.”

"The men have earned it. Rest that is," Benjicot's head turned to meet Rhaelana's gaze, taking in the sight of the princess with a hint of melancholy.

He was an unwaveringly loyal supporter of his queen and had grown quite fond of her daughter, the princess that stood before him. His respect for her only grew during the battle as she fought alongside the men and women that gave their lives for the true crown. The fire that grew within her, a pure dragon through and through, was also impressive and a sight to behold. One that he would remember for the rest of his days.

His gaze dropped to the mud, flecked with red and brown, at their feet. Rhaelana’s eyes found his face, studying the young man. He was handsome with his high cheek bones and rounded face. A slim figure but a mighty and brutal force on the battlefield. She had quickly learned why he adopted the name “Bloody Ben” from the rest of the men.

“We can rest while we hold a funeral pyre tonight, princess. My men deserve that, at least. We have lost more than not. If you’ll permit it, that is.”

The princess’s eyes fell to the saturated ground as he mentioned the funeral. So many had given their lives. Her heart silently broke for those now laying before her amongst the muck. More than half of their men was gone.

“Listen to me, Lord Blackwood,” she spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “Every fight. Every battle you survive, you have to see the end. You must gaze upon those that are now gone.” Her voice hitched at the last word. “We at least owe them that. And we must never forget what it cost us.”

With that, she glanced at the young man next to her and reached out to touch his arm, almost as a condolence. Or maybe she needed to touch someone in that moment that was living, just to find some sort of warmth and comfort.

She then nodded her head toward him, dismissing herself as she strode past him and into camp.

Benjicot’s gaze followed her as she walked past him. He couldn’t help but miss the warmth that radiated from her hand as she left. Gods, and the comfort. It was only for a mere second but he ached for that comfort again, ached for any sort of relief from this hell he stood in. The young lord had seen death before but not like this. Never like this. Bodies of boys, barely even reached manhood scattered throughout the carnage now engraved into his brain. Rain drops hit his face, mixed with salty tears that trickled down, falling onto the blood-soaked ground.

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As the sun finally set, Benjicot’s thoughts kept drawing him back to Rhaelana. He thought of the melancholy look in her eyes and the tremble he'd heard in her voice. Her words echoed in his brain, not able to draw himself out from the memory of her.

The lord felt an odd sense of protectiveness towards the young princess. A protectiveness he loathed to ever admit out loud, especially since he knew she could hold her own. He had seen her fierceness first-hand on the battlefield, so it was almost comical to feel as if he needed to be the one to protect her. She had come to the Riverlands to do exactly that but for the North and for his men.

After eating a few bites of bread and smoked venison, Benjicot rose from his tent and picked his way through groups of men, looking for the Queen's daughter.

Rhaelana sat near the fire that was at the center of camp. The log below her dampened her legs and tunic but the flame before her kept her warm and dry enough. Luckily the rain had let up before nightfall but the chilly air still brushed along her face. Her cheeks appeared rosy, a flush spreading from her there up to her nose from that cool breeze. She certainly was not used to the chillier and wetter climate that the Riverlands provided.

She brought the mug she held to her lips, drinking in the strong ale and allowing the alcohol to warm her as well.

Benjicot's eyes continued to scan the camp until he caught sight of the young princess sitting by the campfire. Her silver hair and small frame was near impossible to miss. He approached her, stopping behind her toward the side.

"You will catch a chill," he drawled, his voice playful though a hint of worry was there. He stood behind her to shield her from most of the still-cold night air.

A smirk played at the corner of her mouth. She took one more sip and then turned toward the man next to her. The princess recognized his voice before she even turned her gaze toward him.

“If a cold takes me then I think that would be the least of my worries, my lord,” she teased as her purple eyes found his.

She tilted her chin toward the fire as she spoke, “Come, join me, Lord Blackwood.”

A smile tugged at his lips in response to her jape and Benjicot made a show of sighing before rounding the fire and sitting down next to Rhaelana. He boldly sat close to the princess, their legs almost touching.

"I dare say you're only asking because of the warmth I may offer," he teased back, watching the embers dance across her face.

Rhaelana’s smile never faltered as he teased while he made his way to sit next to her. She hadn’t quite gotten used to his wit and brazenness but was always pleasantly surprised by the young lord.

She adjusted her posture and brushed his leg with her own, playfully taunting back. A quickened pulse drummed in her ears as a light blush spread over her. His proximity was intoxicating and the alcohol she sipped only heightened her own boldness.

“And maybe I would like to enjoy some company,” she teased back.

Feeling the princess move closer, Benjicot dared to shift a bit closer to her as well. He knew they needed to behave for her sake, for her honor. She was the princess after all. But gods, did she captivate him.

Her words made the young lord look at her, taking in the slight blush that spread over her face. Despite her being age eight and ten, more than marriageable, in that moment she looked like a young girl flirting with peril.

"What sort of company would you like?" He asked, his voice lower and slightly breathier than usual, daring her to answer.

Her eyes fell from his stormy eyes to his lips. She traced over his handsome features with her own lilac ones. She memorized the scar that lay above his lip, the crook of his teeth as he smiled, the way his eyes beamed toward her with eagerness. He felt so familiar, so comfortable to her.

Her gaze then met his once again as she spoke, “Yours, specifically,” she stated boldly, her words falling from her lips in a whisper.

The answer surprised him and yet it didn't. Benjicot had noticed the glances she'd given him when she thought he wasn't looking. The way her hand lingered on his arm when she needed him to stay by her side after the battle. The way her eyes had trailed to and settled on his face every time he spoke.

As she sat next to him now, with their thighs and knees pressed together, he felt as if his heart was suddenly lodged in his throat. He swallowed once, hard.

"And what does my specific company entail, princess?" He asked quietly.

Of course she noticed that he was nervous. Or maybe excited? Both? She understood for her own nerves ran through her body and electrified her. The princess had never been this close to him before or any man for that matter. That fact made her heart pound in her ears, almost sure that he could also hear it.

Her voice didn’t rise above a whisper as she answered his question. “You are to keep your princess safe, Lord Blackwood,” she responded, the teasing never leaving her tone.

Benjicot’s mouth quirked to one side. In her playful tone he could hear her bravado, her attempt at hiding her own nervousness.

He moved even closer, closing nearly all the space that was between them.

"Well, that is my duty...my lady,” as he spoke, he reached upwards carefully. His hand hovered over her cheek for a few beats before gingerly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

His fingers lingered on her skin, just above her cheek, feeling the warmth from her body.

He moved closer, so close that he could smell the sweet scent of lavender and ale that emitted from the young woman. She was intoxicating. He was close enough to count the minute freckles that dotted her nose as his eyes scanned her face.

“Benjicot. Or, Benji. You can call me Benji," he said quietly, gaze finding hers once again, then drifting down to her lips.

He suddenly felt very, very nervous. For the first time in his life, Benjicot Blackwood had no idea what to say or do next.

Rhaelana’s mind raced. He was so close, so close she could move just a mere couple of inches and she’d—

“Princess,” his voice whispered, snapping her from her thoughts. “We should turn in until the morrow.”

Gods, he wanted her to oppose him. He wanted to stay here, warming the princess during the bleak night. But he knew better. He knew they couldn’t risk unsolicited eyes surveilling their current position.

The princess’s heart sank as she drew back away from Benjicot at his words. Of course, how could I be so careless? Maybe it’s the ale… Did I read into him wrong?

She took one last sip of her ale, emptying the cup and stood from her seat next to him. Disappointment clung to the inside of her chest, causing her heart to ache as it clenched around it with every beat.

“Goodnight, Lord Blackwood. Until the morning,” Rhaelana nodded her head towards him and then turned away to strode towards her tent, dismissing herself.

Benjicot sat dumbfounded, disappointed, and confused. He knew he had done the honorable thing, especially by preventing any sort of gossip that could potentially spread if the wrong eyes gawked at them. But why did he feel so discontent?

He decided then that he would make things right with the princess in private where wandering eyes couldn’t defile hers or his reputation.

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HI, HELLO! I was so excited to write a second part and now that we’re here, I am even more thrilled to continue on with a third one. I truly thought I was only going to do a one-shot but uh, I live for a slow burn romance. Thank you all for taking the time of day to read this little blurb that’s been stuck in my brain. I am clearly still all aboard the fancast Benjicot train. :’) We only know pain here, huh?

[rekaning]

Painful Silence | The Originals x Mute!Child!reader

CW: Canon-typical violence, implied/referenced abuse of a child

Summary: Takes place after the events of "Not A Peep". A bit of backstory of Mute!reader from an unexpected source.

She had never been a vocal child.

Her Papa had voiced his concerns about that when Mama was still alive. Mama had merely smiled gently down at her three year old, quietly playing with a hummingbird figurine set.

"Nothing wrong with a little silence," Mama softly told her Papa, running a loving hand over her daughter's hair. "Her silence allows her to perceive the world so much more. She's an observant child. She listens, rather than just hears. And that is a precious gift for a bloodline like mine."

Her Papa still had his reservations, but he trusted his wife. Magic and witchcraft still confounded him but his lover's carefree attitude eased his worries for his daughter's lack of vocalization.

As the days went by, her Papa had felt more and more at ease, having heard several peels of laughter and grunts of frustration erupt from his daughter at times when he was at home. It was only a matter of time before she would begin to speak, he'd told himself.

Their household had been a happy one.

Until it wasn't.

It happened in the middle of the night. Papa had was at his usual night shift at work, with only her and Mama at home.

She had been woken from a rather lovely dream of talking pelicans and flying penguins.

Angry voices coming from the living room downstairs had her creeping slowly off her bed, making sure to grab her pastel green throw blanket with baby chicks printed in patterns, and tiptoed over to the second floor landing to find out what was going on.

When she peeked in between the banister, she could see her Mama with two other women in the living room.

"The laws of the coven no longer apply to me, sister. I renounced my position when I did." Mama said calmly.

One of the women, who had a very similar resemblance to her Mama, stepped forward, voice forceful, "The child is of our bloodline, tainted, though it may be, but ours nonetheless. She must be with her people."

Mama took a step forward, her face hardened, eyes alight with fury, "You will not touch a hair on her head. I left because I no longer believed in the covens ideals and practices. What makes you think I'd let you take my daughter to the very thing I cut ties from?"

The third woman, aged beyond the years of her Mama and the other woman, spoke, "The elders will not allow one of our kin to grow outside of the coven. She must come with us."

Her Mama looked at the older woman pleadingly, eyes stinging with unshed tears, "Mother, please, please, you can't take her from me. She is everything to me."

The old woman, the child's grandmother, held herself with poise and looked down her nose toward her pleading daughter, "I am sorry, child."

Her Mama's sorrowful face quickly morphed into rage and before the young girl could blink, her mother had let out a vicious cry, lifting her hand toward the woman that looked like her, Mama's sister.

The child felt the hairs on her body raise from the electricity in the air. The air seemed to vibrate and the girl stared in wonder as she saw lines of color and light dance around her mother.

An audible, sickening crack broke the girl out of her awestruck wonder and she gazed down at the still figure of her mother's sister, her auntie, on the floor. Her neck was at an odd angle, eyes open in shock, glazed over, seeing nothing.

"What have you done!" Came the shrill cry of her grandmother.

A rumble coursed through the foundation of the home in response.

Her Mama yelled back, "Leave! You are not welcome in this home!"

Her squeak of shock was her undoing. Both her mother and grandmother looked toward the banister and spotted the shaking form of the child.

Her mother's eyes went wide with fear, "My little Bluebird, please, go back to—MOTHER NO!"

The young girl felt the magic before she saw it. Flames erupted to the girl's left, barring escape from the stairs. The child squealed in terror as the fire nipped at her feet. It got close enough that her blanket, trailing limply at her feet, caught fire. The girl quickly let go of the cloth.

"Sweetheart, run!"

She obeyed her mother and stumbled shakily away from the growing flames. She didn't dare to look back, but she could hear the cries and yells coming from both her mother and grandmother in the living room, could feel the magic like static shocks to her skin.

She took refuge in her room, grabbed the penguin stuffy that she had and hid herself under her covers.

Blasts and yells could still be heard. Her room was getting hotter and hotter. A chocked sob erupted from her throat, and the only word that spilled from her lips was, "MAMA!"

The only thing she could hear was herself, her guttural screams for her mother, her pulsing heartbeat in her ears, her ragged coughs as she inhaled smoke.

The door to her room burst open after a few moments. The blankets were ripped from her, and she was brought into the familiar and warm embrace of her Mama.

"You're going to be alright, little Bluebird. Mama's here. She will always be here."

The child, exhausted from fear and panic, fainted in her mother's hold.

Her mother didn't have the sufficient power to calm the inferno raging in her home. Only enough to block it from spreading into the child's bedroom for now.

There was not much she could do. Her own mother and sister lay dead in the living room and she herself would not survive this night. The hex her mother placed on her before her death would complete its task within a few hours.

She looked down at her daughter's sleeping form. Tears welled in her eyes knowing this would be the last time she would see her. Her trembling lips gently kissed her forehead, "I love you, my little Bluebird. Mama loves you."

With the last reserve of power she held, she cast a protective spell over her little girl. Although her mother and sister were dead, the coven would not rest until they had her kid. The spell would deter any unwelcome eyes, keeping her girl safe for a few years at least.

As she lay at the foot of her daughter's bed, clutching the girl safely within her embrace, her last thoughts were of her baby and her husband. She hoped he would not resent her for this mess. He knew her coven was coming for their child. He never liked the whole witch aspect of her life and she could only pray that his hatred of it would not consume him after this.

Her gaze flitted down to her little Bluebird. Hearing her child cry out for her had filled her with so much joy and so much anguish. She had no idea how this night would affect her. She could only hope that her father would help her recover. As she closed her eyes for the last time, she could only hope.

Let my little one find happiness in this life.

***

The three Original's stared down at the child in the woman's lap.

The child's mother stroked her hair soothingly. The girl snuggled further into her mother's touch, a smile forming at the nostalgic ministrations.

Klaus turned his wary eyes to the woman.

Her presence in their home had been unexpected. He had found out that the Veil, which acted as a barrier between the physical world and the Other Side, had been brought down due to the goings-on in Mystic Falls. Because of this, supernatural entities that had previously died, could now interact with the physical realm.

The Mikaelson siblings had been skeptical of the woman's identity when she had appeared before them. All doubt about who she was had been dashed the moment their little Bird had caught sight of the mystery woman.

It had been a shock to the three ancient vampires when the girl, whom hadn't uttered a single sound since meeting, had let out a wail so primal, so heartachingly hurt. The three siblings could still hear the haunting cries in their ears.

The woman had scooped the little girl in her arms, rocking her soothingly and muttering sweet words into her ear, "I'm here my little Bluebird. Mama's here. You've been so strong, sweetheart."

Klaus was loathe to admit that he felt a pang of envy roll over him, seeing his Little Wing being soothed by another, but he had to reign in his ire, reminding himself that it was her mother and that ripping the two apart right now would not go over well. With his Little Wing, nor with his siblings.

"Thank you." The woman's voice broke through the Mikaelson's thoughts.

Each of their questioning looks at her gratitude caused her to smile as she explained, "For looking out for her." Her eyes strayed back to her daughter, "You have no idea how agonizing it was to see the aftermath of my death. To see her detach from what happened, see that she blamed herself for it, and even seeing my husband hurt her the way he did."

Her eyes shot back up to them, brimming with tears. "Thank you," she said again.

Rebekah huffed, irritated, "Your husband was a worthless, wretched wanker. Good riddance, I say. How could you even stand to stay with him?"

"I make no excuses for how he treated our daughter after my death, but he was never that way when I was alive. He worried for our little Bluebird. He knew about my being a witch and he knew that my coven would be coming for her." She gestured to the sleeping girl. "I truly loved him, but what he did...the neglect he subjected her to was..." She stared off into the distance her eyes glazed before she turned them to Klaus and Rebekah, silent fury burning bright in her gaze, "I do not condemn what you did to him. My only regret is that I could not partake in his judgment."

Her admittance eased Elijah's mind. He was pleased to know that their Baby Bird's mother had the proper motherly instinct to eliminate any threat or harm to their child, regardless of who the cause of it was.

Klaus grunted and crossed his arms, ire still simmering within his chest, "Your blessings regarding that brute's death aside, what else did you hope to accomplish with your limited time?"

Elijah rolled his eyes at his brother's rude attitude. He understood his irritation, he could see the jealousy festering in him, and he would be lying if he said that he didn't feel similar himself. The three of them had come to care for the child. At this point, she was a Mikaelson in all but blood.

Rebekah tsked at her brothers tone, "Honestly, Nik."

The witch, however, seemed to find the hybrids tone amusing as she chuckled softly, a knowing smile spreading on her lips, "Niklaus Mikaelson. I thank you for your concern for her, but there is nothing more that I want than to spend what little time I have left holding my daughter."

The hybrid narrowed his eyes at her, cold gaze studying her carefully, "I find that quite hard to believe. Any sane parent would fight tooth and nail to drag their child away from a monster like me."

The witch regarded him warmly, "Hm. It seems I have yet to witness this monster you speak of. The man I have seen with my daughter has been nothing but gentle and sweet; aquiescing to her needs when the situation called for it."

She turned her gaze to Elijah, "She has been under the protection of the one they call the Noble Brother. Who has treated her with equal care as you, Niklaus."

She finally turned to Rebekah, "Besides, this beautiful spitfire that is your sister has shown that she has the instincts of a mother bear when it comes to the protection of my child."

Her eyes went right back to Klaus, "Tell me. Why would I take her from a family that has prioritized her happiness and safety?"

The three Originals said nothing.

There was no sense in denying her observations, it was clear that she had been there for all their interactions with her child, invisible to the from her place on the Other Side.

The mother said nothing further, merely continuing the soft caresses on her little Bird's hair.

[monstersdownthepath]

Homebrew Horror: Qlippoth, Gor'glurin

(Art by @chasm-connected!)

Also called "Gore Orbs" or "Gorgans" by those with a hideous sense of humor, Gor'glurin are a breed of qlippoth which were created as a weapon of traumatic transformation by Yamasoth, the Polymorph Plague, in an attempt to scour mortal worlds of sinful life, though they work just as well against their hated demonic foes. The first of their numbers were created with cooperation from Oaur-Ooung, and they have been purposely spread by mad cultists of both entities ever since, sometimes in the form of a "blessing," sometimes as a curse, for both ally and enemy alike.

Gor'glurin begin their lives as tiny, microscopic flakes no larger than a mote of dust, easily slipping into others through their eyes, nose, or mouth, or even an open wound. They act as a disease within the body, causing tremors, fever, and nausea, appearing as a stomach bug as they slowly construct a larger body nestled within the victim. After just a few days, the qlippoth's growing body is visible as a lump rising from the stomach, and at this point only surgical or magical intervention can save the host's life. Wait too long and it will be too late, as tendrils of infected tissue will begin to weave around the victims' other organs to contaminate them like some eldritch, living tumor, turning them into parts of the qlippoth's body rather than the host's. Weaving itself a body from the stolen viscera, the Gor'glurin emerges from the host in a sickening display, but remains firmly attached, pulling the hapless victim behind them or even into the air as abyssal gas fills them like a gory balloon to finish the transformation. In just a short few minutes, the hosts' bodies are reduced to a limb of the qlippoth instead of the other way around while their minds are imprisoned within, unable to do anything but watch as the parasite lashes out at friends, family, and neighbors.

Once emerged, Gor'glurin exist to spread their infection to as many creatures as they possibly can while they use their host as both a vehicle and sustenance, slowly transmuting unneeded flesh and bone into more infectious cells. Worse still is that the qlippoth also steadily drains the victims' soul to prevent their sin from passing into the Abyss, rendering the soul down into a corrupted form of positive energy that allows the invader to sustain not only its life, but the lives of its qlippoth kin. Their spearing limbs and sprays of blood and bile carry their transformative infection, but once they've fully consumed the victims' soul, the qlippoth finds as high a perch as they can and detonates in a dramatic and disgusting display, casting their tiny, infectious brood into the winds to spread them for miles around.

GOR'GLURIN CR 7 Chaotic Evil Medium Outsider (Chaotic, Evil, Qlippoth) Init: +10; Senses: Darkvision 60ft; Perception +15

------ Defense ------

AC 20, touch 17, flat-footed 13 (+6 Dex, +1 Dodge, +3 Natural Armor) HP 82 (9d10+36) fast healing 5 Fort +10 Ref +9 Will +9 DR 5/Lawful; Immune Cold, disease, mind-affecting effects, poison; Resist Acid 10, Electricity 10, Fire 10 Weaknesses Curative Vulnerability

------ Offense ------

Speed 30ft, fly 20ft (clumsy), climb 20ft Melee 4 stings +15 (1d6+1 plus disease) Ranged Bile spray +15 touch (1d8 Acid plus disease) Special Attacks Horrific Appearance (DC 17), Infectious Detonation Spell-like Abilities (CL 10; Concentration +12)

3/day--Cure Light Wounds 1/day--Cure Moderate Wounds

------ Statistics ------

Str 12 Dex 22 Con 18 Int 11 Wis 17 Cha 14 Base Atk: +9; CMB +10; CMD 26 Feats Combat Reflexes, Dodge, Improved Initiative, Power Attack, Weapon Finesse Skills Climb +20, Escape Artist +18, Fly +10, Knowledge (Nature) +12, Perception +15, Stealth +18 Languages Abyssal, primary language spoken by the host; Telepathy 80ft SQ Flailing Host

------ Ecology ------

Environment any (Abyss) Organization Solitary, pair, outbreak (3~10), or pandemic (20~60) Treasure Incidental (host's belongings)

------

Combat: Gor'glurin seek to spread their infection to as many creatures as possible, and will stealthily spray or stab victims when able. Once in combat proper, they divide their stings between as many targets within their reach as they can. They have no special ability to tell when a creature has been successfully infected, and thus tend to continue to attack until their victims fall unconscious before seeking new prey. When among other breeds of qlippoth, they will briefly pause their assaults to heal their injured kin with stolen life energy.

Morale: Gor'glurin always fight to the death in the hopes their Infectious Detonation spreads their spores to their killers. The sole exception is if they are in combat with Undead or Constructs, which they will flee as swiftly as possible from to seek viable hosts.

------ Special Abilities ------

Bile Spray (Ex): The Gor'glurin's bile spray is a ranged touch attack with a range of 40ft.

Curative Vulnerability (Ex): Gor'glurin are harmed by any spell or effect which attempts to cure diseases. If it fails its saving throw against the spell or effect, it takes 1d8 damage per caster level of the creature using the spell/effect. A Heal spell cast upon it slays it instantly without offering a saving throw. It never regains hit points from any such effects. If this damage reduces its HP to 0 or less, it dies instantly without triggering Infectious Detonation (see below) as its body shrinks back to nothingness, and the host regains control of their body, though the damage and drain done do them is not instantly undone.

Disease (Ex): Sting, bile spray, Infectious Detonation--Injury, inhaled; save Fortitude DC 19, onset 1d6 days, frequency 1/day, effect 1d4 Str and 1d4 Con damage, cure 2 consecutive saves. A creature that would be reduced to 0 or less Con by this disease instead stabilizes at 1 Con, stops taking damage from the disease, and transforms into a Gor'glurin Qlippoth over the course of 1d4 minutes. This disease has no effect on other qlippoth.

Flailing Host (Ex): The host of the Gor'glurins infection (see disease, above) remains attached to the qlippoth, but cannot take any actions, even purely mental ones. The qlippoth cannot use any of the host's abilities and uses its stats instead of the host's in all cases; the host is nothing more than a puppet. It uses the host's limbs to move, perform combat maneuvers, or manipulate objects. Despite this, the host is still alive, and the qlippoth feeds from them to sustain itself. The host suffers 1d6 points of Charisma drain each day as the qlippoth consumes its soul, and when the host reaches 0 Charisma, the qlippoth seeks a high place to use its Infectious Detonation ability (see below). If the Gor'glurin is slain, the host is slain as well unless the qlippoth was slain by its Curative Vulnerability.

Horrific Appearance (Su): A creature that succumbs to the Gor'glurin's Horrific Appearance feels as though their organs are shifting around within their body, becoming nauseated for 1 round, and sickening them for 1d4 rounds after.

Infectious Detonation (Ex): When the Gor'glurin is reduced to 0 HP, it explodes gruesomely. All creatures within 10ft of it must make a DC 19 Reflex save or take 2d8 bludgeoning and 1d8 Acid damage from the spraying viscera, and all creatures within 30ft must save against its disease as its spores spray in every direction. A Gor'glurin which has fully consumed its host's soul (see Flailing Host, above) can use this ability at any time it wishes by destroying itself as a full-round action, causing the same damaging explosion but spraying its spores in a 100ft cloud instead. In addition, the qlippoth will typically seek a high position to use this ability from, spreading its spores to the wind and potentially infecting creatures miles away (at the DMs discretion).

[ellephlox]

Castle in the Sky

Summary: You try sparring with Matt because he wants you to learn self-defense. A minor bump to the head, as it turns out, opens up many doors.

Pairing: Matt x f!reader

Warnings: Hit to the head, some physical intimacy (but no smut)

A/N: Haven't written in months because I've been working on a writing project of my own but here I am again!! I'm absolutely THRILLED to see the new photos of Born Again and I'm also dying to watch Kin season 2 (haven't been able to watch it yet unfortunately).

"Matt, I know it probably pains you to hear this, but I'm seriously going to be a waste of your time."

"You could never be a waste of my time."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but really, I don't think you understand just how bad this is going to go."

"It'll go fine. Just give it a shot." Matt was in a tee and shorts, an excited energy in the way he beckoned you forward. Training, he called it. Self-defense lessons.

It sounded more like a painful exercise to you.

"Besides," you continued. "Let's say I was walking down the street and some malicious guy approached me with a knife and was all, Give me your money or I'll kill you—"

Matt scowled. "If that ever happens, I'll kill him first."

"In that situation," you pressed on, "I guarantee that I would freeze. Any punches or flying kicks or whatever that you have tried to teach me would be sitting uselessly in the recesses of my mind. I'd be scared or disbelieving and I wouldn't even move. Really."

"It wouldn't hurt to try learning, sweetheart."

You sighed. "I'll try, for your sake, but don't think that I don't see through your motivations."

"My motivations?"

"You just want to kick my ass and then laugh as I succumb to your ninja skills."

"It might possibly be a contributing factor."

You gave him a light push. "Alright, then. So you really think you can teach me something?"

"Sure. Anyone can learn." Matt quickly pushed the sofa backwards and faced you, suddenly appearing much more imposing than he did when... well, when he wasn't about to spar with you. You lifted up your hands uncertainly, trying to mimic the boxing pose you'd seen him take on in Fogwell's.

"Okay. That's your first mistake," Matt said, stepping forward to grab your wrists and adjust them.

"How did I already screw up? I only lifted my hands."

"When you're assuming a defensive stance, you don't want to keep your hands that low. It's better to keep them up a bit higher to protect your ribs and face."

He moved your hands upward. "Good. You've got your thumbs right."

"See, I know what I'm doing," you said dryly. "Next time I get attacked on the street they'll be intimidated by my correct thumb placement."

"And you'll be grateful that your thumbs aren't broken after you throw a punch. I learned that the hard way." Matt paused for a moment. "I made the mistake of putting my thumb out. Stick didn't tell me. He said he thought it'd be a good way for the lesson to stick if there was a physical reminder."

"Bastard. Now I want to learn how to fight." You lifted up your fists. "Because if I ever get the chance to meet Stick, I assure you that he will be very familiar with my fists."

"I appreciate that support, but if that ever happens, I very vehemently would recommend against that." Matt held out his hands. "Attack me. I want to see what your fighting style is."

"You mean my fighting style or lack thereof?"

"Just go for it." Matt stood there confidently, his hands crossed in front of him casually and his eyes trained on your collarbone.

"I don't want to hurt you," you said uncertainly. "I mean, I know how dumb that sounds, because you're freaking Daredevil, but it feels wrong to just... throw a fist at you."

Matt only laughed. "Sweetheart, you won't hurt me."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Um." You considered your hands, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "Don't judge me, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Tentatively you sent a fist towards the left side of his abdomen. You expected him to just sidestep it, especially since it was a slow-moving punch — you didn't have the heart to put all of your strength into it, no matter what he said — but instead he blocked your arm, braced his other arm against your own, and forced you to twist around until your back was against his front and his arm was around your neck. "Come on, sweetheart, you can do better than that."

He was taunting you, and it worked. "Fine," you said, and you tossed your elbow back with the intention of slamming it into him, but it hardly did anything at all; he took the blow as though you'd thrown a marshmallow at him.

"Go for the groin," he advised.

"Don't have to tell me twice," you said, lifting up your knee with the intention to nail him, but he took the opportunity to sweep your other leg out from under you. You fell to the floor, groaning. "I thought you wanted me to try getting you in the groin?"

"And I wanted to show you how that makes it easy for an assailant to knock you down. One foot on the ground is a surefire way to have zero feet on the ground."

"Come on, you kick all the time — flying kicks, spinning kicks, twirly-whirly kicks—"

"I don't do twirly-whirly kicks. And you can go for the groin, occasionally, but only when the timing is right and you won't get knocked down."

"I promise you that if I somehow manage to get in a fight with someone, the last thing I'll be doing is analyzing whether or not the timing is right for a groin kick, Matt."

"Okay. Try a heel palm strike." He took your arm and guided you through the movement, flexing your wrist and showing you how to pull your arm back quickly. "And go for the nose, or throat, if you can. That's effective. The ears are a good target, too. It's disorienting, even for someone who doesn't rely on their hearing to move around."

You gave him a look. "Please tell me that you don't get your ears boxed on a regular basis."

"Only twice." Matt kept going before you could say anything else. "There's several escapes I want to show you, in case you're ever being held against your will."

He proceeded to demonstrate to you the different ways you could free yourself, whether you were held in a headlock or your hands were tied; for his sake you tried to do as best as you could, though you felt fairly certain that each time you "freed" yourself, it was Matt letting you go, so you could experience the maneuver fully.

"Now get down," he said.

"On the floor?"

"For escaping while mounted. Lie on the floor, on your back."

"Why do I feel like you have ulterior motives?" you asked, smirking at him as you obeyed. He climbed on top of you and grabbed both of your wrists with a devious glint in his eyes.

"Never said I wouldn't enjoy myself," he said. He locked his legs around your waist and grabbed both of your wrists, pinning them to the floor. "So, if you ever find yourself in a position like this — God forbid — then what you're going to do is—"

"Panic and wait for the devilishly handsome Daredevil to show up and rescue this damsel in distress?" At Matt's expression, you backpedaled. "I'm kidding. Kidding. I'll fight back."

"Even though your wrists are pinned, your hands themselves are still free. Try to grab my wrist with your left hand."

You tugged, and Matt allowed you to pull your hand over so that you had your left hand securely locked around his wrist. "And what if my assailant is too strong and I can't do this?"

"Odds are that no matter how strong they are, if you can start kicking with your legs, spit in their face, or scream — anything to distract them — they're not going to be 100% focused on your one left wrist. They'll be contending with your flailing legs."

"Okay," you said doubtfully. "So I just grab your wrist... then—"

"Put your foot on my hip, push, and pull at my wrist simultaneously."

"But you've locked yourself around me," you said, struggling fruitlessly. "How am I supposed to move my legs?"

"Roll onto your hip. It'll create space. And if you can, reach up and grab the ear of the assailant, then pull them to the side."

"I'm not testing the ear move on you," you said firmly. "Nope."

"I second that," he admitted. "But try the hip roll."

To your surprise, it actually worked. And this time, you felt the natural shifting of your bodies, so that you could even slightly believe that it would work on your assailant no matter how big or strong they were. You rehearsed the move with Matt several times, swapping out which hand you used to reach up to him.

"Okay. Again, and faster. Real-time, if you can. And at the end, I want you to roll out all the way, and get out from under me," Matt said.

"Okay," you said, feeling that things wouldn't bode too well for you if Matt was going to put an ounce of effort in, but you got back in position. He grabbed both of your wrists, this time digging his knees painfully into your ribs, just enough for it to hurt without doing any real harm. You gasped, struggling for breath, and lunged forward to loosen yourself slightly, trying to roll over to no avail.

"Try again," Matt said, and you did, spontaneously leaning upwards as you jerked to the left and reached for his wrist. Once you had it, you pulled as hard as you could, pushing your knee against him. You could feel him yielding a bit, going easy on you — which slightly pissed you off even though you knew you'd have no chance against him otherwise — but at the same time it was still exhilarating.

Finally you freed yourself, and rolled out to the left and onto your knees, just as Matt followed through with your shove and lunged to block you.

"Keep going," he urged. "Get back on your feet."

You obeyed, adhering to his commands as he gave them, and it really was like a waltz once you got into the rhythm, dodging and learning to recognize which hand motions meant what.

"Now try dodging a new type of punch," he said, as a way of warning. "I'll be coming from this side over here."

"Which way do I go? To the left?"

"Right. And be ready, because this time I'm going to fight back more."

You weren't quite sure how it happened, though. The sweep of his arm, as you put all your weight to the left, resulted in you losing your balance and toppling over the follow-through of his leg, your arms to the side and unable to get forward quickly enough to brace yourself as your head made a beeline for the edge of the coffee table.

The impact it made felt as though someone had hammered a nail into the top of your forehead. You yelped, hand now free so that it could jump to the spot of impact.

Matt's reaction was visceral; like a TSA agent oddly eager to frisk, he had his hands out and seeking the exact spot where your forehead currently felt like the site of an excavation. "Dammit, I'm sorry — are you okay?"

"I'm okay. Sorry. I didn't think that would happen."

"Why'd you go left?"

"You told me to go left."

"No, I said right."

You snorted despite yourself, closing your eyes against the ebbs of pain. "I interpreted 'right' as 'correct'. My bad."

"No, it's my bad, I should have—"

"Not your fault at all," you managed, brushing at your head. You expected blood, but it was dry. "Just a bump. I should have seen that coming."

"You probably have a concussion." Matt's tone was strangled, his left hand cupping the back of your head while his right grazed the bump. "I could call Claire, and have her come over—"

"Uh, no." The thought of having Matt's practically on-call nurse drop everything she was doing to come help you was mortifying. "I don't even think I have a concussion. Ask me my name. Bet I can ace any question you've got." Physically you pulled his hand away from your head. "Matt, really. It's okay."

"You're trying to mollify me."

"You're too worried," you said playfully. "It'll take more than a little bump to take me out. If you can get sliced up by the Yakuza, I think I can handle a love tap from the coffee table."

"That wasn't a love tap. I could hear the impact on your skull. And I can feel the heat already from the bruise forming."

"See, we don't need Claire. I'll never need to go to a hospital again with you around." You patted at your head and ignored the accompanying stab of pain that would otherwise have made you flinch if Matt wasn't there to detect it. "Can we go through the move again?"

"No."

"But you were the one who wanted me to learn in the first place."

"We'll go to Fogwell's another time," he said. "Someplace with floor mats and no sharp coffee table edges."

You rolled your eyes, but you could already see that his mind wasn't going to budge. He sat in a crouch, his head still tilted towards you as though he couldn't help keeping a constant monitor on your head, and it struck you, with the position he was currently in, how easy it would be to knock him over.

"Cow tipping!" you hollered at him, diving forward and throwing all of your weight against his side; from his crouched position on the tips of his feet, there was nowhere to go but sideways, and for one delicious microsecond, Matt Murdock, the same man you had seen balance precariously on fire escapes and jump nimbly from roof to roof, was forced to fumble his arms out in time to catch himself as he fell to his left. You leapt atop him, straddling his chest with your knees.

"You took down a blind man who was trying to help you," he mocked. "Shame on you. Were you faking the head pain, too?"

"I'm not that devious," you said. "Say mercy and I'll let you go."

Matt tipped his head back against the floor, his eyes reflecting the evening sunlight as it came out from behind the clouds. Without seeming to notice, his hands crept up the outside of your thighs, making goosebumps prickle on your skin. "You think that I need your acquiescence in order to get up?"

You leaned forward, pressing your hands against his shoulders. The muscles tensed under your fingertips, the biceps under your thumbs ready to spring into action at any moment. "As far as I'm concerned, right now I've conquered you, and if anyone were to see us then I think they'd agree with me."

"It's touching to see how much this means for you," he said. "I'll let you enjoy your victory for a bit longer."

"And then?"

"And then I get to win." His voice was lower, reminiscent of the devil, and your stomach dropped. Still you could feel the muscles poised under your hands, and you could feel your blood rising into your cheeks as his own hands crept lower.

You egged him on. "You can try," you said. "I'm warning you, though, that I could beat you whenever I want, easily. I just like to pretend I'm not as strong as I actually am. Wouldn't want to hurt the ego of Daredevil."

"Of course. How thoughtful of you, sweetheart."

"Yeah, you know me."

"I'm guessing that was you who took down the trafficking ring a few nights ago, then? Left all those men unconscious in the alley?"

"Uh, obviously." You leaned in closer. "That's why you've got to play nice, Murdock. If I get mad, I might just go all Hulkish on you and you'll be begging for my mercy—"

Quickly enough that you jumped, startled, Matt rolled out from underneath you with even more ease than you would have expected, and with a swift grab of your wrists, he pinned you down beneath him, just like earlier when you sparred.

"You were saying?" he asked, grinning. Immediately you tried the move that had worked on him previously — he definitely was going easy on you earlier, then — but this time he blocked it. You scowled, and tried again; once more it yielded nothing.

"You're not getting up until you make some amendments to what you were saying, Y/N."

"Well, let me clarify," you began, and Matt's lips lifted upwards as he began to smirk.

Nope. He's not getting any satisfaction yet.

"I'm currently giving you the impression that you've won," you continued, and his expression shifted, as though he were trying not to laugh. "It's an important part of keeping your ego up, of course. Every so often I like to give you these little nuggets of delusion."

"Nuggets of delusion," Matt repeated.

"Sure. I'm selective with them. But when I feel like you need a bit of a self-esteem boost, then bam, you've got it. So right now, I'm giving you a nugget. It's all part of my strategy." You lay beneath him, the floor hard on your back, as he seemed to mull over what his response was going to be.

Instead, he simply took your wrists and moved them above your head, where he pinned both to the floor with his left hand and then moved his right hand down to your throat.

"What?" you managed. "You don't like delusion nuggets?"

"I want you to admit you're lying."

"But you already know I'm lying."

"I want the verbal confession."

"I confess to nothing," you said stubbornly, your heart picking up as his thumb brushed over the center of your throat.

"Try again, sweetheart. And remember that I know where you're most ticklish."

"Uh... you are by far the strongest man I've ever met and I could never compare to you?"

"And what else?"

"I love you?" you said, your voice higher than usual, because damn, Matt leaning directly above you was distracting.

"Better." He released your wrists and pulled you up into him.

You buried your head into his chest, sighing. "Can't believe you just tackled a concussed person to the floor."

"That was not a tackle. That was... one percent effort. Even half a percent." He paused a moment. "And you said the bump wasn't anything to be concerned about."

"Mm. Did I lie?" you asked him, kissing his hand.

"No," he admitted. "But I still don't trust you."

"You shouldn't. Because the next time you're tying your shoes, or cleaning out underneath the oven or something, I'm totally going to cow tip you again."

"Seriously? 'Cow tipping'? Did you make that up?"

"For a guy who knows everything, I'm appalled you don't know what cow tipping is."

"Please tell me you've never actually shoved a real cow over."

"You really do think poorly of me," you said, stretching. "Just you wait, Murdock. When you least expect it, you shall be cow tipped again. Just you wait."

[pizzapasta23045]

KAEYA HANGOUT ANALYSIS

Qubad: Fate means to send the machinations of war to every corner of the land, to fan the flames of conflict till they engulf the entire world...  Qubad: Fate would see my sword tainted with the blood of innocents, that the bright banner of my homeland might fly in every nation known to mankind. 

It so perfectly tells you what will happen in Kaeya's story without actually saying it. It's utterly lovely.

Firstly, it points out that Kaeya does not like violence, does not want it and he hates that fate wants him to be active participant in the creation of violence.

The homeland in the story could seem to be reffering to Khaenri'ah if you don't think about it too hard. But, weirdly, it reppresents both at different times of the play. In the beginning, fate wants the homeland to win, which would imply it's not exactly a 1:1 to Khaenri'ah unless the heavens have a weirdly convuluted plan as they themselves are the ones that destroyed it to begin with. It is also a place with a god, as you can tell in multiple points in the story.

Qubad: When I departed my beloved home to fight in a foreign land, I did so to honor his wishes and for my duty to our people.  Qubad: Alas, is this fate's grand design... Is this fate's grand design... Qubad: Must it be so...?

Kaeya was, in a way sent to fight in a foreign land. Not in the sense of physically fighint but in the sense tha he's an agent there for a specific goal we are not privy through.

He's placed in the impossible position of having to choose between Mondstadt, the place he loves and Khaenri'ah, his homeland who he owes a duty to. Fate, not his father decided this. His father has not helped the situation, his father has harmed him, but in the end he is not the one that created the problem in the first place. As Kaeya's himself points out here.

Kaeya: Yep, "inept" is a good word for it. Honestly, it might even be a little too civil to describe a god who turns fathers against their sons and is bent on endless warmongering... don't you think?

While there is clearly an arger towards his father, Kaeya does not see him as a bad person but as someone who was forced to be evil. A victim of manipulation, just as much of a pawn of this game as Kaeya himself is. The god (Celestia) is in the end the main problem. Because he set up the twisted system in teh first place.

 Qubad: I, Qubad, will spend the rest of my days in a foreign land, till I breathe my last in a place far from home. Qubad: But I shall not bow to the will of fate. I am no pawn in heaven's plan. Qubad: Gundafar, my dear mentor... You have always been like a father to me. It brings me only anguish to bid you farewell.  Qubad: But I must walk this path, or freedom dies by my hand. Goodbye, my tribe and kin. Farewell, sweet land of my birth.

The important part of the hangout is this. "I shall not bow to the will of fate. I am no pawn." Kaeya makes his decision. He's made up his mind finally. He knows what he should do.

Now. What is that?

Well, we can see in the play in Kaeya's improv that he'll say goodbye to his mentor who was like a father to him. He also says goodbye to his kin and his tribe. He isn't picking either the side of his family of choise and his blood.

What we see here is fundamental. Kaeya shouts it at us. He is not picking either side, because both have significance to him. It's important to realize that the thing with his sides, that is also made up. It's a construct set up by the gods. Neither side is whooly right or whooly wrong. The Heavens WANT kaeya to choose.

Kaeya: If you don't like the script, just walk off the stage and join the audience. You always have a choice.

You always have a choice. There is always a less obvious choice. The Heavens do not control anything.

Qubad: My dear audience, I ask you this: Do you believe in fate? If fate decreed that your life was to end in tragedy, what would you do?

The point it's making about Kaeya's story is fundamental to both his and the travler's story. Kaeya's life is to end in greatness and tragedy as his constellation says. It's written in the part. But Kaeya is no pawn, and Kaeya will not turn back, as freedom itself, as a concept dies. Unlike his father, he will not let himself be tainted by hate and preperpetuate the cycle of violence that the warmogering gods want him to do.

Anyways this is my coming out as a "Kaeya isn't picking either Khaenri'ah or Mondstadt he's picking the secret third option the heavens don't want you to know about."

[thetormentita]

the woman in winter (se ābra isse sōnar) - chapter 1

duty is sacrifice, and not even the house of the last dragonriders can escape from it.

Pairing: Original female! Targaryen/Criston Cole (one-sided), Original female! Targaryen/Jacaerys Velaryon

A/n: Poor Jace. I play here with the idea of Viserys having dragon dreams and having told anybody about it.

Warnings: mentions of death, some angst, High Valyrian, clinging Criston Cole

Rating: Mature (+16)

Tagging list: @novaursa @maegelletargaryen (send an ask if you wanna be tagged too!)

She doesn’t even hide a cackle as that big black beast of her dragon lands into the Dragonpit with a thunderous thud, sending a cloud of dust swirling around them. The creature’s scales shimmer under the light of the torches, casting a myriad of shadows that dance on the ancient walls like flickering flames. Her eyes gleam with pride as, once she has jumped off the dragon, her gloved hand brushes over that huge neck, hard as a brick.

“Sir ilagon, Mayhem (Now rest, Mayhem)” she whispers in the old tongue of her ancestors, the dragon tamers of old and their kin. The beast lowers its massive head and closes its eyes, letting out a contented sigh that rumbles through the cavern, echoing off the stone like distant thunder, making her smirk.

As she approaches the entrance one of the dragonkeepers confirms her what she had been suspecting all along: her escapade had not gone unnoticed. Apparently, a ‘timpa azantys’, a white knight, had arrived not much after her leaving. It only meant that the Hand, her aunt, the Queen or even the King himself had been searching for her with no positive results.

“Kirimvose (Thank you)” she nods, with a soft smile, as she leaves the old keeper inside the massive stone hall of the Dragonpit and heads out into the bustling streets of the city, with an arm half covering her eyes from the light of the midday sun.

The streets are alive with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, the clatter of horseshoes on cobblestone, and the distant calls of seagulls circling the nearby harbor. The scent of freshly baked bread, spiced meats, and the salty tang of the sea fills the air, mingling with the less pleasant odors of King’s Landing, a city where luxury and squalor walk hand in hand.

She looks at one side of the entrance, searching for the ‘timpa azantys’, and she almost wrinkles her nose when she finds out a man cladded in white and silver armor next two palfreys, a helmet hiding the identity of the Kingsguard who had been sent to fetch her to the Red Keep. Despite not having a special predilection for any of them, she did not like ser Willis nor ser Rickard, and although they were nice to her and even had bring her some sweets from the kitchens here and there, it was almost embarrasing to keep mistaking ser Erryk and ser Arryk all the damn time.

“I guess I am grounded?” she says as her feet draw her to the knight, who just turns his head towards her, not bothering to change his stance. “I have done no wrong, just wanted to fly a bit.”

The knight’s expression seems to soften slightly under the helmet, betraying a hint of sympathy beneath his stern exterior. “His Grace cares deeply for you, princess.” It is ser Criston who has come for her. “He sent us searching for you.” As he removes his helmet, his eyes land on her, maybe more than he intends, showing a depth of concern that surprises her. “I thought maybe you came to visit your dragon.”

“I am not my uncle, yet he can go every day to Flea Bottom and get drunk and lay with whores and nobody says a thing.” Elia approaches one of the horses, letting the animal sniffle her hands to get used to the smell of Mayhem.

“It is not the same.”

She turns to face the knight, his pale green eyes upon her, observing her every move with an intensity that makes her feel both vulnerable and strangely empowered. "Why is it not the same? Because I am a woman, or because it is deemed improper for a lady of my standing to venture out of the Red Keep without the company of a septa or a guard?” Elia’s voice is steady, yet there’s a hint of frustration lacing her words.

“You are the King’s only granddaughter” he offers her a hand to help her climb the horse and, despite the ridiculous of the gesture —she had climbed up and down a dragon seven times the size of that mount by herself with little effort— she lets him do, something inside her telling her that he may need it.

“Not for long, in any time Helaena will get pregnant and it may be a baby girl, true Valyrian…”

She frowns, and almost like being trained by Cole, her mount starts moving the moment his does the same, the rhythmic clop of their horses' hooves on the stone path blending with the sounds of the bustling city around them.

“How far have you gone atop your dragon?”

Ser Criston’s question takes her by surprise. The ever stoic and stern warrior had never asked her such things, taking little to no interest in anything related to the Targaryen lineage, as if repelled it despite being in charge to protect the last family of dragonriders.

“I… Dragonstone, I think. Not quite far because Mayhem is still young and may lack the strength. We have planned with Jace to do a progress in the future, going further but in various stages. I wanna see the Wall, and Tarth, and go to the Eyrie too.”

Her eyes sparkle with a rare excitement as she speaks of the yet undecided journey, laying out a map of dreams that stretched beyond the horizons she had known, and ser Criston’s face shows a small smile, indicating his quiet amusement at her enthusiasm.

“Have you thought about going to Dorne?”

“Dorne?” she chuckles, “Really?”

“Aye! Why not?” Criston challenges, his tone light yet persuasive. "It's unlike any place you've ever seen. Sunspear’s harbor, the spicy food, the vibrant colors of the markets, and the warmth of its people. It's a land of passion and fire, where the heat of the sun is matched only by the warmth of its people's hearts.”

Her eyes gleam with curiosity, a spark ignited by Criston's vivid description. "It sounds like a dream," she muses, her mind already wandering to the exotic landscapes and bustling bazaars he painted with his words. "How come—?”

“Your mother and mine were raised by the same desert, princess.” Criston's voice softens, a touch of nostalgia coloring his tone as he speaks of their shared heritage. "The same sun that kissed your lady mother's cheeks warmed mine. You should go to Starfall and see it yourself.”

Starfall. The seat of House Dayne, the former Kings of the Torrentine. The mere thought of it makes her heart flutter and, at the same time, her stomach churn in disgust. She had never gone south of the Kingswood, and despite the whole world ahead waiting for her to fly over it, she feels like the other side of the Red Mountains is a forbidden territory for her.

“They will surely hate me” she spits, her eyes observing the looming walls of the Red Keep’s courtyards atop Aegon’s Hill. “I just cannot go there as if nothing had happened. My mother died after my birth, and they may blame me for it.”

“They won’t hate you, princess, I bet my sword hand they don’t.” The Kingsguard reassures her, his voice steady and clear, a contrast to the tumultuous thoughts swirling in her mind. “Nobody could hate you. It is not a babe’s fault if the mother dies in birthbed, sadly such tragedies are more common than any of us would wish.” He pauses, glancing down at the sword at his side, its hilt gleaming in the soft light of the morning. "And you," he continues, turning his gaze back towards her, "have grown into a remarkable young woman, one who carries herself with grace and dignity. You have strength, more than you know."

As they cross the yard, leaving their palfreys tethered near the stables, the air is filled with the sounds of the living court, always busy with people coming and going, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, and the distant ring of steel as knights practice in the training grounds. The scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meat wafts from the kitchens, mingling with the earthy aroma of the stables and the sweet fragrance of the blossoming gardens that surround the palace. It is a place alive with activity, yet there is an underlying peace that seems to permeate the very stones of the castle, as if the ancient walls themselves exude a sense of history and stability amidst the bustling life within and around them.

This is the heart of the kingdom, the monstrosity of a castle looming over a city that looks like another world compared to the Red Keep.

Ser Criston guides her towards the royal appartments, through corridors that seem to wind endlessly, past tapestries that depict the glory of the kingdom's past and the grandeur of its present. Greeted by courtiers and workers alike, Elia finds in the keep a strange comfortable feeling, like she belongs here amidst the echoes of history and the whispers of power.

“Was he angry?”

“Worried, I would say, princess. He is your grandsire, he has you in great esteem.”

As they pass by the gallery next to the training yard, her eyes can spot Jace training, surrounded by friends, certainly having a good time, and she envies him for a moment. How happy he seems, how eager to show himself to potential allies and close kith. He had always told her that he would one day be worthy of Blackfyre, of the ancestral sword the kings of Westeros had wielded since the time of Aegon the Conqueror.

“You will be my good queen” he had told her once in the privacy of her rooms during one of those nights they had evaded guards and septas.

Ser Criston stops by the entrance of the royal appartments, and Elia takes a deep breath, her hands clasped at her back, her stance proud and shameless.

“Let me first, just in case” he mumbles to her in a soft, protective tone, approaching the guards positioned by the door and knocking on it as they both retreat to the sides.

Elia comes into the chambers once ser Criston announces her, and they both exchange looks as the Kingsguard leaves and she turns to face her grandsire, bowing out of respect.

“Your Grace.”

Viserys Targaryen raises from his chair, leaving what he has in his hands aside and approaches her, his eyes never leaving her figure.

“You fled the keep. You told nobody. Only the Gods know what could have happened to you.”

His voice carries a mix of concern and sternness, a king's burden laced with a grandfather's worry. The air in the room feels thick, charged with unspoken thoughts and feelings. A moment stretches between them, a bridge of silence that speaks volumes of their complicated relationship.

“I cannot be still until my wedding with Jace comes. He has his swordplay, and his lessons, and also gets to come into meetings with the Small Council while I have to set myself with embroidery and walks along the gardens and prayers at the sept.”

Grandfather and granddaughter hold their gazes, the weight of her words hanging between them like a tangible thing. The king, with lines of time etched deeply into his face, reflects on her words, understanding the depth of her restlessness and the constraints placed upon her by the expectations of her status. "My child," he begins, his voice carrying the wisdom of years and the softness of genuine affection, "I sometimes forget how alike you both are.”

He pauses, his eyes drifting to the scale model of Old Valyria, the small project that once united father and son, now a mere source of nostalgia. “He may have known better, all eyes were upon him and he so graciously bore that weight. You would have learnt so much with your father around, at last as much as I did.”

If there was something sacred to than man was the fruit of his first marriage, the union bonded by love and not by duty. Baelon and Rhaenyra, both children desired and cherished by him, their mere existance the testament of the strength of House Targaryen, of the generation who would have to fight through thick and thin to keep the grandiosity of their lineage, the respect of the rest of the Westerosi houses, big and small. The tragic death of his only son had scarred Viserys Targaryen for life, and Elia is the one to pay the price.

“I am afraid, lass” his voice is like a mumble, his own fragility showing. “You are the only thing I have left from my boy, and the mere thought of you being harmed makes my heart tremble like a leaf in a storm. I love you as if you were a daughter of mine, Elia. I look upon your face and I see Aemma’s lips, in your eyes there is the same spark my lady mother once had, and I fear for you in these troubling times. The court is a dangerous place, filled with those who would seek to use you for their gain, and I cannot stand it.”

Elia listens, her heart swelling with a mix of emotions—gratitude, love, and an undeniable surge of protective fierceness. The man before her has been a steadfast presence in her life since she was a child.

“I am aware of your secret lessons with Jacaerys and his friends. You have my mother’s spirit, and it shows.”

She clenches her jaw with the confession. She had been the one to ask her cousin for guidance with a sword, and he had gladly started to give her small lessons here and there, helped by Aeron Bracken, Gerold Marbrand and Davos Blackwood, and even the latter had taken the role of a sworn shield against the looming dangers of those opposing the closest figures to her, only to keep her safe and not be used as a tool to harm her cousins or her aunt, or even the king himself.

“You should have never let lord Lyonel go, Your Grace.”

It all was easier when the head of House Strong was the Hand, when he could be spotted in any corner of the Keep and his mere presence was a balm and a warning at the same time, as did his eldest son, the one they called ‘Breakbones’.

“I should have let you get more involved, my girl, I see that now," the king admits, his voice laced with regret. “I did not prepare you to be a queen.”

“I thought that was not the role of a king.”

Viserys allows himself a small smile, faint and tinged with sadness, a reflection of the burdens that lay heavy upon his crown.

“There is this thought that roams free in my head since Lord Lyonel’s departure.” he burrows his frow, his gaze distant as if he's looking into the very depths of his kingdom's future, “Maybe your place is not to stand by Jacaerys’s side, but rather to guide him from the lands of winter.”

…

Jace’s grip tightens around her hand as they walk through the corridors, his eyes scanning the ancient stone that whispers the history of their ancestors. The torches flicker in their sconces, casting long shadows that dance across the floors and walls, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere.

“I thought we would be married” she mumbles, her voice a mix of confusion and a faint, lingering hope. The cold stone beneath her feet seems to echo her uncertainty, each step a question left unanswered.

“I knew of it after you left for the Dragonpit” his voice is steady, but there's an undertone of regret that threads through his words, a sorrow that seems to seep into the very air between them. “He said your place was to be a beacon amidst snow, that he saw it now clear.”

Elia frows as they keep going, ser Steffon guarding them, guiding them to their destiny, to the hall where the skull of Balerion, the Black Dread, lays among a myriad of candles, burning for years with no interruption. At their arrival the king turns his face to look at them, only returning his gaze to the massive skull that dominates the room once the Kingsguard leaves them alone. The flickering candlelight casts shadows across his features, deepening the lines of worry and contemplation etched into his face.

“I have been selfish” he says, his voice echoing softly in the vast, silent chamber. "I have kept secrets, harbored fears, and allowed the shadows of the past to dictate the future. I owe you both an explanation.”

Elia and Jacaerys look at each other, then back at him, their expressions a mix of concern and anticipation. The air feels heavy, charged with the weight of impending revelations.

“You both were supposed to get married soon, your betrothal would have been made public in no time. I was afraid of losing you, the legacy of my children, of my Aemma.” the mention of his loses makes his voice trembles, tinged with affection and nostalgia, the pain evident in the depths of his eyes. “Your grandmother, she was everything to me, and when we lost her, a part of me died with her. I struggled so hard to keep your parents close, but I failed miserably. It led me towards fear. I felt like I had to protect you at all costs, and time only made me realize of my mistake.”

Jace’s hand tightens around hers, his eyes observing the massive skull before them, looming like a reminder of mortality and the transient nature of life. Elia’s gaze observes him, the shape of his jaw clenched in a silent battle with his emotions. The lights from the torches and the candles flicker, casting shadows that dance across his face, mirroring the turmoil within, making her realize the true and delicate beauty in him.

“Histories say Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone and saw a rich land ripe for the capture.” Viserys keeps talking, his voice steady but filled with a kind of ancient gravity that demanded attention. “But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest. It was a dream. And just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men. 'Tis to begin with a terrible winter gusting out of the distant north.”

“Tell me you are not sending me up there as a bait.” she retorts with a mumble, her words laced with a mix of disbelief and fear, her gaze shifting uneasily, as if the mere mention of the north conjured its chilling winds within the room.

“You are not a bait, lass, but our guidance. I saw it, crystal clear. I saw you among wolves, Elia, and they bent to your will” Viserys turns to face his eldest grandchildren, his eyes burning with an intensity that seems to pull the very warmth from the air. "Jacaerys and you will secure the north of Westeros for the oncoming days, keeping Winterfell and Riverrun close to us, for their strength and courage is the one we will need the most. I am sorry, my children, for not having been able to see it before. I have been a fool, but now I see the path that lies ahead, and it is through unity and strength that we shall prevail. You both hold the power of dragons within you, a legacy that will ensure our victory and our endurance for generations to come”

[petitmortes]

continued from here , @eyeofvengeance

there   was   nothing   more   terrifying   than   the   sound   of   dragon   wings   on   the   wind.      of   that   sansa   had   become   certain.    she   had   not   wanted   this   position,    had   not   wanted   to   be   the   one   left   behind   in   the   wake   of   a   war   that   was   not   hers,    nor   cregan's,    to   fight.    but   duty   had   called   the   way   it   so   often   did   for   men,    and   stark   -   bound   honor   meant   the   lord   of   the   castle   had   gone   to   do   his   part        –        left   behind   in   his   stead   the   only   family   who   had   not   turned   her   back       .   .   .       or   died.    it   had   meant   that   when   the   wind   had   howled   with   something   more   than   winter,    it   was   no   man   who   crossed   the   threshold   into   the   courtyard   to   meet   aemond   targaryen,     but   sansa   in   her   quiet   rage. 

sansa   who   had   sent   her   cousin's   son   into   the   crypts   with   the   maester   and   the   master   -   at   -   arms,    and   every   maid   they'd   been   able   to   find.    had   insisted   she   would   do   this   alone.    whatever   it   was   that   he   wanted,    she   would   handle        –       and   none   else   would   suffer   for   it. 

but   as   he   speaks,    she   cannot   get   a   hold   on   him.    cannot   track   the   train   of   thought,    cannot   understand   what   it   is   he's   asking   for   in   between   the   pretty   words   and   complimentary   syllables.    she   knows   it   is   something,    to   hear   a   man   of   his   infamy   speak   of   forging   something   stronger   than   oaths   and   service        –       it   is   always   something. 

“   forgive   me,    prince   aemond,    i   fear   i   don't       .   .   .       quite   follow   what   it   is   you   are   asking   of   me.   ”        her   gloved   hands   interlace   together   in   front   of   her,    a   careful   flicker   of   grey   -   blue   eyes   across   his   features,    studying   the   careful   twitch   of   muscles,    each   consideration   even   as   his   voice   softens.        “   if   you   have   not   come   here   to   kill   me,    or   my   kin,    then   perhaps   the   northern   air   has   done   you   well   in   the   fraction   of   time   you   have   drawn   breath   within   it.   ” 

red   curls   billow   in   the   wind,    cold   encompassing   the   courtyard,    but   sansa   dares   not   to   allow   herself   even   so   much   as   a   hint   of   a   tremble   now.    not   when   she   must   be   the   voice   of   those   who   needed   her.    nor   would   she   dare   allow   him   inside   the   walls   of   winterfell   proper,    not   without   a   better   promise   of   his   intentions.        “   your   dragon   will   not   like   it   here.   ”        she   says   softly,    boots   shifting   upon   the   stone   path.        “   even   visenya   did   not   fly   so   far   north   with   her.    i   cannot   decide   whether   that   makes   you   courageous   or   full   of   folly.   "        or   both.       those   words   go   unspoken,    though   the   implication   remains   as   sansa   shifts   her   gaze   from   aemond   to   beyond   the   walls   of   the   courtyard,    beyond   to   where   she   fears   for   the   worst   in   seeing   large   wings   of   a   dragon   come   to   life   again. 

“   speak   plainly   of   your   wishes,    and   i   will   allow   you   both   warmth   for   the   evening.    else   i   am   just   as   keen   to   stand   here   with   you   all   night,    it   will   not   be   i   who   freezes   first.   ”

[penvisions]

the melting point {chapter 16}

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Baker! Reader (ex EMT! Reader)

Summary: In the aftermath of a rather eventful and terrifying last summer farmer's market, you try to find a semblance of normalcy as best you can. Meanwhile, Frankie is up to something that is beginning to cause you to worry about the burden you've become in your recovery.

Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: medical jargon, mild language, emotional monologues, internal monologue, negative feelings, negative thoughts, ptsd symptoms, pining, emotional pining, depressive thoughts, description of pain and injuries, blood, descriptions of post shooting chaos, panic attacks, notions of death, hospital setting, mentions of needles and iv's, mentions of narcotics, use of prescription narcotics, feelings of inadequacy, angst

A/N: um, so it's been four months since i've touched this fic, then i woke up yesterday morning and just began writing like nothing. takes breaks when you need to, don't force things and it'll all work out. please let me know what y'all think!

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

“C’mon, hang on for me baby, please, don’t-don’t close your eyes.”

“Mantequilla, everything is gonna be okay, I promise, we’re all here for you, please know that everything is going to be okay.”

“We’ve got you, you did so good, you saved my little girl, you did, you saved her.”

“Honey, we all love you so much, please stay strong, I’ll hold your hand the entire way there.”

“Let’s get you turned over, ma’am, c’mon. There we go, you’re doing amazing.”

“Santi, she-she-“

“Papa!! Papa, please help her, I love her! Tio Santi, do something!!”

“Merde, that’s so much blood, Frankie you’ve gotta focus, you’ve gotta calm her down. Get her home safe, to your mother’s, somewhere safe.”

“Will!! They got her, call Morgan! She went missing the second things got crazy.”

“Has anyone seen Benny?”

“They’re transporting her now, rushing her to surgery the second the get there.”

“She’s lost a lot of blood, any donations with the same blood type would be appreciated. Who here is a positive?”

“Sweet girl, please, you’ve got to pull through, I know you can do it. You’re so strong.”

“No response, it’s been how many days now?”

“She’s being rushed into another surgery, she keeps clotting. They can’t figure out why.”

“Fransico Morales? You’re next of kin?”

“No, no, but we’re all she has. Her family is flying out, they’ll be here in a few hours.”

“Taylor, take a moment, it’s…it’s a lot to take in.”

“Daddy, why is tia all tangled in those machines, she’s going to be okay, right?”

“This is my son, he wanted to come and cheer her up because she always did the same for him when he was sick.”

“Please, mi amor, please, you have to make it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Fractered memories played over each other, words echoing and bouncing off of each other through the fog that was all you knew. You couldn’t feel anything, all of your senses stripped away, and you were nothing more than a half-conscious mind tunneling in and out of suspended darkness.

Beeping, an even beeping was the only steady thing you could make out. Sense of environment completely gone and sense of awareness slowly trickling in. Your eyes hurt as you slowly blinked them open, the faint lights around you too bright and you clenched them shut with a huff that pulled at your lungs. The stillness of where you were was shattered as the clattering of a chair sounded, followed by a pair of hands tightening around yours that were settled over your middle. A hushed order to go fetch someone and then a deep voice was rumbling close. You turned your head toward the presence hovering close to your left side, drawn to whoever it was.

“Hey, hey, take it easy, sweet girl.”

A grunt sounded from deep in your chest as you tried to open your mouth and respond. Then a gasp when pain reverberated from the same spot. You tried to shift your legs, hips feeling oddly numb but you couldn’t quite feel them. It was as if they were asleep, but… you cracked your eyes open a second time, squinting down the length of the bed you were in. Your legs were there, obvious underneath the thin, knit, scratchy blankets that only a hospital possessed. You tried to shift again, but even your hips didn’t feel like a part of your body. Your eyes flew open completely, tearing up at the brightness of the room.

Shuddering breaths pulled deep hurt, but you tried to shift again and again but there was no movement underneath the blanket. None.

“Okay, alright, querida, please. Take a deep breath, it’s-it’s gonna be okay.” Frankie. It had been Frankie speaking to you, close to you. His hands reached out for your own, where you had pried them from him to try and prop yourself up, wires and tubes pulling, clattering against each other and making your head swim. “The doctors-“

“I know this must be quite a shock, but it’s good that you’re awake!” A white coat, thrown over a modest skirt and blouse, blonde hair. A kind face, pinched. A furrowed brow. Bad news on the tip of her tongue.

You tried to speak, demand why you couldn’t feel anything below your waist. But you could only croak out the faintest notions of words. Everything was a blur, the hospital room you were in a mess of blue and white, the beeping of machines hurting your ears. Nothing made any sense, confusion coloring every thought as to how you got here and why.

“Let’s get you some water and food first, your body is pretty weak right now. Can I get a level two meal delivered to room thirteen eighty-nine, please?” She turned to address someone who had been hidden behind her, a nurse in teal scrubs.

“Tell me.” You managed to croak out, eyes fixated on her pinched ones.

“I would really prefer to get you a little acclimated.”

“No.”

Her eyes flickered toward Frankie, as if in a silent plea to get him to calm you down and put you at ease however little he could manage. But you ignored the warm weight of his hand on your shoulder, eyes trained on the doctor in front of you as you tried to find more strength to speak around the dry cotton feel of your mouth, the panging hunger that was present in your stomach, the lack of control over your body.

She sighed, arms holding the clipboard in front her in an imitation of a fig leave over her hips.

“We had you in a medically induced coma for the last two weeks. I’m not sure all of what you remember, the brain is fickle that way, pushing things and events out in response to trauma.” She didn’t look from you as the sound of fast steps approached the door, nor when a large figure moved passed her and came straight to your right side. It was Taylor. Both of the most important men in your life on your sides. He was quiet, but you could see the evidence of tears in the puffiness of his eyes, the lack of a smile on his face as he hovered close.

“You were hit in the sacrum and coccyx region, paralyzing you from the waist down. We performed three surgeries to remove the bullet shards and repair as much of the damage as possible. Your blood flow and reflex reactions have improved but we had no way of knowing if anything truly worked until you woke. A week has passed since we stopped inducing you, we were beginning to think you might not wake up.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur, medical terms floating heavy in the air of the room. Daunting, terrifying, life altering. You didn’t think you could handle another life altering event of this caliber. But it didn’t look like you had to traverse it alone. You teared up once the doctor left the room, offering to come back and talk to you once visiting hours were over, though she had mildly glared at both men as she said it. But knowing them both, they had been alternating staying the night to watch over you past the set hours that allowed for them to be present.

You had two wonderful men who were willing to do anything for you, one with a friend group who would follow his lead and the other who had given you so much already. You hoped it wouldn’t be too much, taking what they were willing to give.

“It’s a lot,” Taylor’s voice broke, his words spoken through eyes glittering with tears. His hands tight around yours as he leaned his forehead against yours, completely in your personal space. “But we’ve done somethin’ like this before and we can do it again. We can do it again.”

You could only nod, throat and voice still weak from weeks of disuse.

He walked closer to the side of the bed, the man’s large build shadowing over you in the dimmer setting of the lights you had requested. The full effect of them too bright for you eyes after being unconscious for so long. You reached out to him, urging him to sit atop it as best he could as you all but threw yourself at him. He let you, aware of Frankie standing close to the other side, eyes watering as he heard the cries that began to bubble up from you.

“I-I-“

“Shh, it’s okay, I’m here. We’re both here.” Taylor murmured, as he wrapped his own arms around you to pull you close. He smelled like your apartment, a mix of faint buttercream and the rose perfume you favored all rolled into one comforting scent. His own masked by the time he had been in town. “Alfred was here too, but he had to be taken back for school. He sat with you every day for that first week and read to you. He was so worried about you, mami. He kept talking with you like he always does, hoping you would wake up and respond.”

Frankie excused himself, his phone beeping in his pocket and the sound of you crying too much for him to handle all at once. You watched him leave the room, his shadow visible through the blinds in the window looking into the room as he paced up and down the hallway just outside. His voice a low murmur as he spoke with whoever had been trying to contact him.

“I didn’t mean to scare him…or you. I’m so sorry, that call – it must’ve been so terrifying.” You hiccupped into his chest, unable to stop the tears and emotions from flowing all at once, overwhelmed and completely at a loss of how to respond to anything at the moment.

Hushed words eradicated any ill thoughts you were having of yourself, comforting in their genuine indication. He assured you he had been able to handle it, that he was able to handle the hard things that came along with being bonded with someone for life, for knowing someone for so long. For having already done something similar before. But yeah, that it had been scary but Frankie had been as detailed and direct as he needed to be, levelheaded in his description of what had happened and what immediately happened afterwards.

Frankie came up to you both as he entered back into the room, a hand on both your shoulders to get your equal attention. You looked up at him with watery eyes, feeling so proud of how everyone was trying to keep it together for you but guilty at the same time since it had been something they had been dealing with for weeks now.

“That was the airline, they need someone to come in and take over a few tours for double pay. I wouldn’t normally turn them down and I will if you need me here. You’re awake now and I want to be here with you.”

“Y-you should go, if you want to, if you need to.” Scratchy words spoken with what little conviction you could muster. He was conflicted, worried about making the wrong decision.

“You need me here.” He didn’t argue so much as read the thoughts in your mind as clearly as if you had displayed for him to see. “You want me here.”

“Yes, but….money is money, Frankie. For your house, for your daughter, for everything. I’ll be okay, I promise.”

“I’m gonna run and get a coffee before you head out, I’ll stay the night, okay?” Taylor announced before he pressed a kiss to your temple and stood. Leaving you and Frankie truly alone for the first time since you woke up. You reached out to the man, gripping his open flannel shirt and lightly pulling him toward you. But he didn’t budge, his feet stable on the ground and his back not leaning to meet you. He wasn’t looking quite at you, but just beyond you. His eyes a little distant.

“I’m sorry.” Pulling your hands back to rest in your lap, you began to twiddle your fingers, unsure of what to do, unsure of why he was acting so weird and distant. Maybe he was just exhausted, mentally wiped out from waiting and waiting for you to wake up. Maybe…he was rethinking everything he’s once promised you…

“Hey, no, you don’t have to be sorry.” His eyes caught your own, his hands reaching out to hold your own as he kneeled down to be at your eye level. Emotions you couldn’t read swirling behind them. “I just- It’s just… you’re awake. And I’m so scared I’m going to open my eyes or wake up and you’ll still be unconscious…or passed.”

“I am awake.” You insisted, worried about this being an elaborate dream all the same. Some made up fantasy your brain concocted in its last moments and none of it was real, that you weren’t real anymore.

“I want to stay,” He pleaded with you, desperate for you to understand how hard it is for him to make the decision to leave, to heed the call of an entire week’s worth of pay in just a few days. But he had a plan and he had to stick with it, it would be for the best in the long run.

“C-can you stay tomorrow?”

“Of course, sweet girl. I promise. I just- this is important. For the both of us. I swear.”

“I believe you, Frankie. I love you.” You lifted your intertwined hands and kissed his knuckles. He repeated the words before he shrugged his jacket on and bid you goodnight. He didn’t kiss you back, instead squeezing your hands twice in farewell.

“Hermosa, I-I just-“ Frankie hung his head, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees the next evening.

He had gone home to change and get a little sleep after a hectic two days of back to back tours. A touch restful now that he knew you were awake, but still fleeting. His thoughts had been a jumble as his mind flashed your unconscious form across the backs of his eyelids. Bleeding, hyperventilating, being rushed into emergency surgery not once but three times. Of you completely still save for the slight rise and fall of your chest laid out in the hospital bed. “I don’t want to say the wrong thing or diminish anything but- just thank you.”

“You saved her, at such a great risk to yourself. But you did, you saved my little girl when I couldn’t. I have endless love and admiration for you, querida. Please, I am here for you. I will help you with whatever you need or want. And not just because of this, but…but until you don’t want that anymore. You’ve got me, sweet girl. I promise.”

The conviction in his tone was strong despite the way his words were pushed out with deep breaths, trying to keep his composure. His shoulders were quaking with the effort he was holding back another wave of tears. Too many emotions for him to handle since the second you had rushed in front of that gun aimed at his daughter.

“Come here,” You softly compelled him, trying to shuffle atop the bed. Feeling still numb below the tops of your thighs, only some control over your legs that you were trying not to dissect. Going over your charts and test results had helped a little, compartmentalizing that it was happening to you and mind working to help solve and reason the things you read as if it was a patient of your own. Work. And a lot of it was ahead of you.

Frankie shuffled up and out of his shoes, choosing to urge you forward softly so he could be the one resting against the back of the angled bed. He helped to situate you against his chest, his arms coming around you in a warm embrace, the smell of his cologne and body wash puffing up and surrounding you in a comforting way. He pressed kisses to the crown of your head, nose shuffling in your hair and making you sigh out at the human contact.

“I would do it again, in a heartbeat. Even knowing what would happen.”

“Te amo. Te tango mucho amor ti, querida.” He whispered hoarsely in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. All you could do was repeat the words to him, meaning them with everything in your very being. Bringing his hands up to rest over your heart, palms flat over your chest, you both just laid there soaking up each other’s company.

His thoughts took over as you felt your breathing even, reaching over to silence the television that had been playing quietly in the corner where it was installed high on the wall.

‘Everything was so loud, a cacophony of too sharp frequencies grating on his ears as he watched the way your body fell to the ground. The man with the gun fleeing from the scene as soon as the gun had fired, steps heavy as he ran as fast as he could. Pope taking off immediately after him, his own gun pulled from the holster attached to his belt. Permission to carry it around off the clock from one of the local military bases where he worked as a freelance advisor.

Frankie was rushing too, toward you. Toward his daughter. Toward you both. There was a pool of blood forming beneath you, having twisted yourself to prevent from falling on top of Alexia’s smaller frame. She was kneeling beside you, tears running down her cheeks as you reached up to cup her face. A pinched expression on your features and blood blooming dark low on your front. His little girl turned to him as he crashed to his knees behind her and brought her in a crushing embrace to his chest, hearing the hum of the crowd that had begun to form all around.

Shouts to call 911 and responses that more than one person was already speaking with officers, telling them of what had just happened.

She begged him to help you.

She begged him to save you.

Shouting at him in her small voice that she loved you and she knew he loved you too.

She buried her face in his chest as he leaned forward to try and get your eyes to focus on him, but you were barely able to keep them open. Lashes fluttering as your breath became labored. He was speaking, words falling from him as he fell back on years of training. Pinging questions off one after the other, getting no response from you for even one. Unresponsive in the worst way, body completely laid out before him and eyes now completely closed. You could’ve been sleeping, as you were still for a fleeting moment.

But then you started to convulse, body fighting against the bullets that had landed deep in your body. He tried to tilt your head toward him, to avoid you biting on your tongue or choking on your own breath.

A new set of hands was taking over, gently ushering him away as paramedics appeared on the scene.

He could only hold tight to his sobbing daughter as he watched the two technicians tend to you. Your chest ceasing heaving at an alarming rate, your breath almost rattling as your lungs desperately tried to keep working.

Blinking rapidly, Frankie focused his eyes on his hands curled over the controls in front of him. He was flying, the landscape of the city and surrounding greenery, the ocean all laid out before him. He was okay, you were okay. Alexia was okay.

He was at work. He was okay.

His fingers twitched at the clueless ‘ooh’s’ and ‘ahh’s’ of the tourists clamoring for views outside the windows. Their voices coming in clear through the headsets they wore to match his own. Completely in their own world and no problems plaguing them. Carefree.

He was at work. He wasn’t okay.

He should’ve stayed with you.

He should’ve turned down the offer.

But he had run at the first opportunity. Unable to stop the events from replaying in his mind on a loop.

Preventing him from sleeping, preventing him from being able to look at you half the time. Seeing you as you had looked right after the attack, seeing you as they rushed you onto the ambulance, seeing you as your chest went completely still once loaded up. The way your body didn’t respond to the attempts of resuscitation.

Mind torturing him by projecting you laid out in an open coffin. Copper hair resting around your lifeless frame, beautiful face covered in the wrong shade of makeup, hiding the freckles that dotted your face from him. Forever closed eyelids hiding your bright eyes from him. Black dress hiding your soft skin from his twitching fingers, itching to trace the delicate ink that decorated your skin. A masterpiece taken from him in a cruel twist of fate.

Shaking his head minutely, he shoved the fake notions out of his head and pivoted the helicopter toward the coast. Following and announcing the route for the tour that the people sat behind him had requested.

He was at work and he didn’t think he’d ever be okay again. But he would try for you, because you were awake and waiting for him to return to you.

He pulled his sunglasses from where the frames were hanging from his collar and covered his reddening eyes.’

“Come on, two more steps and we’re home free.” The physical therapist was encouraging in the most grating of ways. Your normally polite and civil personality being shattered by the turn of events your life had taken. It was a lot of work now, but it had been a lot of work to initially discover that you had only minimal feeling and control over your lower half. Hips sore no matter how much medicine was added to your IV, legs numb and unresponsive more often than not.

But that didn’t stop the doctor from putting you on a physical therapy track of two appointments per week. Something you had thought was a lot right off the bat but not wanting to argue. Just as angered by the quick pace as you were determined to stick to it. It was the second week since waking up, discharge looming like a storm over the horizon, visible but not yet tangible.

There had been talk about Taylor renting a home to move into for the duration of your recovery. His son being taken care of by his co-parent back home with school having started. But Frankie had offered up his own home, a flush to his caramel skin as he did so. Not having wanted to ask you to move in under such dire circumstances. But he would be lying if he said the thought of offering you a space in his home hadn’t been on his mind lately.

Taylor had offered to split his time between Frankie’s and the apartment above the shop. An outpouring of love from the community delivered to the shop and hospital in overwhelmingly equal parts. Baskets of treats, flowers, cards, vouchers for services from all around the city and local vendors. Everything was being toted back between the two spaces that were now yours.

Lex indulging in the treats as she sat with you in the afternoons after school. Homework laid out before her atop the bed as you helped her with her math and writing. Different people picking her up while Frankie returned to work, determined to put in as many hours before he took two whole weeks off to help you transition to being home once you were discharged.

But right now, you were stood on shaking legs, arms braced heavily on the bars on either side of you as you stood between the set up of the parallel bars. Sweat dripping from your hair thrown up in a haphazard bun, skin sallow from the medication you were on a strict rotation of. You had forgone shoes, insistent that you wanted to be able to feel anything should it come back to you while practicing.

Your arms were shaking, holding up the entirety of your body weight on them, muscles straining and tattoos looking distorted with the flex of them. With a huff, you shifted your hips, right leg lifting slightly and managed to shuffle it about a foot before placing your foot down flat and tipping forward to even your weight with the new stance.

“Alright, you did it!” The nurse was a kindly young man, his arms hovering behind you as he waited for you to tap out. But you sucked in a deep breath and concentrated. Shifting your left foot ahead in the same manner before a spike of pain shot up from the arch of it as you settled it flat on the mat.

“Fuck! Okay, okay, I’m out. That’s all I got.” You wavered, arms shaking and legs beginning to tingle where you could feel them.

“That’s okay, you did good today. Four steps is progress.” The nurse helped you, gathering your form in his arms and lifting to get the pressure off your aching shoulders.

Santi was in the room when you were wheeled back, no sign of Taylor or Frankie. He informed you that they were both taking care of something for you which made you feel a little uneasy that they hadn’t told you themselves the night before that they wouldn’t be in to see you today. The nurse let the man take over with helping you get back into the bed, knowing you’d rather it be someone who you knew handling you for something a little more intimate of a move.

The man’s broad shoulders tensed as he supported your nearly dead weight, completely at a loss of energy from the days activities.

“Did they say where they were going?” You inquired, voice soft as you nuzzled your face into the man’s neck. He smelled so good and you were just in a very physically affectionate mood in wake of not getting any direct attention from Frankie in the way you were too hesitant to ask for.

“Mante, you know I would tell you if I knew, but they were like school boys, shuffling their feet and avoiding eye contact. I’m sure it’s just a surprise for you, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

You were quiet for a moment, allowing the man to situate your aching legs as best he could and covering you up with the blankets that had been brought from your apartment. He busied himself with getting a take out bag unpacked and placing containers over the collapsable table attached to the bed for you. A cup of coffee that smelled of caramel and foamed milk pressed gently into your reaching hands. He was so diligent, the soft curls of his graying hair falling over his forehead as he focused. When everything was set up, he settled into the chair beside the bed with his own container and began to dig in.

But you were still, only a sip taken from the hot coffee handed to you.

“Santi…”

“What is it, hermosa?” He looked up from his food, utensils loaded up and a bite halfway to his lips. “I get the wrong thing?”

“No,” A small smile offered to him as your heart fluttered in your chest, unsure of how to even broach the concerns that were crashing over you in overwhelming waves. “No, this is great. Thank you.”

The man watched you, eyes scanning your face as you averted your eyes. He let out a quiet sigh and set down his utensils completely, asking you to tell him what was really on your mind.

“Frankie…he, um, he-“ You felt like a complete idiot as your face heated up, tears welling in your eyes unbidden. Foolish question, it was such a foolish thing to be worried about when the man’s words were nothing but reassuring and loving. “Why won’t he kiss me, Santi?”

“Is that what you need right now?”

You warbled out an affirmative. Feeling for all the world like a pathetic lovesick fool even surrounded by everyone who you could possibly need in your life right now, everyone working together to help you in any way possible.

“Have you talked to him about it?”

A shake of your head was all the answer you could muster up.

“He’s probably just trying to respect you, not wanting to put pressure on you to be that way with him if you’re too overwhelmed.” Santi went on to explain that his best friend had trouble with stuff like this, showing his affection and feelings in wake of traumatic events.

That you should try not to worry too much, though he knew that was easier said than done. To not take it personally, but he admitted to knowing that might be hard to do as well, everything so much at the moment. He reminded you that you could reach out to you with anything at any time. He would try his best to be there for you in any way that he could. Even jokingly offering to pepper kisses over your face and approaching you with overly pursed lips until you erupted into a laughing fit at how ridiculous he looked as he loomed closer. He sealed the conversation with a genuine press of his lips to the corner of your mouth, his hands cradling your face in their warmth before he moved back to his seat and ordered you to eat.

Across town, Taylor and Frankie had a similar conversation as a bell dinged above them where it was nestled in the doorway to a shop front. The two men determined to surprise you with something that Frankie had quietly brought up one night following your first rush into emergency surgery. An approval of sorts he had been seeking after was granted instantaneously with a smile and words of encouragement from the only other man he felt like he could share the conversation with at the moment.  

“Discharge papers should be processed by end of day, looks like you’ll be spending the night in your own bed.” The doctor offered you a small smile. She had been worried about having you under her care when she found out you were a once trained medical technician, knowing how bad of a patient she was when sick herself. But you had surprised her, not talking over her or voicing opinions on what needed to be done. It had been another week, progress made in physical therapy.

You were able to walk the length of the parallel bars, slowly and with a lot of huffing and puffing. But it cleared you for outpatient treatment. The feeling in your legs was spotty, coming to you mostly in the mornings when you first woke up and at the end of the day after resting for a few hours. Something she was only mildly worried about, muscle atrophy from being unconscious for so long lingering even now.

But she had been confident that the feeling would come back completely, though she was honest when she said she was worried about numbness flaring up.

That’s how you found yourself seated in the passenger seat of Frankie’s truck as he pulled into the drive of his house. He was waiting for the garage to open, in order to make it easier for you to walk straight into the laundry room instead of having to attempt to tackle the stairs to the front door. Everyone would be over tomorrow, to celebrate your release. Giving you a free night to settle in and mentally deal with the shift in environments. Lex would be at her grandparents so Frankie could focus on getting you settled.

“One moment, just…want to get something set up before I help you out, okay?” His earnest gaze widened his beautiful eyes, watching you and making sure you were alright to be left alone for a moment. He was through the door and back in the garage in a matter of minutes, a shy smile aimed at you as he helped you down and got a walked ready for you. It had a cushioned seat in the middle, in case you needed to take any breaks when trying to move about. Something you wanted to argue but didn’t have a good one against.

You felt…weird. Having to rely on him so much, but extremely grateful that he was willing to. You’d seen friendships and relationships fall apart with this much stress and similar situations. Both as a professional and a civilian, as a friend. You only hoped this wouldn’t be one of the last things he did for you before telling you it was too much, that you were too much. Love could only encompass so much before it wasn’t enough to hold two individuals together.

Melancholic and depressive thoughts abundant as you tried to come to terms with what the near future would hold for an unknowable amount of time. There was no timeline with things like this and that’s what worried you the most. What if you had flares of numbness for the rest of your life, what if he began to see you as a burden, as work he had to come back to after doing his shifts at the mechanics and his flying tours. What if all your progress was meaningless and you woke up one day with no feeling at all?

He had hushed you on more than one occasion with soft words, promises he wouldn’t do that. Promises that he was yours, that you were his, that you were in this together. But doubt crept in regardless. Even more so in the realization that he hadn’t wanted to kiss you. He was quick to dodge your advances, placing placating touches of his lips to your hair instead; of pulling you tighter to his body instead. Almost as if he was hesitant to show you affection in that way and it was hard to handle when all you wanted was that type of comfort from the man you loved so completely.

His hands were warm as he supported your weight, but he didn’t shift you down to the ground completely, instead he pulled you flush against him. Your own arms tightened around his neck, feet barely touching the ground as he ducked his head to kiss you fully for the first time since you woke up in that hospital bed. You melted into him even more, welcoming his lips against yours reverently, desperately.

The plush give of them against your own feeling like a true welcome home.

Shifting your hands up into his soft hair, you knocked the cap clear of his head as you parted your lips for him. He held you tight, not risking you putting too much weight on your own feet for even a second as he kissed you again and again, lips meeting yours in a dizzying display of his unfettered affection. Pulling at his curls, you pivoted his head to deepen another kiss, desperate for his touch and his taste. He groaned into your mouth, pulling back slightly to rest his forehead against yours. You opened your eyes slowly, watching the way his face was completely relaxed. The lines of his age smoothed out slightly as he moved to peck one last kiss to your slick lips.

He had set the table up before picking you up, at home during the day as he had received your hopeful text about the paperwork this morning. But he had run inside to pull everything from where it was keeping warm in the oven, lighting twin tapers set in the middle of the dining table. You tried to hide the squeal of surprise as he lifted you up completely, choosing to carry you bridal style over the threshold of the house and through the laundry room and into the kitchen.

“Frankie, you didn’t have to do all this.” You placed a kiss to his cheek as he carefully set you down into a chair, making sure your legs were situated how you wanted them. “I woulda been happy with a fast-food drive thru, you know that.”

“I know, but I wanted to do something special for you.” He moved over to the closest chair, settling down into it with a sigh. He looked nervous, you realized as you took in the dinner had had made before picking you up. One of your favorite dishes filling the kitchen with its tantalizing scent. The boys had snuck in food from time to time, but it had mostly been bland hospital food for a majority of the last three weeks.

Frankie cleared his throat, your eyes lifting from the items on the table and toward him.

In his hands was an emerald velvet box, open to reveal a simple gold band with a sparkling rhombus diamond in the middle.

Your lips parted, a gasp falling from them as your heart stuttered hard in your chest. Hands dropping the utensils you had just picked up clattered to the table and you stared across the table at him. At a complete loss for words as he nervously shifted in his seat and leaned closer toward you to take your hands in his own, the small box set down gently beside your plate. His hands were shaking slightly, his nerves obvious as he bared his soul to you with his next words.

“Sweet girl, I know things are going to be touch and go for a long while,” He took a deep breath, chest pulling the fabric of his shirt taut with the action. His tongue peaked between his lips, a habit you noticed when he had a lot on his mind, and he was trying to sort through everything. “But I don’t want you to worry about anything to do with us, with you and me. You have me, you have me until the moment you decide you don’t anymore. I hope you don’t ever change your mind because I’ve been gone on you since the second you aimed that glare in my direction all those months ago. Will- will you do the honor of marrying me?”

Tears welled up the longer you looked at him, his eyes so wide and open, his voice cradling you with his earnest words. All you could do was nod, voice caught in your throat.

He let out a deep exhale, pulling a giggle from you when he broke out into the widest, goofy smile you had seen on him yet. You mirrored him, lips pulling as you squeezed his hands and leaned forward to rest your forehead against them clasped together.

“Of course I’ll marry you, Fransisco. Of course.” You kissed the tops of his hands, one and then the other before you were pushing yourself up slightly, tentatively placing weight on your legs and surging forward to kiss him.

He only let you get away with one before he was standing from his seat and kneeling in front of you with the box in his hands. He carefully removed the ring from its spot nestled safely inside the velvet cushion and you held out your left hand for him. It took a second for him to place it securely on your ring finger, snug and perfect against your skin. It glittered in the candlelight and you felt a tear run down your cheek.

Frankie’s hands came up to cup your face, his lips connecting with yours as he chuckled breathlessly at having managed to pull out the surprise proposal. At your resounding yes. At the prospect of a concrete future with you.

“I love you so much, thank you for...for everything.”

“I love you too, you dork,” Your laugh sparkled against his parted lips. “I can’t believe you just thanked me for agreeing to marry you.”

“Well, you could’ve said no.”

“Not in a million years.”

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[fly-kin]

Fly kin positivity 🐝🪰🐝

Bee flies! Hover flies! And all other bee mimicking flies: You are true masters of disguise! You stand out from other flies, donning bright yellow stripes, or a completely fuzzy body. Tiny, buzzing works of art.

You may not make honey, but the world is still wonderful with you in it. Flowers appreciate the many species of you being frequent pollinators (the diptera order is the 2nd most responsible for pollination!). May all your days bee filled with sweet nectar and whatever else brings you happiness!

[backjustforberena]

Rhaenys took one of their first flights to Storm's End after becoming somewhat experienced. 🤍

Aw, that's so cute! Yes, absolutely!

We know that she was flying on progress and flew to the Shield Islands three years after claiming Meleys, which is a far longer journey (they're a similar distance to the South but Storm's End is on the east coast of Westeros, and the Shield Islands are on the west) - so I would say it's almost a guarantee that Storm's End would make a natural evolutionary step in travelling long distances. It's quite similar, I think, to flying to Dragonstone.

I imagine Rhaenys, especially in the younger years, and especially when new to her bond, would love to test the limit. You don't get to be the sort of flier that we have in the show without pushing those boundaries, trying things out and working at it. It brings to mind:

During his nine voyages on the Sea Snake, he was forever wanting to press onward, to go where none had gone before and see what lay beyond the maps. Though he had accomplished much and more in life, he was seldom satisfied, the men who knew him best would say. In Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of the Old King’s eldest son and heir, he had found his perfect match, a woman as spirited and beautiful and proud as any in the realm, and a dragonrider as well.

If Rhaenys is his "perfect match" then the lines regarding Corlys's ambition could well be attributed to her and that, then, could be applied to her dragon-riding. She was also an outlier at this point: her father, aunt and uncle all were married or knighted and in their mid-teens before claiming a dragon. Rhaenys did so at thirteen: without accolade or marriage. The only one who had claimed a dragon younger than her was Aerea, by just a year.

I like to imagine that, if Corlys took to seafaring and his house's traditions in the way no Velaryon had before, Rhaenys was similar to dragon-riding. I like to think of them like that: yin and yang, equally partnered. Especially in the show versions we have of them.

“Storm’s End will stand with us,” Princess Rhaenys said. She herself was of that blood on her mother’s side, and the late Lord Boremund had always been the staunchest of friends.

We don't quite have a full understanding of how close Rhaenys was to her Baratheon kin, over time, and it's a headcanon of mine that Jocelyn stayed more in the Crownlands (including Driftmark) after Aemon's death, considering Borros claims to not know her. Jocelyn's life was there: she'd been fostered in the Red Keep, her half-siblings and in-laws were there and, of course, her daughter and grandchildren. So I don't think we'll ever get to a position where Jocelyn lived at Storm's End. I don't think we'd ever have it so that Storm's End was a frequent flight she made.

But during the happy years? I can well imagine Rhaenys visiting her uncle - you could read their relationship as fairly close, considering how wholeheartedly supported her and how angered he was when she was passed over. And your suggestion? I'm taking that. I imagine the weather wouldn't be daunting to her either. She'd brave the elements and also somehow come out of it looking nothing like a drowned rat or scruffy. I like to think it's impossible for Rhaenys to look scruffy, even after being on dragonback for days, you'd NEVER call her scruffy.

I suppose we'd question whether she'd ever go there to stay - that I can well imagine would not be the case, considering she's an unmarried, young girl as well as Princess. Her duties and her virtue and her instructions would be to stay where her parents are, or where the court is.

[firstknightvulion]

Now, there is some discourse regarding Minthara and her romance. Specifically, that it feels out of character for her to romance a Masculine presenting Tav. I respectfully disagree.

Minthara is all about power. Ya gotta prove yourself to her. Be vicious and direct. She don’t give a hoot about your gender identity, she’s looking at your kill streak.

But it did give me an idea. Minthara has spoken about going back to Menzoberranzan and burning that fucker to the ground to spite Lolth (paraphrasing). My Seladrine Drow Tav (half Drow/half moon elf) would join her because he’s got a hate boner for the religion of Lolth that’s been turgent since his family and friends were killed by a Lolth Warband’s attack on his Eilistraeen compound.

Now, I imagine her first target would be her house. Minthara would want to twist the knife. Make them suffer.

Minthara’s Mother stands in the great hall of her house. Two of her daughters stand by her side. They are the last of their house. Hours before a shadow descended into their home and started systematically killing every living thing inside.

The great doors to the hall fly open with an explosion. Shrapnel and smoke fill the space. A heart beat later, two arrows fly through the air with deadly intent. They find their marks in the two daughters. One is hit through the eye, she drops instantly. The other is struck in the throat. She does not die quickly. She gurgles and grasps at her throat, feebly trying to stop the escaping blood. Her hands fall limp as the sound of deliberate footsteps fill the hall.

Minthara’s Mother looks away from her daughters’ corpses and up at the dark figure walking towards her. It is dressed in Drow leathers, a hood and mask covering the face. Two green eyes stare at her from shadow of the hood.

Minthara’s Mother: What pit spawned you!?

A chuckle is heard from behind the figure, a deep and dangerous sound. Minthara walks in, blood and a wicked smile painting her face.

Minthara: Hello, mother.

MM: Minthara?! You heretical traitor! Why haven’t you had the decency to die?!

Minthara: The Spider Bitch’s webs will burn, mother. The house Baenre will be the first of the kindling.

MM: You would have us become ash for the sake of such blasphemy?! Deeper and deeper you fall into a pit of shame!

Minthara: To feel shame, I would need to feel remorse. I assure you, mother, I feel only joy. The fact that you were cast down by one so low shall keep warm and smiling for many decades to come.

Minthara pulls back the figures hood. The scared face of Drow male greets her. His eyes a green and while sporting the dark skin of a Drow, it is very pale, almost ashen.

Minthara: This male is of the traitors that stole away to the surface to follow Eilistraee!

MM: How?! How were we defeated by such an inferior being?!

Minthara: Stealth is very broken in this game, mother.

Tav: Minthara! The fourth wall!

Minthara: He was conceived by a loving union that bridged the gap between Drow and our surface kin! In the missionary position!

MM: *gasps*

Tav: *giving Minthara a very confused look*

Minthara: He is not only a third son, he is a sixth son! You were beaten by a third son times two!

MM: *clutches her metaphorically pearls*

Tav: *is an only child but knows enough of Menzoberranzan culture to be slightly offended*

Minthara: He is my romantic partner! I treat him as an equal!

Tav, somehow, feels the sensation of someone vomiting in his thoughts.

MM: You disgust the Spider Queen! Next you’ll tell me you don’t even peg him!

Tav: No, she does.

Minthara: Mother, please. I’m a genocidal conqueror, I’m not debased.

Suddenly, Minthara pulls the sword out of the scabbard hanging from Tav’s back. Within a blink of an eye, it is driven through her mother’s chest. Minthara leaves it embedded in her mother’s body half the blade sticking out of her back. With a gasp, she falls over.

Minthara: *kneeling down to whisper in her mother’s ear* The blade is of Eilistraee. Fitting, don’t you think, mother?

Minthara stands, throwing her head back and raising her arms, as if soaking up sunlight. She begins to laugh.

Minthara: The first conquest is done.

She walks over to the Matriarch’s throne and sits down.

Minthara: Come, fuck me.

Tav: Now?

Minthara: What better time and place than this? My former house is ended, my mother dead-

Tav: She’s not dead.

Minthara: What?

Tav: Still gurgling.

Minthara: Oh, for the love of-she can’t be long for this world.

Tav: Do you want to wait? I don’t want to pull out the blade in case that kills her. I’ll be hearing about taking the honor of killing the mother for years after.

Minthara: No, I don’t want to wait!

Minthara quickly jogs over and pulls the sword out of her mother’s chest. She plunges it in again, hitting the ground underneath. With pure malice in her eyes, her mother reaches up to clutch Minthara’s leg.

Tav: Wow, she is resilient.

Minthara: Enough of this!

Ripping the sword out of her mother’s chest, Minthara makes a wild swing and cut the Drow’s head clean off. The pair watch it roll down the length of the hall. Before another snarky comment can leave his lips, Minthara’s mouth collides with his. They stand, kissing, amongst the skeleton of Minthara’s old home for several moments.

Minthara: Come, there is a duty to which you must attend.

Tav: You have a thing for thrones, don’t you?

Honestly, I should get an Ao3 account cause my posts are looking like fanfiction chapters.

This post was all to get to that line Minthara says about the sixth son. That and the 4th wall break.

[santoschristos]

Kin 195 Aquila Blu Cosmica

Day 13 of the Night wave.

I have the vision of abundance.

Fly higher than your thoughts allow, visualize success in your hands, feel that abundance is part of you and has come to stay.

I imagine a life in harmony and peace, I give strength to the dreams that bring abundance into my life. The Eagle reminds us how important it is to do positive visualization exercises, because they help us create and focus. We must put aside any image based on fear and doubt, because it attracts wanting. This is why we need to expand our vision and raise our vibration.

Cosmic Tone 13 is the movement that helps us overcome those low frequency roles that we cover ourselves. It is the action of detachment that allows us to recover all our energies and have the opportunity to move in tune with what we want.

Mental transformation for spiritual connection.

Changing the look or focus entails accepting those patterns that we need to cure and redirect. Looking beyond what we observe simply helps us feel the clearer and truest movement. Today look at the truth you hold in what you think and feel, realize the schemes or beliefs you are attached to, behind what you hide your insecurities and fears.

It's important to see and know each other to take the leap to a better life. Everything is connected, what reaches you carries the information and it’s not always shown to the naked eye. You have to widen your gaze, which often means breaking with the usual conditions, releasing prescribed guidelines or modifying beliefs.

I overcome my barriers and look wider, I detach myself so I can hear a higher vision of myself. What I don't want to see or face is what I need to transform. That's why I'm giving myself the opportunity to heal it so my dreams can grow.

Mission of those born in Kin 195:

Those who are born under the energy of the Cosmic Blue Eagle are on a mission to develop a clear and deep vision of themselves and the world, learning to use the power of visualization to attract abundance and prosperity. Their challenge is to overcome fears and doubts, expanding their vision to manifest spiritual success and fulfillment.

For those born on January 18, 2025:

Having Cosmic Blue Eagle energy in transit for a year, the task is to learn to detach from limiting thoughts and fears. This is an ideal time to work on your inner vision, practice positive visualization and let go of convictions that no longer serve you. This process will help to create a life that is in tune with your dreams and goals.

Meditation for the Kin 195:

Take a moment to close your eyes and picture yourself flying like an eagle, above the clouds, with a clear vision and free from fears. Visualize the abundance in your life, feel it as part of you. Repeat to yourself: "I overcome my barriers and look wider, I detach myself to hear a higher vision of myself." Let this energy guide you towards transformation and healing.

“What I don’t want to see or face is what I need to transform. Giving myself the opportunity to heal so my dreams can grow. I'm another you."

With love and light,

Tanya Amaduzzi - Dealer of Resonant Worlds

Post: Spacciatrice di mondi risonanti.

Image: Kin 195 - Aquila Blu Cosmica Mahaboka

[christian-oc-tournament]

I wish I had more art, but I suspect there's only so much this box will allow.

ANYHOW. This is A'den -- Dr. A'den, a hattarin daktlyc from the desert planet of Hasra more than twenty light-years from Earth. Despite his intimidating appearance, A'den initially decided to try keeping a low profile upon joining the human Paradisio Project -- an interstellar cooperation orbiting Hasra from an interconnected fleet hovering at the edges of its atmosphere. Yet A'den could not keep either the truth of his position nor his growing appreciation for his small human coworker a secret for long.

A'den initially resented Doctor Rebecca Brown's presence. He viewed their assigned partnership as an insult by those who saw him as unworthy, and he saw her as a shy, airheaded girl of a woman whose silence indicated either a lack of knowledge or a sense of contempt towards him. Yet when Rebecca called him out on a mistake he made without either insulting him or backing down, he learned beneath her fear -- for she was initially terrified of him -- that she possessed a mind to match his own. For her part, unlike his smooth-faced, "elevated" kin, Rebecca saw A'den as a man worthy of respect and dignity. He grew protective of the short, sturdy botanist after learning that her own position in Paradisio was not as secure as it seemed, and over time, their friendship deepened. Both would admit that of the two of them, he cared for her as a lover before she had fully realized her own feelings on the matter.

Yet the truth of A'den's position endangered them both.

(Above: A'den during his five-year survival training on the moonlit sands of Hasra. He clings to a cliff as, in the distance, the vague form of a Silver Angel barrels past, breaking the sound barrier. Who knows what the Unfathomable Machine will carry out that night...?)

Unknown to the Paradisio Project and most of the Hasran Alliance, A'den was a member of the Exalted, a black-ops survival unit dedicated solely to carrying out the will of the Silver Angels. Those eighty-foot flying machines had genetically pruned or uplifted, exterminated or guided the daktlyc race since the desert planet's earliest days. Under the Angels' orders, A'den had overseen and carried out the extermination of entire cities, glassing them at the monolithic machines' orders with hardly a second thought. Yet if Rebecca had seen him not as cursed, then what did that mean for those he had slain?

(Above: A'den's Exalted armor, which he wore to Hasran Council meetings to observe and announce the Angels' will to those who soon bayed for his blood.)

A'den's love for Rebecca Brown incurred the fury and jealousy of her possessive overseer, the Ambassador. The Ambassador and the Hasran Council conspired to have A'den killed in ritualistic combat, but this failed. However, it exposed A'den's position to Hasra and Paradisio, revealing both his status and the danger the warrior-survivalist posed. As Rebecca and A'den grew closer, his so, too, did his concerns about the supposed benevolence of the Silver Angels and Paradisio as well as the truth of his race and history. As Rebecca's own tormented past grew to the light, A'den renounced the Silver Angels, determining to fight for both the elevated who had once sneered at him and the hattariin he called kin. He follows God as revealed through Rebecca's own stumbling exploration of Christianity. He encourages Rebecca to stand up to the malevolence of the Paradisio Project and overcome her past, and she reminds him that he is loved and worthy of dignity. At the end, they marry, and though they both lose more than they feared they could even gain, Hasra, A'den, and Rebecca are all forever changed for good.

[Original poll for A'den here! Please vote for him in Round 2 and wherever he may go! And do let me know if you have other questions or would like to yell at/with my characters alongside me, I have. So much lore.]

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