#his future is left so ambiguous i hope i die

[geneslovee]

can’t stop thinking about the way roman girls such as myself kinda like won the most out of all except maybe the tomgregs idk like bro seems like finally admitted to himself he didn’t really want the crown and then had an enlightened moment of “we’re all bullshit” and then, free, had a drink at a bar. and sure he’s the loneliest he’s ever been BUT HE’LL GET UP RIGHT…. HE’LL BE FINE…….. the guy who everyone deemed incompetent and unable to land a minimum wage job without nepotism and who doesn’t know the price of a carton of milk he’ll be okay

[wingedshadowfan]

⚠️arcane s2 act iii spoilers // criticism ⚠️

in caitlyn's post-war speech, she talks ambiguously of history and of ups and downs and of a story not yet over, but there's no promise for the future, no motivation to keep going, no bigger picture, no lesson learned. we're not shown much work being done either and i'm about to examine why it felt that way to me, leaving me a bit confused, somewhat unsatisfied, and deeply, profoundly sad

of course, jayce and viktor are dead. heimerdinger is gone, potentially also dead but unlike the latter two, we don't quite know what happened to him, he just kind of disappeared. i was left under the impression the were two ekkos - one for each universe, and our ekko's consciousness just changed bodies briefly due to the hexcore before heimerdinger managed to send him back to his own body in the right universe. but it seemed there was only one heimerdinger (body and soul) who'd traveled to the alternative universe as a package and lived there for a thousand years until our ekko came around in the alternative one's body, and instead of traveling back with him, heimerdinger's body and subsequently his consciousness ceased to exist. so... who's inventing things now? who's rebuilding piltover?

jinx and warwick (because there's no vander left there anymore, we made sure of that) are also presumably dead. we see how this is affecting ekko and vi, but not necessarily the undercity, for which jinx was a symbol of freedom, of unity - the perfect person who could've broken a cycle of violence, poverty and oppression. zaun doesn't get its sovereignty and seemingly loses its beacom of hope.

we see sevika as part of the council in piltover instead, but it's not like she's making merry with the other new counselors, in fact they throw her some nasty looks. and of course, i didn't expect it to be easy and it's admirable she's even there at all but unless i missed anyone, she's the only zaunite there out of 9 counselors (w/ zaun being 1/4 of piltover's population in canon afaik). i guess there's work to be done there but there was no indication of it even being able to go in a good direction, since she seems to have no backing from anyone now and again, we don't even know the extent to which the undercity managed to unify under her.

mel, a character always depicted in white and gold, an image of purity and mercy, defiant of her mother's brutality since childhood, now dons her red eyeshadow and sits on her throne on a ship for noxus. in an attempt to save her city, the city she was exhiled in to "learn" this brutality, to be hidden from the black rose from, and that's she's instead given her everything to care for (after barely getting the time to grapple with her own identity crisis and the predetermination of her fate) she's left no choice but to surrender her mother to the black rose, and watch her die in her arms. perhaps it is by virtue of noxian law she assumes her place and has to return to noxus. she leaves her beloved city in such a perilous and war-torn state, riddled with guilt and confusion. is she a wolf now? has she always been one?

ekko presumably grieves jinx by burning a piece of paper for her (my first thought was it was for heimerdinger, his "mentor" whose contributions and potential sacrifice made ekko coming back home possible, and with the time reversal device at that - but i interpreted it as being for jinx because it was in the place he kissed her alternate self in the alternative universe). what of ekko's future, of his commune? what happened to the tree getting corrupted? heimerdinger had plans to fix it with jayce's help or at least find the sickness' origin (the hexcore, yes, but we don't know if what happened to the tree got reversed), instead they found out the undercity was completely reliant on piltover's mercy for their water and air, and this knowledge seems to have died with them (bcuz i doubt ekko has the power to do anything about it).

caitlyn's looking at the kiramman house files, including city plans, potentially to rebuild things after the war but how? first of all, what are they gonna do with the hextech, the weapons, the gates, the magic in general? would they even want to try that again, and what implications would this have for piltover and zaun individually but for their precarious newly founded relationship? and secondly, she's a policewoman/detective turned anti-civil-war-commander turned just war commander, she's not an engineer or a scientist. all those ones? gone. all the people we know of who could rebuild the city in its previous progressive state are gone - jayce, viktor, heimerdinger, even jinx as a technological wildcar in vi's words. caitlyn seems to be telling the story or archiving files and plans for any future kirammans but she doesn't seem to have any work of her own to do anymore.

vi is the saddest case here, which says a lot. she's lost everything and is completely devoid of purpose. it's okay not to be okay, but what she says to caitlyn completely destroys me (and i'll do a separate, more detailed post but this shall do for now). she's depressed. easily. she's grieving jinx, humming a song her mother used to sing to them, the same one jinx was humming when we first saw her this season. when she says, "I'll always be dirt under your fingernails, cupcake." she isn't being cute, flirty, or romantic. she's being self-deprecating, indicating she deems her presence a nuisance to caitlyn, she deems herself unworthy and unwelcome in her house, but it's not like she's going anywhere. where else could she even go? caitlyn is all she has left. that's what she means when she says, "nothing's ever gonna clean me out", but perhaps even more so, she implies she's beyond repair, that she'll never be whole, never be truly okay again after this.

(the only person who got a "happy" ending, and the reason why this pisses me off is because he was truly vile and wicked and idc abt his motivations i will not be convinced otherwise, was fucking singed, who somehow got to have his immortalized robot daughter despite everything)

[chigirisprincess]

Is it Better to Speak or to Die? ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

— Lisa Minci

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, dni if you are not sapphic, afab!reader, reader dresses femininely and wears dresses, referred to by gender neutral language but affected by patriarchal norms and gender norms, reader's skin flushes, reader's hair can have fingers thread through it, reader is implied to be a lesbian, Lisa is implied to be a lesbian, side relationship; Lisa and Diluc, Diluc is implied to be gay, compulsory heterosexuality is experienced, homophobia, arranged/forced marriage, emotional affairs, slight age gap (reader is in their early twenties, Lisa is nearly thirty), lost loves, cheating (Lisa and Diluc on each other), implied past Jeanlisa, plot with a smidge of porn, Princess! Lisa is heir to the throne, flirtations, love confessions, angst, hurt with little comfort, making out, scissoring, biting, love as consumption, imagery of cannibalism, desperate sex, reader is implied to lose their virginity, a lot of; jealousy, envy, and misplaced anger, misogyny, men and male characters regarded poorly (including Diluc) in response to sexism and forced relationships, social etiquette, ambiguous threats to life due to treason, House of the Dragon inspired, canon religious beliefs, no happy endings. ⊹ Run time. 22.0k ⊹ Note. This fic is a labour of love, it is my ode to lesbianism, and it is very personal to me. That being said, this is very much an author self-insert fic. The reader is meant to be me, they are meant to encompass my complicated relationship to comphet, lesbianism, and feelings towards men so I suggest you take a very good and long read through the warnings before reading this fic because it is rather heavy in nature despite the few moments of respite. If you do choose to read this I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

❝Brought to court to become the heir to the throne's latest companion, you begin to grapple with the feelings that come with the friendship of a woman like Lisa Minci. There is no halfway with her, it is all consuming or it is nothing—you learn this quickly as you find yourself utterly in love with the princess whose heart belongs to another.❞

There has never been a name for the feeling Lisa found herself so overcome with when around Jean– when with you. She drowns in the terrifying feeling of the unknown, thoughts swirling into a tsunami of confusion when Lisa allows her thoughts to settle on it for too long. It scares her, the feelings that she cannot understand or put a name to, but she speaks soothing words to him as they toe the shores of a cloud shrouded lake– him, Diluc, her future husband. Lisa placates him with delicate words and sympathy when he lays the truth at her feet, his differing tastes. She had known though, they all had. It’s terribly easy to gaze upon another with scrutinizing eyes when the walls whisper tales of longing exchanges shared upon the remnants of Old Mondstadt; the phrase “sword swallower” carelessly thrown around as if it wasn’t a slight against Mondstadt’s uncrowned king. 

Lisa knows nothing, in truth, that much she can admit to herself when she and Diluc sit upon their marriage bed and feign their consummation; spilt wine tarnishing the stark white sheets as teary tendrils roll down his pale cheeks. She had cried too, for herself and for him– a rare occurrence for the two of them.

Then, Lisa didn’t understand their tears, not truly. She knew that Diluc shed tears for the love that could never be his, not when he was hers– the future king consort. Was he anguished by the fate he shackled himself to? Or, had he left behind another to make his father proud and restore the Ragnvindr legacy? Lisa didn’t know. The two had known each other for all of forty-eight hours before their engagement was announced and the grande affair that was to be their wedding took place. She supposed it was the latter with the way his body shook so violently as they stood together at the altar. The crushed dreams of boyhood lay amongst their stained sheets, putrid and vile, a reminder that the happy end he was promised the entirety of his childhood was not so easily afforded but rather a wishful dream that he could not quite shake. He mourned for his lover, the man who so gently cradled his heart and himself; Lisa had not understood it in the slightest.

Love and lust were too often confused, muddled together in the mind of someone who had yet to truly experience both. She was unable to discern between the two.

Lisa knew lust, or she believed she did when she thought of the desire that bloomed between her and Henry Morton, her tutor and then once more with Huffman the stable hand. Though it always seemed to fester into something ugly– disappointment and resentment. No love existed between her and those men, not in the way she wished there would be. Henry coveted her wealth, the crown she was destined to wear, and the knowledge she possessed. He was hungry for the throne he was never meant to be seated upon, starved for the knowledge locked within her mind. Huffman sought absolution within her, pious and pathetic and filled with delusions that sex with her was healing. He believed she could wash away a lifetime of sin as if she was more than simply a woman, made of the same earth and ash that he was.

But, there was no love to be found within their embrace or comfort.

She assumed that Diluc and whoever made him weep so were more of the same, two beings joined together and enraptured by the threads of desire. 

It is then that she realizes she was wrong, that she is not nearly as knowledgeable as she insists herself to be and it terrifies her. Genius was the word that floated around her since her tender youth; her mind had always been the greatest gift that Celestia had bestowed upon her. Without it, she was nothing. She feels that she is nothing that night as she lays in her marriage bed, trembling and lost in thought. No amount of thinly verily excuses could create enough of a mirage to disguise the glaring insecurities and fears that shake her all the way down to her toes.

If a man can love a man just the same as he loves a woman, could she not too? To love a woman the way a man did, it was easy enough to grapple with before she realized that she did not love men the way a woman was supposed to. Henry Morton and Huffman the stablehand were nothing but toys she used to convince herself that she felt nothing at all for Jean in the days before she was whisked away from court by her husband. Tears prickle at the corner of her eyes as her thoughts ceaselessly plague her idle mind. The hurt she feels when she thinks of Jean suddenly is somehow clarified as if before that very moment Lisa was only granted a short glimpse into her true feelings. Betrayal was true heartbreak, simple affection for her dearest friend something else entirely, the very thing her father believed would blossom between her and her new husband as time went on. 

And then she thought of you, a member of the court and her assigned companion— her only true friend now. It’s the lack of feeling she harbours towards Diluc or any man at all that terrifies her and the feeling of far too much for you now that makes her stomach twist in relentless knots the longer she lingers on you.

Her heart stirred, cheeks growing hot despite the brisk evening air that slipped between the cracks of her shuttered window. There was no part of her that would dare entertain an inspection of her feelings for you, too much possibility remained. Where her chapter with Jean stood firmly closed and long buried, yours was open, taunting her the way a predator did its prey. It’s filled with questions and feelings Lisa wasn’t sure she’d ever be strong enough to face, not when yours was the only true company she could relish in while within the stone-cold walls of the castle.

Lisa had lost too much in so little time, she couldn’t bear to lose you too all because she chose to act upon emotions she didn’t fully understand. 

It would be far too tragic but she rationalized as needing all the allies she could.

A queen needed numbers; the future is what ruled over her actions, not the thought of being well and truly alone. When morning had come, whatever thoughts that had plagued her throughout the night had long since been gone, and Lisa was ever the picture of a perfect heiress. Well, that’s what she would like to believe, Lisa has never been perfect in any sort of way and she’s reminded of that when low-ranking nobles and courtiers sneer at her like she’s nothing more than the sum of all her mistakes. If her father had been a cruel man and raised a spiteful daughter she might have thought to have them punished, simply for having the gall. For thousands of years, those who came before her did, sometimes just for the hell of it, and she was sure they would for another thousand years after but Lisa wasn’t cruel nor vengeful.

She was, however, aptly skilled in the art of playacting. 

Lisa offers you a smile when you come to dress her when the pallid morning light just barely encroaches upon the castle. There’s no trace of worry upon her brow, she’s the vision of radiance, wrapped within the sweet blanket of marital bliss. To the untrained eye, she is perfection in its truest form. She is lucky you possess such a lacking, still green in your young years and sheltered upbringing in the countryside. The air of innocence and naivety that shrouded you comforted the princess.

“Beautiful,” you had whispered in her ear, coming to stand behind Lisa so she could gaze upon her reflection, “Master Diluc shall be overcome when he sees you.”

You had said it as though they had not been wed the night before, as if the cat and mouse game of courtship was not yet over even though it had never truly begun. But Lisa grinned all the same, nodding her head in agreement though she knew it was not her that her husband's eyes would be on. Perhaps they’d be cast upon the floor, or they’d be stuck upon the worried picture that's painted across his parent's face, or maybe they’d follow Kaeya’s lithe figure– plagued with a million different worries that tied his stomach up in knots.

“Thank you, darling,” Lisa passively murmurs, her green eyes hazed as she stares at her reflection, “You may go now.”

Your brows furrow for a moment, “But your sheets …” Pressing your hands to her shoulders, you will her eyes to meet yours through the mirror, “Would you not prefer it if I handled them?”

“You are a highborn noble, it would be highly undignified for a genteel such as yourself to do such a thing.”

Her tone was clipped like you’d done something to ruffle her feathers.

“But, your Grace, you know the serving girls will talk,” You say in a hushed tone, “If they see that your … I understand that the act can be daunting, I mean the two of you are little more than strangers … but they shall not be so.”

Lisa knows exactly who you speak of, the vultures of the court, the ones who wait with bated breath for her fall from grace, “What you’re suggesting … you realize that it is treason?”

“Treason, your Grace? I must confess that I do not understand.”

She almost chuckles at you and she might have if she had been a cruel mistress. You poor, sweet summer child, of course, you would not understand the weight of your words. Lisa wished she could reach out to pet your head, to sit you down and explain. You were still so green, still so naive and blinded by the fairytales your governess promised would be your future, even more so than she could have predicted. She could not do that, she was to be queen someday soon. It would make her weak in the eyes of all who wished for her downfall to show too much kindness. Though it made her heart ache uncomfortably, Lisa fixed her mouth into a straight line as she gazed at you through the mirror.

“To suggest that Diluc and I would shirk our duties to produce heirs for our own selfish desires is treasonous,” she grits, sharpening the only swords she was allowed to bear– her words, “You’d do well to remember that the next time you foolishly question the crown.”

“Your Grace, I did not intend to-”

Lisa holds up her hand to silence your ramblings, “I know, so consider this a warning,” she mutters, “Go on, and take a look at the bed.”

Your brows furrow for a moment as you wander deeper into her bedchambers. Amongst the stark white linens lie a splotch of red. It is evidently not blood, the colour is far too rich and the stench of stale wine wafts through the air. It’s a farce, the product of wishful thinking but it is treachery to question her. It is her word against yours, and the words of an heiress held far greater power than that of a lowly Freiherr’s child. It kills her to use her station in such a heinous manner, it’s written within the carefully crafted mask she wears but still, she does it out of duty; duty to the crown, to her marriage, and to the kingdom of Mondstadt. Pressing your lips together you dip your head into an apologetic bow before shuffling over to the door. It’d be unwise to press further.

“My apologies, your Grace, I shall take my leave and allow you to attend to your duties.”

Your shoulders cave inwards and Lisa can’t help but be filled with remorse, “No apologies needed darling,” she says, beckoning you to come closer to her, “I simply did not wish for you to make such a blunder with another, most are not so forgiving.”

The soft morning light bathes the two of you in a pallid glow, the tears that have welled in your eyes catch in the light when you peer up at Lisa. When you’ve stepped within arm's length, Lisa wraps you up in as tight of an embrace as her large hoop skirt allowed, her chin resting on your head as you buried your face into the crook of her shoulder. You smell of peach blossoms and sunsettias, Lisa finds it intoxicating. She doesn’t mean to but when you furrow further into her skin, Lisa allows herself to inhale deeply, relishing in the sweet fragrant plume of perfume that engulfs your frame.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle against her collarbone, “I did not mean it.”

You sob like a child who has just been scolded. However, it’s not the naivety or a certain lingering childishness that has spurred this weepy display. It is fear. Lisa can feel it, your fear, it's there in the way your heart races and thumps wildly enough for her to feel it through her whale-boned corset. You’re weeping for her, for all the implications that still hang precariously in the air between the two of you. Your bleeding heart makes Lisa feel all the more guilty, her gut tangles itself together. She shouldn’t feel such shame for speaking to you the way she was taught to but she does. 

Lisa wishes she could take it back, to soothe you and the ache that seems to plague her whenever you are near. But she cannot turn back the clock and so the feelings she harbours continue to feast on the unknown and morph into a puzzle of labyrinthine complexity. Her head and heart tangle within one another, endlessly. 

“I know,” Lisa mutters, her tone clipped, “Don’t cry, sweetling.”

“But-”

“I have said this to prepare you, life at court is nowhere near as idyllic as life in the countryside, you must learn that, quickly.”

The expression you wear tells Lisa you’d much rather be there than here, attending to her but you’ve bitten your tongue and swallowed back the bitter ale she feeds you– you’re trying to learn. It takes you a moment to school your features down into a look of neutrality, tension still lingers between your brows. You’d be easy to break, your foibles laid splayed across your chest and arms. They adorn you like fools gold, glittering and attracting the eye straight toward your Achilles heel. She could fix that, turn you into a mirror image of her in a matter of days if she tried. Lisa decides then that she shall take you under her wing despite the blaring cries for mercy her heart makes. 

These feelings, they turn her into a dimwitted chit. She used to be a respectable scholar, a genius to most and for some reason she’d rather be enamoured by the fatuous allure of something shiny.

“I am trying your Grace,” you murmur, straightening out your shoulders and attempting to stand tall before her.

“I know.”

Stepping back, Lisa takes your chin between her gloved thumb and forefinger, “But, there is still so much for you to learn, my sweet summer child.”

She sounds like her mother. The intricate lace of elegance meshes with the stern undercurrent of authority that turns every question into a command. It makes you shrink back into your perch, cheeks warming at the word “child”. The very thought of her seeing you like that, a puerile waif instead of the mature courtesan she expected you to be, made your stomach churn painfully. Pressing your lips firmly together you hold back the petulant whine of defence that threatens to crack your prestige. 

“You shall learn from me,” Lisa says, her lips curling up into a smile, “I shall teach how to avoid any number of social blunders and you shall keep me company as you were brought here to.”

Raising one meticulously crafted brow at her, you can’t help but question, “Is that truly what you wish to do?” Your head falls to the side and Lisa’s chest tickles with a thousand butterfly wings, “It is your honeymoon, the start of your married life-”

Clamping your mouth shut you clear your throat. Heat blooms within the apples of your cheeks, and embarrassment fills your gut. Lisa must think you to be airheaded with how quickly you’ve seemed to have forgotten the most important rule of court– never question the crown. Straightening your spine, you hold your chin up in the way your mother taught you to.

“What I meant to say was, I am grateful to you, your Grace,” you say, placing a simple smile onto your lips, “There is so much that I can learn from you, you have my eternal thanks.”

“Good.”

Lisa’s lips, painted a deep crimson, curl into a demure smile. She smooths her thumb along your chin in a silent act of praise. Her vibrant green eyes glimmer with something you interpret as being pride and it makes your lungs painfully constrict from within the confines of your ribcage. You should shift your gaze to the floor, maybe the vanity that sits just to the left of Lisa, they should rest on anything other than her eyes. They shine like a matching set of peridot gems plucked, shined, and shaped just for Lisa to wear. But, you can’t seem to do anything other than helplessly stare at her.

“Next time if you feel unsure allow the other person to continue talking,” Lisa hums, snatching her hand away, “The longer one talks, the more likely they are to accidentally reveal their true intentions.

Seizing the delicate lace parasol from where it sits next to her vanity, Lisa offers you the crook of her elbow.

“Come, I should like some company in the gardens as I break my fast.”

Tentatively slipping your arm into hers, you send her a wary glance, “Should I be … writing this down?”

Lisa laughs like you’re just another court jester whose entire existence revolved around her entertainment, maybe it did. You were starting to feel like one big joke with how Lisa regarded you. This was how she was raised to treat those beneath her station, this you had to remind yourself, it was nothing personal nor was it a testament to your character.

“No my dear,” she hums, “The walls have eyes and ears, it's best not to keep them fed.”

Lisa nearly sports a grimace but it's covered with a mask of duplicity. She believes it is best for you to know nothing more than to be guarded, carrying on as if there weren’t a sword hanging above her head. There were many rules you’d learn over the course of your stay at court, the way whispers travelled was one you’d see for yourself and come to understand without her hand. Ushering you out of her private chambers and into the rest of her shared solar, Lisa hands off her parasol to the knight standing post outside her door, Porthos, you think but you can’t be sure as Lisa greets him with nothing but a short nod of her head. 

Diluc sits by his lonesome at the large gold-studded table at the centre of the room. A stack of parchment is spread across the tabletop, a fluffy feathered quill is clasped between his pale fingers as he scribbles onto the sheets. He doesn’t bother to look up from his work as you and Lisa shuffle past him.

“Good morrow, husband,” Lisa mutters as if that were a typically sweet endearment for the newly married to use. There was nothing sweet in the way Lisa regards Diluc, their hackles were raised in defence, shoulders tensed and stiff in the balmy morning light. 

“Good morrow, your Grace.”

If Lisa frowns you do not comment on it.

You supposed this was how it was when you married someone you’d known far less than a fortnight. They were little more than strangers, so were you and she, and yet she seemed far more comfortable conversing with you than she did with him. Diluc’s vermillion eyes peer over his shoulder at you. His gaze makes you squirm uncomfortably, his stoic expression reveals nothing and the almost bored look in his eyes makes you wonder if this is why Lisa was so hellbent on teaching you how to properly navigate life at court. Though you could not tell, perhaps this expression was the subtle judgment Lisa wished to shield you from, or he knew. The thought frightened you, but you could not stop yourself from wondering if Diluc had pieced together that you were well aware of their transgressions. Did you wear it on your face, looking aghast and as guilty as he should have? Or, did your knowledge shroud you in a cloud of bitter perfume that stunk up their chambers?

Dipping your head into a bow, you tear your eyes away from Diluc, “Good morrow, your Grace,” you say, attempting to subtly check for Lisa’s approval. She seems pleased that you remembered that he was now the prince consort and not simply a herren, “May Barbatos bless you.”

Lisa grins, a small “Good,” passing her lips as you rise to your full height.

Leaning down to press a kiss on Diluc’s pale cheek, her lipstick leaves a mark, Lisa clasps her hands together, “We shall be breaking our fast in the gardens,” she says in a bored tone, “So, feel free to attend to your ledgers or hand them off to the crowns treasurer if you so please.”

“Shall we dine together this evening?”

“Yes, I shall be all yours this eve,” she hums, “I’ve requested full privacy so we may dine alone during our honeymoon.”

Diluc catches Lisa’s hand, it’s attached to the arm that is still tightly clasped within the crook of your elbow and delicately presses his lips to it. If you had known any better you might have believed the gesture to be romantic, swooning over how darling the intimacy was. The serving girl, Glory, refilled Diluc’s goblet with something sweet with a large grin on her face. Her cheeks were dabbled with a demure pink blush and she looked away when Diluc turned back to his papers. Glory just barely attempts to meet Lisa’s eyes as she dips into a curtsy and flutters away in a fit of barely concealed giggles.

Lisa’s lips flatten into a straight line. She’s noticed too, the way Glory titters like a little girl pouring over the tales of a great romance. There’s a minuscule part of Lisa who wishes she could do the same but she’d learned long ago that they were called fairytales for a reason. The love that existed within a few pretty words was forever a fantasy to placate the broken hearts of women and girls who married too young to men much older than them, for the ones who married strangers, and the ones who lived alone in great stone castles with their babies, not knowing if their children would ever come to know the man they called “father”.

At least Lisa was nearing thirty by the time she’d been made to wed.

Lisa’s gaze cuts like stone as she sets it upon Glory, “Deary, you would not mind reminding the other serving girls, would you?” She asks, “This is a special time in a couple's marriage… and I’d hate for anyone to witness anything untoward.”

Hearing Lisa call Glory the same endearment she’s called you before makes your stomach churn uncomfortably. Bile coats your tongue and you feel yourself about to retch until you catch sight of Lisa’s stern expression. How silly, you think to yourself, getting all worked up when Lisa was merely doing her duty. Sweet words mean nothing from the forked tongue of a dragon whose fire threatens to set the room ablaze if her will is not abided by. She was playing pretend, soothing Glory just enough for her to think she was well-liked by the future queen if only to keep the wool pulled tightly over her eyes.

“Yes,” Glory nods, “I shall make haste and remind them, good day, your Grace.”

Glory’s face turns a garish shade of red. Lisa seemed pleased.

“Yes, good day.”

Lisa’s fingers wiggle languidly as she waves Glory off. Turning back to you, she tightens her grip on your arm, “Come now, darling we too should make haste,” Lisa says, “Before the sun comes out even more, too much sunlight is bad for the complexion you know.”

You nod dumbly in agreement as if you had any idea what she meant by that. Your youth had been spent running amock barefoot in nothing but underclothes during the summers. The children of the servants often joined you, your mother never minded how long you spent in the sun not even when you missed dinners because you were too busy napping on a warm patch of grass. So long as you were happy and safe, there’d be a plate warmed by cooling embers for when you were ready to return to the world of the genteel.

“Hm, I shall have to get you a parasol too. You won’t be able to share mine forever.”

“My family has opened a tab with the seamstress on call,” you mumble, frowning a bit, “So, I suppose you can tell the seamstress which style you would like to have made, and my father will pay it in full.”

You did not understand why it was so imperative that you had one of your own but it was easier to ask your father to pay for useless accessories that your future queen deemed necessary rather than attempting to understand Lisa.

“Nonsense I shall cover the expenses myself, it isn’t much anyhow.”

She whisks you away without another word to her husband. Diluc does not seem to mind, having long since clocked out of the conversation. Porthos follows five paces behind the two of you as you breeze through the castle. You had heard Diluc was not one for idle chatter but you would not have guessed Lisa wasn’t either. From what you’d known of her, she was quite lively in her youth but that was before Jean had been whisked away to Fontaine to marry some ridiculously wealthy nobleman the moment she had turned eighteen. That had been nearly a decade ago, and she had not returned home since her father’s funeral.

Lisa must not have had anyone she should trust the way she trusted Jean. Hopefully, one day she could trust you just the same.

You’re unsure if she truly trusts you after spending nearly every day with her for nearly six moons. 

Lisa is a difficult woman to read. Every inch of her is intentional, from the jewels clasped around her neck all the way up to the kind of expression she wears. There is no part of Lisa that is not carefully crafted, she’s endlessly placed on display for all to scrutinize. They pick her apart with their eyes, find some fault along the hem of her dress, and dream up some reason as to why she is not fit to be queen, like it lays within the way her hair curls and falls over her lithe shoulder or amongst the crushed pigments that fill the apples of her cheeks.

Her visage is a constant mirage of neutrality.

Unlike you, she never cringes when the conversation lulls into a wall of thick silence or flinches when boorish men spit filth at her because they believed they knew more than their crown princess, simply because of the cock between their legs. It’s a feat you think when your own mask slips all too easily. In reality, it must have been a lifetime of suppressing every want and desire to pass through her mind. None of what Lisa wished for mattered, not when the greater good of Mondstadt lay in the palm of her hands. You had not learned yet, what true sacrifice was not in the way Lisa knew of it.

Or, of how Jean Gunnhildr knew it.

She married a wealthy man known to most by the name “Varka” when she was just eight and ten. He, to your knowledge, was nearing five and forty. The Gunnhildr clan had suffered loss after loss once they lost their toehold on the trade routes that led to Liyue and Fontaine. Their coffers had been drained in an effort to keep themselves out of debt, they had hoped their luck would turn eventually but they only seemed to sink deeper into despair as months with no income turned into years. They let go of servants, sold jewels, and gave up ancestral land to distant cousins who managed to hold onto some level of prestige even when they received no help from those who lived lavishly in the “family” homes. When there was nothing left to sell, they turned to Jean. She was the eldest unmarried lady left in the family, Barbara was far too young, and Jean held a rather esteemed reputation. It was the logical choice, ripe with all sorts of possibilities. The Pegg family had no money either but still possessed a rather well-respected position in court, though it did not matter much if they did, Seamus lost any claim to it when he absconded his family's name in favour of taking Gunnhildr’s name and wearing their colours, boring their sigils too.

Jean had a pleasing smile, she was smart as a whip, and since the tender age of eight had been the crown princess's most beloved companion. If they could not have the princess, then her friend was more than an adequate consolation. She could have had her pick of any man across Mondstadt and with her family’s connections, the same could have been said for Liyue or Fontaine but when Varka, a man nearly twice her age asked for a hand, neither of her parents found any reason to say no. He held a great deal of connections and was more than happy to shepherd the Gunnhildr back into society's good graces. He was the perfect son-in-law and his pockets were heavy with gold coins. It mattered not if Jean cringed in his presence or that the crown princess heavily disapproved of the match.

Frederica and Seamus did not care for the approval or kinship of the crown when Varka promised to find Jean a spot amongst the Tsarita’s court in Snezhnaya during their courtship. They may not have had the same history as Mondstadt but their wealth superseded it tenfold and that was enough for them to sell their daughter. It mattered not that he had been the highest bidder or even offered a tangible solution to their family's poverty, the prospect of prestige and affluence was far too delicious for them not to take a bite out of. Varka was ripe with possibility, and they wished to feast on all that he could offer without a second thought. They’d tear apart his carcass too while their daughter grieved if it meant restoring the lavish lifestyle they had grown accustomed to. And, they didn’t blink twice when he failed to bring her to Snezhnaya, settling in Fontaine where King Neuvilette only tolerated his presence.

Lisa banished them from court the evening after Jean’s wedding. She had banished Varka too and by extension, Jean too was barred from court and any affiliated social events. Lisa had only been one and twenty, and both her parents were overcome with a bout of illness. She was hurt and without any guidance for the first time in her life. Like all the men who spent each night praying for Barabatos for her downfall and believed she would, Lisa acted on emotion. The tide seemed to turn that day and from then on she had turned into a wall of stone, like an evil witch from a fairytale came alive one night and drained all the jubilance from her body and left her with nothing but melancholy.

In the six months that you’d known her not as heir to the throne or Princess Lisa of House Minci but simply as Lisa, you don’t think her mask had slipped at all. If there was trust, she hid it well. Public loyalty too often meant trouble for those in positions like hers. It wasn’t very fair of her to play favourites either but you think she may have with you. Even if she wore a face of indifference most days.

It must have been rather exhausting to keep appearances up at all hours of the day, endlessly playing a one sided game of chess where the rules switched at the wind's whim. A yawn broke through the thin line you pressed your lips into, the very thought of constantly looking over your shoulder to ensure no slimy rat clung to your coattails. Your eyes roam over the pile of half written letters sprawled about the table before you. You could not focus on writing to your family and the few friends who bothered to keep a correspondence with you when the trail of your thoughts continued to circle back to Lisa.

Two days prior she called upon you to accompany her to the observatory. It was rather modest, lacking most of the embellishments you’d find anywhere else amongst the keep— it was nothing comparable to that which one would find in Sumeru but still, quite the sight to enjoy at nightfall when the skies were clear. She summoned you in the middle of the afternoon when the skies were greyed and out came a great wave of rain that pounded ceaselessly against the glass. 

Albedo, the chief alchemist did not linger for long after escorting the two of you into the observatory, hastily advising the two of you not to linger for too long before bolting off to his lab once more. That left the two alone with nary a servant, or nosy courtier to listen in on your conversations for the first time.

Lisa wore an extremely lavish emerald day gown that put whatever the young debutantes were wearing to attract suitors to shame. The gold trim melted into her sun kissed skin and crafted the appearance of a scandalously low neckline. You felt rather underdressed next to her in the breezy pale pink frock you sported but you supposed that most would when in the presence of a princess. Her hair was styled in a simple manner, curled and tucked over one shoulder with a gem encrusted rose shaped barrette to keep the strands pinned in place.

She was effortlessly flawless as usual but where jealousy would bloom over your inadequacies you felt nothing. If there was something it lay buried and twisted within a bed of biting thorns that pricked your skin when you got too close. Lisa was the most radiant woman you ever laid eyes on and the knowledge of that made your stomach unexpectedly leap in your belly.

“This must look spectacular at night!” You marvelled with faux enthusiasm, tucking your hands behind your back as you bounced on the balls of your feet, “Perhaps we can visit again once the stars are visible.”

You took to her lessons well enough, never once complaining though frustration grew to become a familiar friend as you struggled to catch up to the years of etiquette that far surpassed the norms of the country. Lisa nodded thoughtfully as she gazed wistfully at the rain, lost in a memory you presumed. You had taken to trying to decode her expression in search of whatever may have laid beneath but Lisa was far too good.

Quirking her lips into a smile, Lisa suddenly sighed, “Perhaps we should,” she proclaimed, reaching out to gather your gloved hands into hers, “We shall make a night of it if that should please you.”

“It would please me endlessly, your grace,” you said, your cheeks warming as she affectionately clasped your hands, “Though nothing brings me greater joy than your contentment.”

Lisa released a full-bellied laugh, that was the first time she hadn’t attempted to mask her true feelings from you. It made your cheeks burn even hotter as you smiled at the sight of happiness.

Wiping a stay tear that gathered at the corner of her eye, Lisa clutched your chin so you wouldn’t move when she innocently bopped the tip of your nose, “My my, aren’t you just the sweetest darling,” she giggled.

It was a rather belittling gesture when you tried your very best to appear as mature as she was. Though you didn’t find yourself insulted. Your racing heart was far too distracting for you to focus on the mild bruise to your ego. You wished that she would see you as an equal so that one day she may allow you to dispel that wretched mask from her. 

The woman that lay beneath it was far too entrancing to be trapped under the surface until her mortal body withered away. If only she allowed you to grow closer, you’d prove to her that you were worthy of such a sight.

The uneven pitter-patter of clomping feet bounding through your solar broke you away from your thoughts.

“The princess requires your presence,” Glory hiccups as she clambers into your chambers, “At once in the gardens!”

Her cheeks are a blotchy red and her skin glistens with perspiration– she must have run all the way over here. Pressing your fingertips to the bottle of the chilled jug of water, you slide it closer to the edge where she hovers.

“Have a drink, we’re in no rush,” you murmur.

Ducking her head down into a hasty bow, Glory wastes no time in filling the spare goblet and gulping down the cool liquid. Water dribbles down her chin to her neck in fine rivulets, your mind briefly flashes to Lisa sitting alone in the garden. The air has gone stale and thick with humidity within the keep, summer has rolled in with a fierce crack of its whip and the pleasant balm of spring has been cast aside, nothing but a distant memory to dream of until it’s come again. Her skin’s grown warm with a golden tinge, and her cheeks are filled with a near-constant flush but it suits her. Strands of her hair have grown lighter too, they edge on blonde but still very much exist within the realms of brown. Would the heat have her act as undignified as it had most others in the country? They ran around in cotton breeches and thin chemise when within the safety of their homes but sometimes uptight fathers and dismayed mothers meddled far more than necessary. Summer was the season of marriage for a reason.

The image of her skin hot and dewy beneath the scorching sun made your mouth go dry. Reaching forward for your hand fan, you flick it open and pray to whoever might listen that your expression does not betray you. If it did, all of those hours with Lisa would have gone to waste.

Squishing your eyes shut you force anyone else to come to mind, Sir Kaeya, or even Master Albedo the castle’s on-call alchemist. As soon as your mind settles on Kaeya– ever the flamboyant presence at court, your thoughts begin to trickle downward to his brother Diluc which leads you right back to the princess. 

Glory holds out your parasol, the one Lisa had commissioned, an embarrassed expression sitting on her face as she struggles to refrain from wiping her hand across her chin and neck. She follows five paces behind you as you flutter out of your chambers, perching over your shoulder to see you safely delivered. She must long for Lisa’s praise. They’d fill the aching cavern of loneliness that split Glory open. Godwin left to fight on the front lines of whatever ludicrous ventures the Knights of Favonius cooked up on Lisa’s payroll, using her name and country as an excuse to fuel their need for bloodshed. Ever since they embarked from the northern port for the sandy shores of Natlan, Glory’s been searching for pieces of Godwin wherever she roamed, today it was Lisa, tomorrow it may have been you.

Lisa was a good choice, she could be a stand-in mother, lover, or even the older sister you’d always dreamed of. You were unsure which one you wished her to be, it muddled your mind and made you wish the dandelion wine that flowed endlessly throughout the realm was stronger. Perhaps then, it’d ease your weary mind and put an end to the murky waters that surrounded your feelings for Lisa.

“Your grace.”

Glory’s demure chirp brings your gaze up from the stone pathway of the garden and up to the sun-kissed visage of your future queen. Freckles had begun to bloom along the bridge of her nose and amongst the rosy petals of her cheeks. The warm weather suited Lisa, it made her look more akin to some sort of nymph as she mindlessly thumbed at the sprigs of flowers that surrounded her tea table. Lisa’s eyes slide upwards, across the expanse of your body before settling on your eyes. There was no judgment or malice behind her expression like there was when most ladies of the court allowed their gaze to sweep over another person's body.

“Come, have a seat,” Lisa said, your name hanging sweetly off her lips as she pats the chair nestled beside her, “There is a bit of shade right here.”

Dipping your head downwards, you silently dismiss Glory who scutters away to the solace of the cool stone castle and out from the scorching sun.

“Who dressed you this morning?” Lisa asks, her nose wrinkling upwards.

You shrug your shoulders as you sink into the cushioned metal chair, “I am unsure, I did not catch their name,” you say, your head falling into a confused tilt, “Is there something amiss with my attire?”

“It is seasonally inappropriate, you shall grow ill from the heat if the day were any warmer!”

Lisa’s rouged lips settle into a small frown. Her fingers twitch in her lap as if she were resisting the urge to fuss over you. Glancing away, you clear your throat, “How has your morning been, your grace?”

“Rather droll,” she sighs as her eyes flicker away for a moment before they settle on the cloak clasped around your neck, “Allow me to remove this, I shall remain distracted if I do not.”

Her delicate hands rise from her lap to unclip your cloak, they brush against the exposed skin of your collarbone as she pushes the heavy fabric away from your body. A shiver trickles up your spine and you try to disguise the shudder that tears through you with a small cough. If Lisa has noticed, she says nothing instead focusing on the large emerald necklace that rests against your throat.

“Thank you, your grace.”

Lisa releases a small sound of acknowledgement and nothing more, pouring all of her focus into smoothing out the fabric and delicately folding your cloak over the back of your chair. She watches you from the corner of her eye when you turn your gaze away from her and to the elaborate spread of tea cookies and sandwiches. She is not so inconspicuous that you do not notice her or the frown that slides onto her perfectly painted lips. Lisa seems to want to chastise whoever dressed you for a second time when she notices how thick the fabric of your ensemble is but remains quiet as you comb through the delicacies laid before you.

“There is lemonade,” Lisa pipes up once she is satisfied with how smoothly your cloak lays with nary a wrinkle in sight, “Your favourite, I asked that it be made just as you like it.”

Laying her hands flat atop her lap, Lisa gives you an expectant look. Perhaps, it was hopeful, but you could not be sure with how well she disguises herself, pitching up towering stone walls before you can ever examine her expression long enough to read her. The glass pitcher is cold to the touch, perfectly cubed chunks of ice clink as you raise it to pour into the ornate glass that rests before your plate. The lemonade is fragrant, the sour citrus biting your nostrils as it fills your glass. Lisa’s own glass is empty with no signs of any water or lemonade lingering at the bottom so you fill hers as well.

“You did not,” she begins, a hand reaching out to stop you, “You do not have to serve me.”

Lisa says your name with a sigh before she bows her head in thanks and wraps her nimble fingers around the thick stem, “I do, your grace,” you say with a laugh, “That is what I was brought to court for.”

“I suppose you’re right darling but still, you’re of noble birth and should not serve your own lemonade nor mine.”

Your face grows hot, still, you have much to learn in the ways of appeasing your future queen. If she notices your embarrassment, Lisa chooses not to comment on it as she brings her drink to her lips. Your eyes follow her movement, gaze settling on her plush lips and the way they look wrapped around her glass. You never seemed to tire of imprinting her image to your memory, each day brought a new, rare sight for you to cherish and study when left to your own devices. A bit of the sticky liquid rolls dribbles out of the corner of her mouth, rolling down her chin to the expanse of her neck.

Your hand darts out to catch the remnants of the lemonade before it reaches her bosom and dirties her décolletage. Lisa’s chest stills as you gently brush your knuckle up her neck to her chin. Her cheeks fill with colour and you can feel her swallow. Her mouth presses into a thin line and her brows furrow as you retract your hand, wiping it onto the neatly folded napkin beside your plate.

“You had a bit of lemonade right there,” you say dumbly as if it were to excuse you for touching her without permission.

The princess was married, she’d be your queen sooner than late, and you had no right to touch her as casually as you did. All that was reserved for you, a mere courtesan who’d been tasked with dressing her, was the accidentally brushing of skin when you slid her dress over her chemise or tightened the laces of her corset and nothing more. Anything more was indelicate and improper when she’d expressed no further affection for you. If you’d been her friend then maybe she’d rest her head in your lap or even hold your hand as a sign of goodwill as the two of you spent time together but you were not her friend. You were nothing more to her as she was nothing more to you– two people stitched together for convenience.

Lisa turns her head away from you, a few stray strands of her hair brush across her cheekbone, “Yes,” she mumbles, pressing her bottom lip between her teeth, “Thank you.”

You should apologize for such uncouth behaviour, but your mouth remains hung open with no words daring to come out as she clears her throat. Discomfort trickles up your spine and your mind begins to spiral with horrid images of her scolding you in front of your parents or shaming you before the entire court as she sent you home. Logically you knew that Lisa would never publicly ridicule you, she was far too kind, too lenient at times according to the men of the court, but she may well scold you like a child. She’d be well within her right to and that filled you with a sense of dread. You had worked so hard to appear the ever-composed and mature courtesan that you were not.

“You’re very doting,” Lisa says, turning to you with a small smile, “But, I assure you that I can care for myself in the absence of help.”

She laughs and you laugh too, “As can I,” you say, idly pointing to the glass of lemonade you poured for yourself.

“I suppose you’re correct.”

Clearing her throat, Lisa gestures to the small spread of food before you and her, “You should help yourself.”

You pluck the first sandwich you see, mindlessly plopping it onto your plate at her instruction. Lisa snickers but says nothing at all. 

Her skin was soft as satin and far more intriguing than the cucumber sandwich you’ve begun to force yourself to nibble on. You wondered if Diluc had thought the same of her skin if he too felt such an urge to touch it at the more inopportune moments such as when they were dining together with their families or amid council meetings. If he did touch her, how did he touch her? His hands were quite rough from years of military service and sword usage, calloused and scarred. Lisa was unblemished and unweathered, many called her a witch for it but you supposed that was simply how princesses were; perfect. Surely, she wouldn’t like to feel such coarse skin against hers, biting into the delicate flesh of her ribs or hip bones as he held her. Diluc did not deserve to touch her not with such roguish and indelicate hands. In what little you’d seen of the two of them together, it was evident that he was undeserving of such a woman.

Your stomach lurched uncomfortably as the thought passed and you reminded yourself that the princess had allegedly hand-picked her husband herself.

“Refreshing,” you mutter as you swallow the sandwich in an effort to force down the bile that coats your throat, “What precision the cook must have to cut the cucumbers so thin, the knights may well be jealous that they’re in the kitchens and not the battlefields with them.”

Lisa dislikes small talk but this feels appropriate, it's a safe venture that brings a delighted smile to her face, “Oh yes, I rather think that thinly slicing your enemies is a practical battle skill,” She jests, her soft green eyes finally meeting yours, “I suppose I should send Glory to ask around, hm, there may be the second coming of Vennessa in our midsts and we’d never know!”

“Glory should like any endeavour you ask of her, so long it is you that asks it.”

Her brows raise with intrigue, “Oh? Why is that, and speak plainly.”

“She holds you in the highest esteem, your grace,” you say with a slight shrug of your shoulders, “As do we all. I rather think you are the most beloved lady in all of the realm and for good reason too.”

“Yes but you seemed to suggest her dutiful dispositions extend far past how high my station is,” Lisa smirks, “Do you have your ear to the ground and know something more, darling?”

In the days before she was the heir and was simply the young princess, Lisa loved nothing more than to research. Her mind craved knowledge and it did not matter if it was academic or simply gossip, she had to know what you knew and then some. The days of her youth were spent more often in the comforting confines of the castle's rather lush library than anywhere else. Lisa would not allow you to wriggle your way out of this comment, no matter how empty you’d claim it was.

Curling your fingers around the stem of your glass you took a sip of your lemonade. It was rather sweet but still tart enough for your lips to pucker at the taste, the perfect balance that made this your favourite beverage, “I do not have my ear to the ground as you said it was improper for any lord, lady, or courtesan to engage in gossips,” You reply with a haughty grin, “Unless of course, you’ve changed your mind?”

Lisa’s thumb and forefinger grab your chin, pointing it downwards so you are forced to look into her eyes. Your chest tightened and you had to remind yourself to suck down a large gulp of hair before you forget to breathe entirely. Her face grew closer to yours, close enough for her breath to fan across your face for a moment.

“You think you’re so clever,” she whispers, “You must tell me, I am to be your queen.”

It was not a card Lisa liked to play often, she found it rather repulsive to use one's station for their own gain but as curiosity lapped at her belly and urged her to question you, her tongue slipped. It meant nothing, it was not as though she’d torture the information out of you, you would not be questioned sharply but her gaze simmered with a fire that made it hard for you to resist her whims. Even without such a strong expression pinning you into your seat, perhaps you’d be destined to spill because her touch electrified you and left you with no choice but to try and please her.

“Glory looks up to you, quite a bit I must confess,” you state, swallowing thickly, “I’ve heard no rumours but with the way she looks at you, as if you hung the moon and the stars … I gather that she wishes to please you, that she enjoys your praise far more than a serving girl should.”

The Cheshire grin that forces Lisa’s mouth to curl upwards steals the breath from your lungs. She looks rather divine like this, like a true queen. A part of you wishes you could see this side of her more often but you spent your days far removed from the kingdom's high council. This side of her was reserved for the men that doubted her and you could hardly believe that they thought her incapable when she was such a force to be reckoned with.

Though, you may have just been a weakling with no resolve.

“I see,” she says, her eyes growing lidded, “Well, I suppose if it means better service then why should I break the poor girl's heart.”

“Do you do that often?”

The question slips without you meaning for it.

“Break hearts?” Lisa echoes, her head cocking to the side, “Oh of course I have darling, are you kidding?”

Your heart leaps in your chest. 

You’re unsure if it's excitement or dread, “A princess has to always be careful, always on guard,” Lisa states, still firmly holding your chin, “I’ve turned down as many suitors as I have military endeavours.”

“That makes sense,” you utter in a rather small voice, “You’ve hung the moon and the stars, I too should feel my heart ache should you ever dare to reject me.”

Lisa releases you quickly, as if you’ve said something to shock her or perhaps she’s just realized what a compromising position the two of you were in.

“You’re very sweet darling,” she says as she grabs a macaron and takes a small bite from it.

Her hand covers her mouth as she chews, hiding her visage from you. It's tactful, that much you’ve gathered but you’re too busy missing the way her warm skin felt upon yours to ruminate on its meaning for long.

The next, large, sip you take of your drink is much needed. The cool liquid squashes the flames that threaten to set your mind ablaze with inappropriate thoughts about Lisa. Pressing the perspired glass to your warm cheek, you focus your attention on the myriad of flowers that surround the two of you. 

“A virtue I’m sure will reward you on the marriage mart.”

It takes all of your willpower to suppress the frown of displeasure that wishes to cross your lips. It was not often that Lisa brought up marriage, courting, or anything pertaining to relationships. Conversations of that nature always seemed to lead back to her and her predicament or what others would call her marriage. 

You too disliked it, the prospect of imagining what sort of fate may befall you or what sort of bargain may be struck up for your hand now that you held such a precarious position, so close to the princess. It made the fight for your hand far more lucrative, the price much higher than it would have been had you remained in your simple life at your family's estate. The thought made you feel ill at ease as if it had all been some ploy by your father to receive an offer that was far greater than your dowry could ever afford.

“If you say so, your grace,” you say, attempting to keep your expression neutral, “You know far more of the marriage mart than I.”

Lisa did that all too often. She let you close and offered you a glimpse into her world whether she meant to or not. Your presence was unbidden as she could not help but allow colour to spill past the dulled shades of grey she masked herself with when she grew docile, more comfortable than she’d wish to be only to shut you out with a comment she knew would make your skin crawl. The good mood and banter effectively severed at the neck before too many of her softest spots were revealed to you.

“I do say so,” She hums, adding a few sweets to your plate once she’s finished with her macaron.

It dangles in the air, unspoken because it needs not to be uttered. You know just as well what she refrains from saying and she bites her tongue because you know. It begins to feel empty, the threat that sits heavily between the two of you. Half the court would have had their tongues flayed or slayed with their heads displayed on spikes near the gate of the castle if all acts of treason were punished to the highest extent like she’d have you believe.

“I do say so, to question my word is treasonous.”

“Perhaps my match shall be half as fruitful as yours, your grace,” you murmured against your better judgment, “If perhaps you were to arrange it instead of mother and father?”

They’d be proud of you for the suggestion even if it was underlaid with a snarky bite. Her shackles rise at the mention of her marriage. Guilt laps at your throat like the claws of a desperate animal backed into a corner. The look of hurt that flashes through her eyes is as sharp as the edge of a knife to your throat. She’s pressed it to the soft of your neck and allowed your skin to prickle open. You bleed a sticky scarlet and it spills onto the table before Lisa. She can see it, the way it stains your face and the innocent daffodil yellow of your frock like sloshed wine. You understand now why she doesn’t often pay mind to court gossip even when it is pure treachery. The way she wears disappointment scars far deeper than any blade ever could.

“Perhaps it shall be if you are blessed by the Gods,” Lisa says with a smile, it's a robotic and routine reflex, like she’s nothing but a pliant pup who’s learnt to dance on command, “With my help, you will be but then you shall be blessed by me.”

To be blessed by a queen, by her– it was a far tangible proof that the Gods looked kindly upon you rather than waiting and hoping for some sort of divine intervention from them.

Picking at the raspberry tart on your plate, you frown, “Though, I’m unsure that I should like to marry,” peering at her from the corner of your eye, you sink the prongs into the softer, buttery pastry, “None of the men at court are particularly interesting and the men of the country are too boorish.”

“It’s unbecoming to be overly critical of others.”

Lisa was never one to mince her words it seemed.

Her honesty was refreshing most days but now your cheeks burned in mortification, “Is it being overly critical if I am simply making an observation?” You asked, “It is no fault of their own that they are so very boring. Men do not have to be interesting to be an eligible bachelor they simply have to have very full coiffeurs.”

You jab your fork into your plate with more force than you intended to. The crust crumbles into smaller pieces and the dollop of whipped cream begins to mingle with the deep magenta custard, leaving a lump mess out of the once meticulously crafted dessert.

“It is just a fact, your grace. Is it so wrong to be picky about which man I shall be shackled to for the rest of my days?”

Scooping up a bit of the raspberry custard, you lift your fork to your mouth. The burst of tangy sweetness you were expecting to dabble on your tongue never came, instead, you felt three slender fingers envelop your wrist. Lisa had brought the fork to her lips and swallowed the bite you’d prepared for yourself. Her tongue poked out to lap up the bit of cream that smeared across her cupid’s bow. Your eyes settle into a stony, fixed stare as you watch her hum in contentment.

“You were playing with your food, darling,” Lisa chirped as if it should have been obvious, “I was simply demonstrating what you’re meant to do with it.”

You’d be insulted at the insinuation should anyone else have made it. The teasing undercurrent to her words was not lost on you, though it stirred a deep confusion. An incoming tide of sudden playfulness washed away her dismay within the blink of an eye. It must have been something you said but the ignorance was anything but blissful. Furrowing your brows, you watch as Lisa sinks into the back of her chair, slouching a bit.

“I see,” you mutter, pushing your plate toward her, “Well do continue with your so-called lesson in etiquette.”

Lisa shakes her head, her curls bounce with the movement and you’re struck with awe for a moment as you watch. She was truly a vision to behold and though your stomach was filled with an uncomfortable flutter you could at least admit to yourself that Lisa Minci was the most beautiful woman you ever had the good fortune to lay your eyes upon.

“I do believe I’ve had just enough sweets to rid my tongue of the bitter taste on it,” Lisa hums, resting her interlocked hands upon her midriff.

“Bitter taste?”

Her lips curl upwards in a devilish manner, “Oh yes, you see whenever the thought of boring men as you put it, crosses my mind a rather acidic taste seems to coat my tongue.”

A small giggle escapes your lips and soon Lisa joins in with a laugh of her own. You’ve never heard her truly laugh before. All you had been afforded were forced titters behind a demure hand whenever a lord of the court decided to play the role of the jester. They were missing out. They may have thought that they possessed all the rarest riches of the land but in truth, only you had. You tried to commit the sound to memory, to memorize the way her cheeks filled with coloured and her eyes squished shut as her grin grew wider but a fleeting thought bristled through you, and with it came the bitter burn of jealousy. What if she laughed like this with her husband, Diluc? He was a rather stoic man, not one for conversation unless it suited him but behind closed doors with his wife, he could have been different.

Was there a side of Diluc that only Lisa was privy to? Did Lisa show Diluc parts of her that she wouldn’t show you?

You could feel your skin turning green with envy whereas hers glowed pink with delight. Lisa caught sight of your tense expression and pressed her lips together to suppress the lingering traces of laughter that made her cheeks ache, “Do not worry my sweetling, you shall remain interesting forever.”

“Will I?” Your voice was painfully small, fitting for how utterly defenceless you felt.

“But of course,” she proclaimed, her fingers digging into the pleats of her skirt as she leaned toward you, “So long as you do not allow your husband to taint you with his ailment.”

Something vile curled at the back of your throat. It urged you to say something uncouth, something that would put an end to this conversation and bring forth another wave of disappointment. Gripping the sides of your chair, you suck in a shaky breath.

“Is the Prince Consort afflicted with such a dastardly ailment?” You cautiously ask instead, your voice unsteady. You couldn’t bring yourself to say his name, “Is that why you prefer to spend your free hours with me?”

The blush that blossoms upon the apples of Lisa’s cheeks is far darker than it had previously been. You wonder if she’s ashamed or if she’s embarrassed that you even asked such a thing, “Can you keep a secret?” she lowered her voice, whispering your name in a conspiratory manner. You nod your head against your better judgement, your curiosity far stronger than your resolve to keep Lisa’s marriage far from the confines of your mind, “Well in truth yes, Diluc is a rather boring man and he is always so serious.”

“Are those not admirable qualities for a consort to possess?”

“They are indeed,” Lisa murmurs, her eyes awfully watery as she trains them upon your face, “But they aren’t what I wished for in a husband, in truth, Diluc is not who I would have chosen for myself.”

It would be selfish for you to ask what kind of person Lisa would have envisioned for herself but the urge is overwhelming, “Then who?” You ask in a desperate tone of voice, her face has grown closer to yours. You can feel the warm fan of her breath across your cheeks and along the tip of your nose, “What sort of man did you envision for yourself.”

Your chest tensed and a prickling sensation gathered between your ribcage as if a long, thin blade was pressed against your flesh– ready to slice and flay before you’d even taken your last breath. 

Lisa remains silent, her pink blushed lips pressed into a firm line. You shouldn’t have asked, it was foolish and would only result in even more complicated feelings that stung too painfully to begin to dissect further. Her hand rises to brush a strand of your hair away from your eyes, her calloused fingertips brush against the flushed skin of your cheekbone. The green of her eyes looks even more striking when they are closer to your own, there are flecks of blue right near the centre of her iris that you’d never noticed before. With the summer sun, freckles had begun to sprout amongst the few beauty marks that graced her skin. Even more questions filled your mind, like why a princess's hands were calloused when they were supposed to be smooth and delicate, without blemish like all the bards have sung but Lisa had lived a thousand lives before you and she’d live a thousand more without you. You were just another beef-witted courtesan that would pass through her court, one she was burdened with modelling into a sensible member of society. You had no right to demand entrance into her past chapters.

“I never envisioned a man would rule by my side when I became queen.”

The admission is no louder than the soft rustle of leaves when a gentle breeze filters through them. Lisa wears shame beautifully. If you weren’t paying close enough attention, you’d miss the way her lips wobble in embarrassment, her hands trembling for a moment before she steadies them. Her mask has crumbled and she’s laid bare before you but her words are purposeful. Prying ears would gain nothing insightful, they’d assume Lisa is high in her instep, an arrogant wench who thought she was above tradition and smart enough to rule a kingdom all on her home. She was but even the most pious scholar would never admit it out loud. But you, you see it, the double meaning that is thoughtfully interwoven with her statement.

Lisa did not want a husband.

Your jaw falls slack, your mouth turns into an “o” shape as you search for something sensible to say to such an admission. There is nothing you could say that would spare either of you the torment that embedded itself within your chests. 

Her fingertips trail against your cheek to your jaw, gently pressing your mouth shut before she cups your face in the palm of her hand. The perfume that has melted into her skin is just barely noticeable but you can smell the fragrant notes of cecilia’s and valberries. You can almost taste the raspberry custard that you’re sure lingers upon her tongue and lips, if only you could angle your face closer to hers and then you wouldn’t have to wonder. Lisa moved before you could ruminate any further, in one swift movement she had gone from a hair’s breadth away to close enough for her lips to graze against yours. They linger there for a moment, just a whisper amongst a sea of shouts before she has pressed her mouth firmly against yours.

Her kiss isn’t greedy like you assumed kisses to be. There is no expectation of something more wrapped within it but you wish there was because it may have soothed the mind-numbing flames that followed the feeling of her bare skin on yours. Something heavy settled low within your belly, it was dizzying but thrilling all the same. Fear should have dawdled somewhere in the mix of emotions that made your heart leap all the way up your throat, but it didn’t. Your skin should have run cold but you burned so deeply that it was incomparable to the muggy summer heat that kept your skin sticky beneath the heavy woollen frock you wore. In the six months you had known Lisa, this very thing plagued your mind when you lay alone in bed and followed you into your slumber even when you tried to will yourself into a dreamless sleep.

It unleashes a type of hunger that you had never known though her lips only remain pressed to yours for a few short seconds– it felt much longer, but you’re left starved for something that no array of decadent sweets could satiate. Lisa’s eyes look strangely darker when they flutter open, her face garishly pink but still utterly kissable despite the shock that seems to mar her features. Your chest heaves in time with her, a myriad of deep breaths used to chase away the impending conversation.

“I must go!” You blurt between gasps, quickly tilting your face towards the sun to disguise your expression, “The hour has run late and I just remembered I was to write to my mother before the day's end!”

The sun had just barely begun to shift from its spot in the centre of the crystalline blue sky but Lisa took your excuse with grace, mechanically bobbing her head in agreement, “Oh yes, I have duties I too must attend to,” she breathed, clasping her hands together as you rose from your seat, “I am sure that my husband, Diluc, must require my presence too.”

You thoughtless nod as your trembling fingers grasp for the emerald necklace clasped around the base of your neck. Pressing your fingers against your décolletage, you will your heart to rest. It thrums wildly and you can hear each erratic beat with each inhale. You hope that Lisa couldn’t hear it, that the sound of flapping bird wings and splashing water in the distance was enough to muffle your pathetic reaction. The chair screeches against the tiled ground as you push out from your seat, falling over as you stumble away from the table.

The stifling air is no comparison to the hellish flames that nip at your heels as you walk away from the garden without a spared glance toward Lisa. You couldn’t look at her or bear witness to the look of utter devastation that painted her face. When your feet reach the sleek hardwood floors of the castle, you stop running. The hallway you found yourself in was empty, devoid of the usual hustle that you still hadn’t become accustomed to but you chose to relish the oddity. You tuck yourself into the first corner you find, your knees buckling beneath you until you’ve begun to slide down the wall and plop onto the ground with a small huff.

A bead of sweat rolls down your neck and another dribbles into the space between your breasts. When you go to pat yourself dry, you notice that in your haste you had forgotten your cloak on the back of your chair in the garden. You supposed now it lay carelessly on the ground amongst the bugs. It was a rather lavish cloak, one Lisa had made for you when she realized you were sorely lacking seasonally appropriate clothing.

Oh, you were in such trouble.

Lisa does not call upon you for nearly two months. 

Summer rolls through Mondstadt with a startling quickness but the chill that permeates the air is welcomed by you. Now that the social season has come to an end, your parents were more receptive to the idea of you returning home for a short visit. Without Lisa’s constant presence life at court is stagnant. For two months your days are spent alone. Lords and ladies do not find there is a need to converse with you when you no longer follow Lisa like a shadow and your listless figure floating through the halls is haunting.

Though, it is not half as haunting as the glimpses you catch of her.

It is torturous to be resigned to simply stealing an eyeful of her passing figure or a whiff of her perfume after she’s left a room. Strangely, half a year felt closer to a lifetime than it did a minuscule increment of time. But, Lisa did not wish to see you, that much was clear with how scarce she’d become. You’d have to be satisfied with chasing the train of her silk dresses like everyone else.

The library becomes a respite. Its walls are sparse from any life other than your own and that becomes a comfort on the days when it is difficult to put Lisa out of your mind. Tall tales of knights wooing princesses could only occupy your thoughts for so long and the privacy offered by the ancient, towering shelves meant you could weep to your heart's content without the prying eyes of the court scrutinizing you. The lush carpets and the soft velvety cushions that were littered around the space were what called you back to the library on the days when your heart felt a little bit lighter. However, it was never as soothing as you wished for it to be because it was never long before you wondered which books were Lisa’s favourites.

This was her home, the very place she had taken her first breath and would be the place where she took her last. It was filled with pieces of her that you couldn’t ignore no matter how you tried. From the portraits detailing her youth hung along the walls to the flowers printed into runners that led to the main hall, you were surrounded by everything that made Lisa who she was and to deny the joy that filled your heart just the same as anguish was a cruelty that even you could not commit.

And, in the end whoever Lisa was behind a lifetime of carefully poised hands and masterfully crafted curls would remain sealed away for another to uncover.

The soft call of your name breaks you from your thoughts, “Her grace calls upon you,” they said, their voice wavering, “She wishes for you to attend to her chambers at once.”

Turning away from the trunk you were peering into, you come face to face with Barbara Gunnhildr. Pegg, she was now Barbara Pegg. Word had it that the girl's father’s parents took her into their care sometime during the month of June. She now bore their family name and had begun to flutter around the court like a ghost of years past. Amid etiquette lessons and academic studies, Barbara often spent her days attending to the church with her family. She was a waif of a girl with bouncy curls spun from gold, dressed in a blue so pale it’d be mistaken for white by most. It was befitting for the aura of innocence that surrounded her. She was a sweet girl, far more näive than you had been when you first came to court and there was something worrying in the way her weaknesses were on display. With Lisa withdrawn and hidden away in her solar most days, there wasn’t anyone with enough power to ensure that her sister's fate wouldn’t befall her.

“Glory, do continue packing my clothing,” you instruct as you straighten your shoulders, “Thank you, Barbara, I shall visit her at once.”

Her head dips into a prim bow as she scampers away with a small smile, satisfied with her work. Your gaze glides over to where Glory is elbow-deep in your armoire, she’s humming to herself seeming all too content to run her fingers over the fine fabrics. She must be imagining what it would be like to wear one of them but just like the dreams you had of Lisa every night since that day in the garden, those thoughts were nothing more than a fleeting fantasy to plague your idle mind.

The walk to Lisa’s shared apartments with Diluc is solemn. Your chin remains titled high as you saunter through the halls, only stopping to greet those whose station ranks above yours. They don’t seem to recognize the aura of dread that prowls alongside you, their spirits are tinged with merriment since the well-loved Weinlesefest grew near. None seemed too bothered by the absence of their heir around the court. But, you bite your tongue and allow no trace of ill content to show on your expression.

Lisa’s door was imposing much like her. The gold crusted knocker that lay in the middle of the wood was meticulously crafted into the shape of a rose. Two twisted thorn-covered vines looped together and met in the middle. The signs of age wore around the handle of the knocker, revealing the darker metal beneath the brush of gold. Before you could raise your hand and wrap your nimble fingers around the knocker, the door swung open. Diluc stood tall in the entryway. He was quite the dignified man, even when dressed down in a part of charcoal coloured breeches and a loose white blouse. His hands were stained with ink blotches and his ruby red eyes were ringed by a deep plum that gave away all the sleepless nights that were the centre of this week's round of gossip. The laces of his blouse were loose and revealed a spattering of crimson hair that covered his broad chest and pale skin.

Many ladies and some lords of the court fawned over the king consort to be, his name a constant on their tongue. They found him to be the most comely man to ever grace the kingdom, even more so than his charming younger brother Kaeya. As you peered at him in the low light, you tried to see just what captured the interest of so many but you felt nothing.

“Your grace,” you mutter hastily as you dip into a messy courtesy, “Good evening.”

Diluc’s eyes settle upon your face but he doesn’t see you. He looks right through you, hardly lifting the corners of his mouth as he greets you, “Good evening,” he murmurs in disinterest, “Lisa is waiting for you in her chambers.”

He silently slips by you, tucking his hands into the pockets of his breeches as he drags his slippered feet along the floor. The door remained open, orangey candlelight spilling into the hall. The solar is dimly lit, a sparse few candles and the central fireplace illuminate the space. Despite the chill that rattles your bones, the atmosphere appears rather welcoming. The floorboards creek beneath your feet as you enter the room. Your breath catches in your throat as you grow closer to Lisa’s chambers. It’s eerily quiet. Pressing your ear to the door is a fruitless endeavour. The only sign of life inhibiting the space is the glow of light that bleeds from the cracks.

“Your Grace?” You call, your knuckles gently wrapping the wood, “You called for me?”

Her voice is muffled when she responds with a meek, “Come in.”

Popping your head into the small space between the door and the frame, you peer into her room. Lisa stands in front of her large, four-post bed. She’s donned in a thin, wispy nightgown. Though the evenings have grown colder, the castle remains muggy well into the night. Most of her arms are exposed, and so is her collarbone. Lisa’s tanned skin looks like molten gold when bathed in the warm, fiery candlelight. 

The door clicks closed behind you as you slip further into her space. You feel over-dressed in your evening wear. Kaeya summoned you for a private dinner to discuss the upcoming festivities. He hoped you may have been able to sway Lisa’s opinion on some matter. The moment you returned to your chambers to continue packing your things, your conversation with Kaeya was entirely forgotten. You do remember how worried you’d been when he called upon you, having spent three hours with Glory trying to decide what to wear and how to style your hair. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in your appearance and now you felt rather silly, still sporting such extravagant clothing.

Lisa had gifted them to you.

“Your Grace?” You called, “Barbara said you wished to see me?”

She remained where she stood, with her back turned to you, “Yes, I did,” Lisa said, pressing her hands to her lower stomach, “I heard you shall be returning to the country soon.”

“Yes, in three days time.”

Lisa hums beneath her breath before shuffling over to the corner of her room. Her heeled slippers click with each footstep she takes, “I see, well you cannot return to the country without this,” she says, “The weather is getting colder and it would certainly be a shame if you went without it.”

Your cloak is clutched between Lisa’s trembling hands. When she turns around to face you, your heart drops into your stomach. Her eyes, always so expressive, shone wetly in the low light and her bottom lip quivered. You’d never seen such sorrow peel across her pretty face. She stood frozen in place like she’d be plucked from the confines of a canvas and dropped before you. Shame coiled around your belly and squeezed it uncomfortable tight. To think of her as some sort of masterpiece when she was wrought with such sadness, and sorrow that was crafted by your hands.

“Your Grace, are you alright?” You ask, taking a tentative step forward.

A sob is wrenched from Lisa’s lips, it’s harrowing and you can feel your heart snapping into a thousand pieces as she stumbles back and tucks herself against the side of her bed. You reach your hand out toward her but think better of it. Her cheeks are blotchy and tears have begun to fall in streaks against him against her will.

“You are leaving because of me,” Lisa hisses, clutching your cloak to her chest, “I have done it again, I have made a mess again.”

You shook your head in confusion, “I do not understand,” you cried, curling your fist against your chest, “I swear to you, your grace you have done nothing wrong.”

She hadn’t. Hiding herself away like a damsel locked away in some ivory tower was no fault of hers. You ran from her when she laid her mask aside and stood bare before her. You continued to bury your feelings so far down in the soil of that garden, you were unsure if you’d ever be able to unearth them once more. 

“Without you, I am so very lonely.”

The blunt edge of your nail digs into the supple flesh of your collarbone. Your confession does little to relieve the bone-crushing weight of remorse that squeezes the air out from within you but your tongue refuses to wag and spill any more secrets.

“Do not lie to me,” she whispers with a shake of her hair. Her wavy brown hair cascades around her shoulders, it’s the first time you’ve seen her without her hair meticulously styled. It makes her look even more defenceless than she is, “If there is one thing you should have learned from me is that you shall never lie to me.”

“Because it is treason?” It’s a stupidly sarcastic question to ask but you need to see her smile. The wet, half-hearted laugh she lets out is not nearly enough but it makes some of the tension gathered at your shoulders melt away.

Lisa’s brows push together, her eyes softening for a moment. Her expression is endearing and it placates the skittish animal inside of you, the one that begs you to run with your tail between your legs because nothing good can come from this. But, how can it not? How can nothing good come from Lisa Minci, she cradled the sun in the palm of her hands, she was crafted from all that was kind and gentle in this world. 

She nods, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated manner, “Well yes, I suppose that is true,” she swallows, her shoulders bowing inward as she shudders, “But you mustn’t lie to me for I cannot handle another heartbreak. So, speak plainly here and now, your words shall not leave this chamber, I promise you.”

“You did not call on me for two months,” you spit with a shake of your head, “I felt discarded and unwanted at court and I was so very lonely I could no longer bear it!” 

Your eyes dart back and forth between Lisa’s eyes and her expression, searching for something within them. You came back with nothing more than an abundance of shared guilt that began to pool at both of your ankles.

“But it was no fault of my own, it was torture by my design and mine alone.”

“I do not understand,” Lisa shook her head in confusion, she hated not understanding.

But, when you spoke in cryptic tongues, your own frustrations boiling over how could she understand? Too many words remained unspoken, they hung in the air like taunting fingers just waiting for the right moment to jab at your soft spots.

“You were vulnerable with me and we …” Your voice trails off, your cheeks burning even hotter than the still crackling fire in the corner of Lisa’s chamber, “And then I ran from you, like a child and I ruined everything between us.”

“You have ruined nothing, darling.”

Lisa’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment as she deeply inhaled. Your heart skipped a beat, “darling”. For a moment you could pretend that this was some sort of clandestine affair rather than what it truly was.

“I did,” you murmured, “You couldn’t stand to look at me for two months!”

“I kissed you.”

Your breath catches and a raggedy cough escapes you. The very thing neither of you had been brave enough to say out loud or think upon for longer than a few short seconds before you forced your thoughts to settle onto something less terrifying. Of course, Lisa was brave enough to say it out loud, to give life to the moment that you desperately tried to bury away like a rotted corpse. Lisa had a strength that you don’t think you’d ever be able to possess, she was born with it but her parents fostered it. All good and just leaders had to be strong, but never would the king and queen think that their daughter was using all that they’d taught her to confront matters of the heart. Though, could they be categorized as such, if these feelings were meant to be reserved for men?

Your mother once said that temptations of the flesh manifested in many different ways.

Any man or woman could tempt a chaste and pure, well-bred genteel into laying in the pit of vipers because all were powerless to the taste of flesh. You had never known such a thing, your youth was sheltered and the only person your heart and body ever craved was Lisa. But it was wrong of you to think of her in such an impure manner. She was married, she was to be the queen, and she was a woman. Lisa was the person farthest from your grasp and yet your greedy fingers still reached for her coattails. Running to the country allowed for all of these feelings to wash away with the morning tide. You’d be clean once more and maybe next summer you’d be wed and enraptured in marital bliss.

The longer you remained here, the more complicated this web of strangeness grew. You felt lost and tangled within a never-ending maze of emotion and escape sounded too enticing. Lisa had done it, she escaped you before you had been ready for it, now it should have been your turn.

Lisa kissed you and you could not dwell any longer within her chamber because if you did, you’d kiss her.

It was a need, you needed to kiss her. A part of you wished to be brave like her even if it was just a crude imitation of the real thing but your mother's words and your fears of alienation crept along the back of your neck and whispered vile threats against the shell of your ear. 

“You kissed me.”

“And then you ran,” Lisa sniffled, a sad smile playing on her lips, “Away from me, how could I have called upon you when you made your feelings quite clear that day.”

Clutching your cloak against her chest, Lisa nuzzles her nose into the furry collar. A few tears drip down the slope of her cheeks and stain the fabric darkly, “Yes, I ran but it is not because of you,” the heavy material of your dress uncomfortably compressed your chest, making it difficult to breathe, “I ran because I was afraid of much more I wanted from you.”

Her mouth echoes your words but no sound comes out.

“Even now as we stand here, I want more than just a kiss but I can never have it.”

“And why not?” Lisa blurted, “Why can I not give you all that you desire?”

Your cloak drops from her hands to the floor without a second thought. Lisa straightened her shoulders, pressing herself back into the mould of a woman she used to wear so well. It wasn’t because she needed to posture herself as someone she was not but because it stirred a confidence in her that could not be broken once she had it clasped within her hands– its rightful place.

“Who shall stop us? I am the heir to the throne.”

You want to laugh and to tell Lisa that she cannot simply flout her duties and use her title like a tyrant when it suits her but a voice deep inside your head was screaming for you to keep your lips sealed, “What about your marriage? Hm, what about Diluc,” you say instead, pushing down the growing want that singes your belly with its devilish flames, “He does not deserve such a betrayal.”

The words leave an acrid taste on your tongue. 

In truth, you cared little how Diluc felt about his wife's desires because it was clear in your eyes that he did not either, not if she was standing here before you in a state of undress, taunting you to fall prey to her loving touch. You were not in control of your mouth’s movements, it parroted someone else's voice without your permission.

Something sits on the tip of Lisa’s tongue. A confession or secret of sorts that was not meant for the ears of a lowly courtesan. You heard whispers of Diluc but never paid them any mind, in your eyes they were as false as whatever egregious vitriol was spewed about Lisa. Those at the very top were never as well-loved as their subjects would have them believe, their ambition and thirst for power corrupted whatever good will they may have held. 

“Diluc does not need to know.”

Oddly, Lisa does not appear ashamed. In the morning when the flames have dwindled down to cooled embers and hardly have the strength to flicker, Lisa might feel ashamed. Tonight, she did not want to. She wished to relish in the feelings that she spent her entire life yearning for but could only suppress them with a forceful hand. Her stomach twisted itself up in excitement, at the prospect of wetting her maw and indulging in the appetite that she was shamed for having.

“You made an oath before Barabtos,” you continued, sucking in your bottom lip between your lips, “You cannot break that oath.”

“I swore to love a man I do not care for before a God that I do not believe in,” Lisa confessed, her hand rising to rest against her chest, “Is that not a sin too?”

Your throat feels like it is closing, your lungs threatening to constrict until you turn blue.

“Barbatos is kind.”

He’d forgive Lisa, that is what you wish to tell her but could he forgive this? Perhaps not.

That yellow-bellied craven is back again, resting its haunches upon your shoulders. You cannot shake it off because your mind races and allows itself to fall under the craven’s spell. The thirst that festers fights to be heard and appeased but all you can think about is how your silly, overly lavish attire chokes you.

Roughly tugging at your necklace until the clasp breaks, you throw it to the floor but it isn’t enough to fill your lungs. Your gloves are torn off next but you cannot reach the tiny buttons to free yourself from your petticoat. Lisa stares at you with concern, she’s come dangerously close to you. She smells of jasmine and honey, her hair is still rather damp and when she stands directly before you, you can see how the ends frizz. 

“He is kind,” she agrees, boldly reaching to cup your heavily flushed cheek, “But I am far sweeter than he.”

“Lisa,” you whimper, her name comes out like a kitten's mewl and it is mortifying, “We shouldn’t no matter how much we wish to.”

Her touch sears your skin but it is electrifying and thrilling in a way that makes your heart race. You like the way her calloused palm slides across your smooth skin in a gentle caress but your mind is screaming at you to hate it, to hate this, to hate her. Leaning forward, Lisa presses her forehead against yours, and a long sigh passes through her pursed lips. She wouldn’t taste like raspberries and cream if you were to kiss her right now and that very notion made you wonder what she would taste like. There was no sharp sting of wine on her breath nor any goblets and pitchers. Lisa had not fallen into her cups, she was of sound mind and she wanted you in the way you wanted her.

Though you did not have the words to articulate what it was that you needed from her, you could feel that she knew exactly how the yearning felt to gnaw away at her flesh just as you did. 

“I’m tired of denying who I am.”

Tears stick to her wispy lashes, but she does not appear saddened.

“Are you not tired of living a farce?” Lisa demands, her eyes boring into yours, “Do you not wish to feel just for one night what it is to be honest?”

Her tears leak onto your cheeks and drip down into the corners of your mouth. They’re salty but utterly human. It strikes you that Lisa had not been wholly human in your mind. Her sincerity and her vulnerability scared you because you did not recognize the fragility that all earthly beings possessed, yourself included. You saw her mask and the caricature she played but you still thought of her as some obscure and untouchable figure. What a disservice that was.

“I do not know what it is, to be honest,” you confess, shutting your eyes with a sigh, “And I am afraid.”

“Of what?”

Lisa’s voice is gentle, her other hand comes to cup your other cheek. You shook your head, unable to muster up an answer that would make sense to anyone but you. 

“Of everything … of what comes afterward.”

Nothing could ever come from this. There was no afterward, that you knew but the potential of something erupting from the walls of her chamber and spilling out to the court made your blood run cold. She was the future of the realm, you could not be the reason she was deprived of her birthright or bringing ruin to this kingdom because some moronic barbarian of a cousin challenged her claim due to some foolish misstep that you goaded her into. You would never forgive yourself if you were to bring such ruin to the realm and to her.

It wasn’t fair.

To think, of how men could bed whomever they pleased whenever they wished and never once had to think of the consequences. For them, sex was as much of a God-given right as their status, lands, and titles. If they left a young miss pupped it was her fault for succumbing to a man's charms, she was the idiot but truly it was never a surprise. Girls were foolish, they were born lacking in the eyes of society and would never fulfil the impossible standards they were held to.

You were endlessly frustrated, but Lisa did not need your pity. She needed your resolve, lest she forget how truly precarious of a position she held.

“It would ruin you were anyone to find out,” you whisper, your brows stitching together as you frown, “Think of your future, think of the realm.”

Lisa shook her head, a huff passing through her nostrils, “That is all that I have done my entire life!” She exclaimed with a pithy laugh, “It is why I gave my blessing for Jean’s union to Varka and it is why I agreed to marry a man with whom I hold no affection for!”

Her eyes search yours for something utterly intangible, you wish to give it to her but you held even less than she did. Resting your forehead against hers, you press your eyes firmly shut. You could not bear to drown yourself even further within her swampy green eyes. They cut like a blade forged from noctilucous jade, sharp and stinging the longer you allowed yourself to prickle with forlorn.

“I am a woman of royal blood,” Lisa says with a resigned sigh,  “It is my duty to be tortured.”

The way her hands quiver against your cheek brings tears to your eyes.

“And I am so tired of being tortured.”

Your eyes fly open to meet hers, and a few stray tears dribble off your lower lash line and gather beneath your eyes.

“Is it so wrong to covet one evening in which I am unshackled from the bonds of duty?” She implores, her voice crackling with shame, “Why is it so shameful for me to want, and to act upon it?”

“It isn’t, Lisa,” you whimper as a lump settles amid your throat, “But are you not afraid of all that you could lose?”

Lisa shrugs her shoulders, and a sad smile sits on her lips, “If I am to be burned at the stake for succumbing to my need to relish in the touch of another then I will have lived a full life,” she says with a certainty that startles you, “They would burn me for less, so why must I allow them to puppeteer me about like a miserable fool.”

Her hands slide from your face as she pulls away from you. The loss of her warmth steals the breath from within your lungs but the disappointment that festers is what surprises you.

“I understand if this is not what you want, so take your cloak and leave, and I shall wish you a safe journey home.”

Though she stands still before you, her posture rigid, it is as though you can see her placing her porcelain mask over top of her visage once more. The vaulted door inches closed the longer you stand silently in place, your mouth dumbly gaping as you struggle to comprehend the whirlwind of emotion that relentlessly whips you around. Lisa was older than you, she’s had many more years to work through the injustices that permeated the society she would soon rule, such injustices she may well uphold to secure another era of peace but you had just scratched the surface. You had always known it was cruel, the double-edged knife that pierced your chest and taunted you as you teetered along the rope of societal convention but never had you considered skirking duty and responsibility to steal one single moment where you deluded yourself into thinking nothing else mattered. Where there was action there was consequence, that was the way of the world but as you stood there you could not help but wonder if there would be no cosmic justice to answer to if you danced in the dark of night.

“Lisa … I,” your voice trails off as you stare at her figure, eyes raking over the ample curve of her hip, “I do not wish to leave but, I could not bear to live if I were to cause you harm by acting upon my uncouth desires.”

Her expression turns sympathetic, “Oh, sweetling,” she coos with the affection of a mother, “No desire is uncouth, flesh craves flesh. It is the most base and natural desire for us mortal beings to possess.” You feel like a child as she regards you but Lisa was raised for this. To slip into the role of mother, lover, sister, or friend if the situation called for it. Your stomach churned at the idea of being treated just the same as any other courtesan but it was to no fault of her own. A thousand questions rest at the tip of your tongue all of which you presume to know the answer to. The rumbling need that eats away at your insides begs for your mind to settle into a state of ease so your body can be satiated. 

Her words soothed you some. You decided that would be enough for you to nod your head in agreement despite her words going against everything you had been taught to believe.

“There is nothing for you to be afraid of, nothing and no one shall lay harm to your head.”

Your concern for her seems to hang idly between the two of you. Lisa does not wish to address it, you wouldn’t force her hand, you couldn’t but it itches at the back of your mind as you step closer to her. She knew that you cared for her and her position, that would have to be enough for now.

“Thank you, Lisa,” you say with a small dip of your head. The roots of formality are buried deep within you and you happily cling to it like a babe with its favourite blanket, “I trust you, I do not doubt that you shall protect me as you always have.”

Smoothing your hands across the firm expanse of your corsetted top, you wistfully gaze upon Lisa. She beckons you forward with a quick flick of her wrist, “May I?” She asks, gesturing toward your petticoat.

“Yes, please if you would be so kind,” you laugh, the warmth in her gaze melts the tension gathered within your body, “Glory laced my corset a smidgen too tight this afternoon, I could hardly sit for for dinner.”

Lisa’s lithe finger glides across your shoulder blades as she moves to stand behind you. Goosebumps rise along the path she traces, and a shiver slivers between your ribs and leaves you rattled. The tiny pearl beaded buttons that follow the length of your spine give way easily to Lisa as she plucks them open. Your top begins to sag around your shoulders to reveal your corset-covered chemise. Lisa is oddly attentive in the way she undresses you, her touch is feather light and fleeting as she slides the sleeves of your top down your arms and folds it together before she sets it aside.

“Glory is a sweet girl,” she muses as she runs the palm of her hand flat against your top, “But, she has much to learn still, just as we all do.”

Turning your head to the side, you peer at Lisa from the corner of your eye, “Even you?”

“The game of thrones is not so easily won,”  she cryptically mutters. Your skirt falls and pools at your feet when she pops the button holding it in place, “So yes, I too have much to learn.”

“You appear so …” Your voice trails off, a gasp cutting into your words.

The heat from Lisa’s palms bleeds through the thin fabric of your underclothes when she rests her hands on your hips. 

“What was that?”

Her breath fans across your neck, hot and heavy. 

Your head grows fuzzy but the feeling is pleasant and welcomed by you. This line of conversation is dead and buried, a mountain of soft damp earth piling on top of it as Lisa presses her abdomen flush against your back, her chin delicately perching upon your shoulder. Her hands slither from your hips to your lower belly, the tips of her fingers just barely caressing the stiff bottom of your corset. A throbbing sensation builds between your legs, it's simultaneously familiar and foreign. You may have felt it one night when trapped between the comforting embrace of a dream and the harsh reality of waking. The pads of her fingers absentmindedly stroke your belly, and your breath catches and compresses your chest where it sits, smouldering.

Pressing your thighs together, you allow yourself to meld into her form, “Nothing,” you breathlessly whisper, “Lisa would you … undress me?”

The pitchy lilt of your voice makes you cringe when the sound reaches your ears. Could Lisa decipher why your usually smooth voice grew shaky, if she peered and examined your expression would she see the beginnings of lust form within the pools of your irises? You knew nothing of lust or love but something that laid between the two must have swirled within you. If it was as natural as Lisa proclaimed it to be, then there was no reason for you to feel so overwhelmed with the prospect of feeling something new. You were human, a creature of habit that sought skin like anyone else. Taking a breath, you willed yourself to relax.

“Oh yes,” Lisa mumbles, retracting her embrace, “You must be terribly uncomfortable, darling.”

You bob your head up and down in agreement though that isn’t why you need as few layers draped across your body as possible. Maybe it’s the unnerve you feel being so well put together while she was an apparition in her most vulnerable and honest form. Still stuck in the muddy depths etiquette. To be equal with her was a ridiculous sentiment but for her to be beneath you in any manner was rather absurd. But in her chambers anything was possible, wasn’t it? Or it was one of the many things you failed to put into words out of fear and a lack of vocabulary. All you knew was that your skin burned and itched beneath the white cotton chemise, it would slough off in a matter of minutes if you didn’t peel the fabric from your body.  

Lisa guides your arms above your head once the ties are loose enough to be lifted and glide along your torso. You suck in a deep breath once you’re freed from the garment, your lungs fully expanding. It wasn’t often that you found yourself discomforted in the overly formal attire that made up your wardrobe as a genteel courtesan, the support provided by your corset quashed any qualms you had about how bothersome and restrictive it was and you quite enjoyed the artistry that came with intricately made lace trimmed gowns or paisley printed frocks. You had never felt as smothered by the weight of your overly embellished clothing as you did now. 

The chemise stuck to your sweat dabbled skin, the already thin white cloth becoming rather translucent. As you peered downward, your chin tucked into your collarbone, you stared at the way your nipples poked through the soft fabric with stiff peaks. Guiding the palm of your hand along your décolletage, you tug the chemise away from your flushed body but to no avail the damp fabric settles back upon your skin with a wet plop. 

“Is that better?”

Lisa’s hands hover over your updo, carefully plucking the masterfully placed pins that keep your hair twisted and coiffed, “Yes,” you say, your eyes rolling back into your head as your hair cascades into soft waves around your shoulders, “Thank you, Lisa.”

“You do not have to thank me,” you can hear the frown in her voice though you cannot see her expression, “Here I am just Lisa, not the princess or the heir.”

“Just Lisa,” you repeat out loud and then a dozen more times in your head until it sticks.

To completely remove a lifetime of conditioning is a near impossible task but once upon a time, it would not have been too strenuous to regard Lisa as a friend. That is what she has always been somewhere between the hazy image she projected outward and the person who stood before you— simply a friend.

“I believe I quite like Lisa,” you whisper in a conspiratory manner.

Spinning in a small circle, you turn to face her. You’ve never been bold, not one day in your life but you feel daring when you reach out to touch her. The tips of your fingers lightly brush her bicep but it electrifies you, spurring you on to wrap your hand around the crook of her elbow. Lisa studies your movement with observant eyes, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. It is almost a test of will when you tug her to you. Graceful as ever, Lisa does not stumble or trip over her feet at your abrupt movement. 

Trailing your hand up the length of her arm, you mirror her earlier actions and cup her cheek, “I like her a lot, even before she let me see her,” somehow, it is easier to speak to her as though the two of you were discussing someone else entirely, “I fear I like her more than I should.”

There is no easy way to confess all that lingers in your heart lest you wish to spend hours upon hours turning over each foible to meticulously inspect them. All you could hope for was that these few simple words resonated within Lisa without needing further elaboration. It was enough for you, to know she holds some sort of affection for you that extends far past what would be considered the norm.

“She likes you too.”

Her skin is hot to the touch. If Lisa is blushing it’s well hidden amongst the warm coloured firelight that flickers weakly from the hearth. Still, even in the steadily dwindling light, she looks something straight out of the novels you drowned yourself in over the past two months. Her beauty has never been lost on you but as you’re able to fully appreciate her appearance you find your breath stolen from you. Even dressed in her nightgown she remains rather elegant but there is a demure essence that radiates around her exposed figure. You drink in the way her chest rises and falls with each breath she takes and how her tanned skin melts into gauzy white fabric. 

It was a shame that Diluc was her husband, he’d never appreciate the blessing he was gifted with every evening. Envy coiled dangerously tight around your gut, pulling your belly taunt for a moment. You have to remind yourself that he was as much of an unwilling participant in this doomed union as Lisa is, neither of them were to blame and you would not have wished for Diluc’s lover to spurn or disparage Lisa for a fate that she did not choose for herself. Diluc must have taken a lover too, if only to mitigate the frigid cavern of loneliness that filled their solar. 

Setting your focus on to the sharp curve of Lisa’s cupids bow, you force any loitering and unwanted thoughts of Diluc far away. It’s a repeated action that makes your insides feel ugly because you were the sole focus of the woman you embraced. You made a quick and fruitless prayer to Barbatos that with age your jealousy would fade. If your God were listening you hoped that he would give you a sign that he could forgive the transgressions you were to commit.

“Good,” the corners of your lips twitch into a smile, your thumb tracing a circle into her cheek, “It pleases me endlessly to know.”

You think that you should ask for her permission before you move to kiss her but then you’d lose the nerve you’d begun to build before you ever got the chance to make the proposition. Slowly leaning toward her, you angle your face so close that the tip of your nose bumps against hers. You can hear the audible hitch that falters her steady breath, you can feel it too. The rapid rush of blood that swishes your eardrums is defeaning but above it all you can hear the way Lisa’s heart beats frantically, though it may mistaken the sound of your own roaring heart for hers.

Where your lips are slightly have slightly crackled from nervously chewing and picking at the skin, her lips are as soft as a rose petal and tastes of nothing at all. Once more it is over as quickly as it began– the quick brushing of lips, a divine sample to fill the insurmountable urge of want that hungers for the taste of skin. Lisa stares at you for a moment, her eyes shockingly round and blinking, there is something heavy that lurks within the murky depths of her irises that shoots a jolt straight to your core. Messily threading her fingers through your hair, Lisa haphazardly mashes her mouth against yours in a desperate haste that leaves you gasping against her lips.

Your hips bump into the sturdy oak wood frame of her four-poster bed when you stumble back from the weight of Lisa’s body crashing into yours. Her nails dig into the fragile skin of your scalp, it stings in a pleasant way that has you keening into the kiss. You catch bits of Lisa’s tongue and teeth, there is nothing poised or practiced in the primal way she attempts to consume you. Your jaw falls slack to allow her tongue to ravish your mouth, curiously it flicks against the roof and slides against your own useless tongue that lays limp. The selfish sort of satisfaction that fills you grows exponentially with each inexperienced and utterly depraved motion.

“Lisa,” you pant between sloppy open-mouthed kisses, “I … I need you.”

Need is a rather obscure word, it leaves a rather spacious crevious for Lisa to guess what you mean when you tell her that you need her. A moan spills like ichor from your throat when she roughly tilts your head back to expose the column of your neck, her teeth tear into as if it were as pulpy and thin as a peach’s fuzz blotting blotchy bruises that you’d figured out how to cover up tomorrow when your senses return to you. For now, they shall remain lost to you because all that is tangible within your brain is need. You needed Lisa in the same way you needed air to breathe or sleep to carry on into the next day. You needed Lisa like she were a leather waterskin dipped in the glacial waters of the Starglow Cavern on a sweltering mid-August day. There would be no you without some piece of her embedded between your hip bones because you needed her.

She seems to understand or at the very least share some of this carnal all consuming feeling. Her hands released their hold on your head and floated down to your hips to grab fistfuls of your flesh. The fabric of your chemise becomes bunched up between her hands and exposes the smooth expanse of your legs to Lisa who leers at the sight with her lips drawn between her teeth. 

Lisa lazily sighs your name into the crook of your neck, languidly rolling the syllables around her mouth as she allows her calloused palms to squeeze your thigh. In all the ways you imagined what bedding another would be like, never would you have thought for it to be filled with an urgency that left you reeling. You thought it was supposed to be gentle and timid with you spread across your duvet with the sweet floral notes of some luxurious flower filling the air. All you smelt now was scored cedar, sweat, and the smothered undertones of the fragrant perfumes you and she both wore.

Lisa’s touch was searing, you could feel her all over you even when she drew back to climb atop  her cushy mattress, “Come here,” she beckoned, her breasts bouncing as her chest heaved with a ragged breath, “Right this instant.”

Her demanding tone made your knees weaken where you stood and it pleased you greatly to her play the part of the petulant princess the court tried to make her out to be. Hitching your leg over the edge of the bed you pulled yourself upward, landing on her mound of overly fluffed pillows with a huff. Her bed was stupidly large and ridiculously high off the ground. You grumbled under your breath as you rolled over to face Lisa, your elbow digging into the mattress as you propped your head up.

“Off, will you please take this off?” She nearly begs, her hands already leaving her sides to tug at the frilled hem of your chemise, “I would like to see all of you.”

Your heart skips a beat, “Only if I too can see all of you,” the coquettish lilt in your voice borders on teasing, “It is only fair, is it not?”

“I suppose it is,” she chirps, teasingly pushing one strap of her nightgown down the slope of her shoulder, “In another life, you’d make a rather fine negotiator my darling.” 

The other strap falls on its own. The bust of her nightgown crumples beneath the weight of her breasts, sliding down her body to reveal the parts of her that were usually swathed in fine silks imported from Liyue and gems harvested from Sumeru. Your mouth ran dry as Lisa reached behind her to tug at the loosely tied laces of her dress. Her breasts spilled out as the fabric slipped off and pooled around her hips.

Some time ago you had peered into a dusty, long forgotten tome tucked away into a forgotten corner of the library. Among its pages were the histories of the lands before the Archon War and the Seven blessed the lands of Teyvat. There were detailed accounts of long dead deities of love and beauty, pages upon pages dedicated to depictions of their supposedly perfect and delectable figure. Lisa looked as though she walked straight out of those yellowed pages and laid before you because she knew she was the Gods greatest trick of temptation.

The pudge of her belly created rolls that were begging you to dig your fingers into, “You are utterly divine,” you whispered, your eyes falling slack as you committed each curve and dimple to memory, “And I believe one of life’s greatest joys must be worshipping you in a manner befitting a Goddess.”

“Oh, you flatter me!”

She flaps her hand about in dismissal, rolling her eyes a bit as she impatiently waits for you to hurry along in undressing yourself.

“It is not flattery if it is the truth,” you murmur, a small wanton whimper biting into your words, “They should paint statues and create great marble figures of you, with songs penned by bards that tell all who shall listen of the magnitude of your beauty.”

Hooking your fingers around the back of Lisa’s neck, you pull her in for a searing kiss, silencing any further witty quips. Lisa didn’t need flattery or falsehoods, she spent the entirety of her existence on the mortal plain being fed pretty words of praise ‘til she got sick of them. But your words were neither and you’d still speak them like hymns against her flesh until she believed them.

Lisa desperately pulled at the fabric of your chemise, your mouth and mind too focused on suckling on her tongue to mind how the garment tore as she stretched it over your shoulder blades, “I hate this thing,” She murmured between kisses.

“Then, tear it off!”

Your suggestion is thoughtless, you simply wished for her lips to stop mother and press to yours once more. You did not think she’d do it or even have the strength to rip through the cotton but she did. The chemise gives way to Lisa’s hands with such ease you can’t help but gasp as she peels the torn sweat sweat-soaked garment away from your body.

“That was quite fun,” she giggles to herself, “I shall buy you many more for the express purpose of wrenching them from your body!”

Her eyes appear pitch black, her irises diminished to thin green rings, absolutely drenched with lust. She drinks in the expanse of your bare skin, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Pushing you to lay flat against the mountain of pillows that line her headboard. The rest of Lisa’s nightgown slips down her hips and rests carelessly aside. A thin trail of mousy brown hair dusts along the length of her abdomen from just beneath her navel, all the way to her pelvis where a thick patch of curls keeps her cunt hidden from your view.

Tossing her legs over your hips, she looms over you with a devilish expression, “By the Gods you are scrumptious,” she coos, “I could just take a bite right out of you!”

Lisa emphasizes her words by nipping at your earlobe and then again at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. This bite is deeper and makes you jolt in surprise, but it melds into a breathless moan as she slips her hand between your bodies. Her fingertips graze your vulva, lightly tugging on your pubes before she draws a featherlight circle to your clit.

“That feels good,” you whisper, wrapping your hand around her forearm to keep her place, “Can I please have more?”

She laughs at you but not in an insulting manner like she means to humiliate you, “So polite,” Lisa hums, circling the pads of her fingers around your clit, “I’ve taught you well, haven’t I sweetling.”

“You have,” you purr, threading your fingers into her hair. It’s damp with sweat and sticks to the nape of her neck.

Your body warms and melts into the lush bedding, you’ve never felt hunger like this before. The pit in your belly sinks inward and your hips rise to meet her hand, chasing her touch because you’d never bite the hand that feeds you. 

“I’ve always wanted nothing more than to be good for you.”

Her plush lips brush the tip of your nose, “You’ve been so good,” Lisa says, “You’ve tried so hard.”

The loss of her touch makes you whine but it's soon replaced with the dripping wet heat of her cunt against yours. Lisa grabs your thigh, her fingers digging into the fat of your flesh as she positions your leg over her shoulder. Her breasts sway as she begins to rock her hips into yours, the slick arousal that coats your cunts allowing them to slide against one another with ease. 

She wears a sort of lovesick expression that you never imagined would be directed at you. Your heart soars and the wanton moans Lisa lets out are like music to your ears. Your insides feel gooey and your head grows fuzzy in a way not dissimilar when you’ve had your fill of dandelion wine but it’s better. 

“I have,” you croon, your eyes glazing over.

The headboard creaks loudly with Lisa’s movement, slamming against the wall in heavy thumps, “Mhm,” Lisa grunts, cursing under her breath. Her lips are too pretty for such filthy words, “The best and only for me, right?”

“Uhuh!”

It’s all you can muster up between the bare breaths that clog themselves in your throat and pleasured sighs. Lisa is unsatisfied, her hips nearly still as she peers down at you with a pointed expression. Frustration claws at your throat and you’ve half mind to bare your teeth and snarl at her for snatching away the threads of bliss.

“All yours,” you moan, the ravenous hunger is close to subsiding, “Only for you, I’m all yours Lisa.”

You both knew it was a false promise built upon a mountain of lies but as the two of you chased your bliss, it didn’t feel like it was. Honesty is all that either of you see through the hazed mist and sex filled air. It was a pleasant mirage that disguised the cruelties of society.

Streaks of red taint Lisa’s perfect skin, they’ll fade in two days' time but for now, they were there and they were proof that this wasn’t just some far fetched reverie that filled your lust-addled mind on a rather lonely eve.

“There will never be anyone else for me.”

Tears prickle at your eyes but you don’t feel sad. You’ve never felt as good as you did in that moment, pleasure washing over you and turning your limbs to stone as exhausting settled in. Lisa’s lips twitched into a melancholic smile, a heavy breath passing through her lips. She gazed at you for a moment, her eyes sweeping over your face before she laid back on the bed beside you.

Tomorrow, insecurity will poke itself into the side of your rib cage to take root in your lungs until you choke on the feeling. For now, her silence soothed your frazzled mind as she settled beside you, her arm looping over your stomach. Resting her head on your shoulder, she places one last kiss on the underside of your jaw before settling in for a restful slumber. 

You stare up at the top of the canopy, trailing over the vine printed pattern. 

Tomorrow none of this would exist.

You’d settle with the knowledge that while the only person your heart has room for was someone you could never, you’d love to see another day and eventually you’d find peace in it. Even if your heart sank with the knowledge that Lisa did not return the sentiment. Her lack of words was proof enough but you’d grow to have enough strength so it did not destroy like it would have. 

But, that was tomorrow's thought.

Tonight you sunk your teeth into the forbidden fruit that would taunt you for the rest of your days. You’d relish in the knowledge and feed on it during the harsh winter months and perhaps you’d feed again if the Gods were in your favour. For now, you let your eyes flutter shut and let the soothing embrace of sleep wrap around you much like she did.

It would be enough. It had to be, Lisa was never yours to keep and you had known it from the moment you met her.

“Good night, my sweetling,” she whispers into your soft, sweat-soaked skin.

She knows it too, all too well– as the future queen she cradled the realm between two careful hands, all but you. Anything she desired stood but a fingers brush away but you would never linger as close as you did this night, it was far too dangerous. Lisa was familiar with letting go, she’d have no trouble keeping you at arm's length and locking away the memories for the rare moments of indulgence. This was not the first time Lisa has had to put duty above all, it wouldn’t be the last either. There would be another Jean, another you, someone who captures her heart for a short while and brings to fruition all the hidden desires on a lust-filled evening when it all boils over and is inescapable. 

You weren’t special, perhaps Jean was and whoever comes last. She was the first, young love was unparalleled and could never be replicated.

Lisa has long since fallen asleep when you find your voice once more, “Good night, Lisa.” You whisper into the dark of night, skin pimpled with goosebumps.

“I won’t ever love anyone the way I love you.”

You’re speaking to no one in particular, Lisa cannot hear you and Barbatos has better things to do than listen to the languid murmurs of a lonely person– there are far too many of those across the expanse of Teyvat, their woes must fall onto deaf ears because they’ve grown boring.

“But, if I’m half as strong as you, I’ll carry on.”

You weren’t but you could wear the mask because if Lisa taught you anything, it was to pretend to be someone you would never be. And you’d grown to be quite as good, even as good as she. Lisa was just that good of a teacher. As sleep beckoned you into her comforting embrace, a second skin slithered over your body and pressed into your curves.

Tomorrow, you’d be the image of perfection the court and your family willed you to be and that would be enough for your aching heart. True love belonged sealed between the pages of parchment, in paragraphs of children’s tales and romantic ballads sung by drunk bards looking to charm a lady. There was no place for it in the court of Mondstadt or within House Minci– lofty positions and grand riches could not be won by those distracted by childish whims.

To be of royal or even genteel blood was to be tortured, but the two of you would persist as hundreds and thousands had before you.

“I must.”

© all content belongs to dearbraus. do not modify, repost, or redistribute.  

[bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus]

American Werewolf In London and Guilt

Ah... where to begin with American Werewolf? I love that film so much, it's humorous, it's gory, it's bizarre at times, and it's got some cracking special effects by the legend Rick Baker.

However, what also enthrals me about American Werewolf is the way it portrays David's guilt. He quite literally has the ghost of his friend, Jack, who didn't make it, haunting him, telling him he should have been the one who died by going on about what a mess his funeral was as well as how miserable limbo is. Jack then goes on to tell David he needs to die. His newfound lycanthropy is going to cause further disaster otherwise. Jack implies David doesn't deserve to live. When David slaughters some more people during his "carnivorous lunar activities," he encounters their ghosts, which too tell him he should do the world a favour and die. You could see the ghosts as sort of a form of David's inner thoughts. More importantly, they're manifestations of his guilt. Jack is the guilt of the survivor, the one who made it, who just happened to make it, while the other ghosts are David's future guilt as a result of future mistakes, which join forces with Jack to haunt David, to demand he join Jack like he should have.

Isolation is also a big theme in American Werewolf. David is literally isolated, an outsider, a tourist in England. His support network and family are back home in America and he can't return until he's fit to travel. He's trapped and surrounded by strangers. Although he does manage to find friendly and romantic company in nurse Alex, he's still alone in an unfamiliar place for the most part. Alex does help David a lot in his recovery, but she also dismisses his distress at first. She only realises the severity of the situation when David almost loses it, harassing a policeman to arrest him, screeching that he's the one who killed the victims in the paper, and when someone else, aka the doctor, tells Alex that there must be something more than trauma messing with David's mind.

David is essentially left to fester with his guilt until it's too late; until the full moon appears. It's an explosion! The breaking point if you will. David's inner beast, inner emotions which he's bottled up and buried in the hopes of getting better faster, come rushing out in this tsunami of blood and violence.

Because, unlike those around were to believe, David is not crying wolf. He's been traumatised, he's in pain, and he needs someone to believe that his dead best friend is a ghost haunting him.

When it reaches that breaking point, only then do people start confirming their suspicions that something's wrong. However, it's too late. David doesn't want help anymore. He's moved on. He's accepted the isolation. The werewolf won, and David, in the final act of the film, has been consumed by his guilt.

I love the final scene where Alex tries to reach out to him. It's an ambiguous one. Everyone has their own interpretation. Some people think it's a part of David surfacing before the beast resumes control and lunges at Alex. Others believe it's David surfacing and remaining, choosing to lunge at Alex so he can be shot, feeling as though he is past the point of no return. Both are valid and I think both feed into the same idea of being consumed by your guilt. Either way, whether the wolf takes over or it's David choosing to be put down, David still dies and he dies pushing someone away because he's afraid for what might become of Alex otherwise. It's the guilt. The guilt of losing his best friend, the guilt of killing those victims, the guilt of remaining alive when the ghosts demand he end it all in the name of preventing further pain and suffering.

The wolf is guilt thriving.

I love a lot of werewolf films, but American Werewolf just does it for me. I always love it when people look at the werewolf as a concept and see something they can do with it to make it their own. Werewolves are such ancient monsters, and they can mean different things to different people. So, yeah, that's my little ramble about American Werewolf.

[lemonhemlock]

Hi hope you're having a good day / night from where you are 💛

I'm curious what do you think Daeron and Alicent’s relationship was like because I see some say that Alicent probably didn't care much about her youngest son, and that's why She sent him to Oldtown personally I feel like that's not completely true because in westeros it was common to send your son's to be a Lord's ward and Daeron was 12 i think when he's sent away so he's not a baby by westeros standards lol

Also what do you think would have happened if either Daeron or Aemond lived ?

hi & thanks! hope you are doing well, too🍒 honestly, this "alicent doesn't like daeron / is ashamed of him" narrative is pure fanon, thought up by people who maybe don't really understand the medieval ward system. fans are free to imagine what scenarios they want but there's no support for that in the text. as i've said before, sending daeron to oldtown is not a punishment.

if either daeron or aemond survived, then it complicates the succession after the dance bc it would go jaehaera -> daeron/aemond -> aegon, son of daemyra. i've argued before that it makes no sense for the greens to disregard jaehaera. she's their elizabeth of york and also has a dragon, which is not a given for targaryen princesses (check out how many of jaehaerys' daughters did not have dragons). she's important. there's more in my jaehaera tag, as well as my thoughts on giving her a mental disability as a narrative get-out-of-jail-free card.

anyway, with a surviving green targaryen male, there's no way aegon the younger gets to ascend, save for the complete military obliteration of the targtowers. but now you have conflicting claims between the greens. jaehaera becoming queen is in accordance with andal law (a daughter comes before an uncle) but she's also a child and vulnerable. she's the only remaining targaryen girl and has also lost both of her brothers who could have served as her future husband. so imo it would make sense to marry her off to her surviving uncle.

now, this gets further complicated by aemond's relationship with alys and his betrothal to the unnamed baratheon girl. whether he married alys or fathered a child with her is not presented as historical fact by westerosi historians. the show will obviously have to choose one option because aemond can't exist on screen in a state of quantum uncertainty. but that doesn't change the FACT that it's left ambiguous in the books. anyway. if he got married, it's a marriage without documents and witnesses, so the legality of it is up in the air. how a fic writer exploring this scenario chooses to resolve this is up to them, but they should bear in mind that the nobles / allies of the greens would not easily accept a bastard nurse as their queen / the prince regent's wife. again, ship what you want, but romance =/= political wisdom & stability. imo the politically savvy choice in accordance with targaryen customs in the asoiaf universe would be to just marry jaehaera and compensate the baratheons in some other way for breaking the betrothal.

ofc with daeron it's all easier bc he's unmarried

in addition, if we're already altering the ending so much, it's important to note that there is no reason for alicent to die here. GRRM nerfs her via westerosi covid only bc he wants a clean slate moving forward for aegon iii's rule. but it's a deus-ex-machina ending for her arc. she's nowhere near death age and is not sickly.

[ganet]

Thoughts on Versus' (potential) relationships: Kiva & Zaybi

Original post

WARNING: SPOILERS!

I find them rather fascinating. In fact, the more I read Versus the more similarities I see in them. Certain scenarios also play out similarly for them both, which is interesting. They obviously have their differences as well, but those only help keep my interest in them. (This also has made me ship them a bit, since the soulmate trope is one of my weakness. And I know there is a big age gap between these two, and one huge thing is that I usually don't like those with my personal fav ships so I hardly have such ships. However, there is something going on with these two that I keep my eyes open for, that is, if there is more for them in the future.)

Style

One thing I find rather funny is the sense of style they both seem to have. You can see it's important to them, and in Zaybi's case ONE even mentions it in his notes. A gentleman killer demon with victorian gothic style (I presume, do correct me if I am wrong), and a human mage who wants to be "fashionable" (which is why he doesn't wear the mage robe normally or why he has those trinkets around his neck).

Here's Zaybi's and Kiva's character sheets by ONE, translated:

Captains

Chapters 1, 16, 2 & 11: They have similar ranks/class in their respective forces (captain).

Light VS. Darkness

Chapters 2, 14 & 12: Other characters compare Zaybi to a guiding light in the darkness, the Sun, the one who gives hope in dire situations. VS. Kiva who is a demon, the despair, the (natural) enemy, leading the demons and being the one who deliberately went on his way to destroy what little hope humans had.

Shield

Chapters 12 & 13: They are forced to use similar techniques to protect oneself (or in Zaybi's case; every human).

"Dying"

Chapters 12 & 16: Similar "dying thoughts". We are shown their hands. (They are also both then "saved".)

They also seem to think about the one person that's important to them before the "(presumably) ultimate death in the hands of Madalans" (with Kiva) or "thought he dies in the hands of the Parasite" (Zaybi).

Chapter 15: Kiva leaving the demons in his lord Jachi's hands before going for the final pounding.

Ambiguity

Their situation is also currently left ambiguous in the manga. (We aren't shown Kiva die, and the chapter 16 left Zaybi's situation open as well. Although, it possibly will continue in next chapter or change the pov to another character. However, his situation probably will remain uncertain for the time being.)

It is also notable how some of their similar situations happen in chapter order. (E.g. Kiva's "final moment" in ch 15 VS. Zaybi's "almost final moment" in next chapter. Or Kiva protecting himself in ch 12, and Zaybi protecting every human in ch 13.)

Now, more about what happened in chapter 12 between these two:

I actually felt something happening between these two characters before I read chapter 12 even, so it did surprise me a bit how sharp my instincts have been about this when Zaybi decided to save Kiva. Although, it is not explained what spell he cast on him, but Zaybi's fellow mage was surprised.

There's something I like about this next panel, since I like how Zaybi is calmly just telling Kiva to calm down despite being struck by him. (He also quickly put up a shield to protect himself.)

I honestly don't blame Kiva for hitting him away, since he did technically (almost) die, and suddenly you are "resurrected" and wake up surrounded by your enemies. Seems like Zaybi understood this.

And then I really like Zaybi's little smirk at Kiva. I do wonder how many humans have actually just smirked at the guy and not shown only anger or fear (which is understandable considering who Kiva is and what he has done to them).

Zaybi's gamble at helping Kiva really paid off since the demon did leave the humans alone (for the time being) even though he would have done worse. This really opened up an interesting situation for their (potential) future relationship, whatever that may be (if possible).

Other chapter(s) thoughts:

Not to mention that Kiva has wanted to off Zaybi's precious little brother few times now, and we know he will lose his light if he loses Hallow.

Chapter 14: Gyuta's final words to Hallow about Zaybi.

But, I do think if Kiva survives, he may have changed some of his views about humans.

Chapter 15: Kiva finally understood how difficult it is to muster your courage.

This thing about bravery and Hallow seems to (presumably) also reflect on chapter 16 with Zaybi. These panels could be either him being scared or he knows the danger and his instincts are telling him not to help the woman (which would have been the correct decision, as cruel as it first sounds).

Bonus thoughts:

Kiva was a small little demon when he got recognized by Jachi. Look at those small wings and the clothes are so small as well. (He looks also fairly short here.) It's told that he was born into a high-class demon clan. Although, he seems to have had some kind of skills (child prodigy?) if Jachi recognized him.

Chapter 12: Kiva reminisces about his life while dying.

Zaybi didn't seem to have born in any high-class life. He does seem to have been some kind of child prodigy, and other mages think of him as some kind of genius.

Chapter 14: In his last moments, Gyuta tells Hallow about Zaybi.

I have noticed they both are (battle) smart and can instantly act during the battle/dire situation. They are observant as well, moving with a plan/certainty. However, when there isn't any plans or things don't go according to a plan, they seem to react to it in their own way; Zaybi seems to be stuck (or internally panics), and Kiva loses his cool when he is really annoyed. This still doesn't usually stop them in the end, which I like. After all, Zaybi has a responsibility as mage captain to help the humanity survive, while Kiva's responsibility as a 11th division's captain of the great demon king army is to make sure demon lord Jachi will triumph and the demons will survive.

They also are the ones who have decided to support those important to them (Jachi for Kiva, and Hallow for Zaybi). And they seem to stand right between these two archenemies' - a hero and demon lord.

I am really interested to see where this particularly story will go.

[viihelii]

If you had the chance to change something about the dance of the dragons (TV show or book), what would it be? For example, how a character dies, which team a house is on,or an entire character personally. How would you change it to make the story better, in your opinion?♥️🖤💙💚

sorry for the late response, but you made my whole day 🖤💚

MAJOR spoilers for future seasons of hotd !!

tbh this is such a hard question because my first instinct is to save my favs and have rhaenyra peacefully ascend the iron throne, but i'll try to be realistic about it😭

i feel like in terms of the story, baelon living would've prevented the dance entirely. rhaenyra has stated before that she would be content with her father having a son and potentially being overshadowed by her brother. ("i hope for my father that he gets a son. as long as I can recall, it's all he's wanted.") baelon would've been named heir at birth, and i suppose rhaenyra would be expecting it and not care as much about being replaced, since this is her mother's son and not her best friend's + she'd be too caught up in her own grief to worry too much about baelon. she'd rightfully be bitter for a while, with her mom dying and now her father completely overlooking her in favor of "the son he's always wanted," but the guilt would catch up to viserys at some point and they'd (hopefully) reconcile.

with the succession secured, viserys wouldn't feel as much urgency to remarry and sire heirs, meaning he could either wait until laena was of age and then marry her to secure an alliance with the velaryon's, or double down on marrying alicent. if he did decide to move forward with marrying alicent, since there'd be no ambiguity surrounding the succession, his sons with alicent would be considered second to baelon, the same way they are presently second to rhaenyra. if baelon survived to adulthood, his father would eventually die of leprosy at 52 and he'd ascend the iron throne as baelon targaryen, first of his name, king of the andals and the rhoynar and the first men, lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm. no dance, no dying of the dragons, no collapse of the targaryen dynasty. the end.

but obviously grrm loves the drama, so if the story plays out exactly how it does in the show, i'd say the one thing i'd change about the dance is jace's death. his death during the battle of the gullet was a HUGE hit to the blacks and they ended up losing one of their most valued commanders, a dragonrider and rhaenyra's eldest son and named heir. afterward, rhaenyra was purely driven by vengeance and was intent on reclaiming king's landing. as a result, people on dragonstone began to resent her for the losses they suffered during the battle and its aftermath.

jace did so much to benefit the blacks, and his actions aided his mother's cause long after his death (the pact of ice and fire, the hour of the wolf, etc) + he'd genuinely be such a good king with baela as his queen :( i know a lot of people think there would be some kind of glorified bastard uprising plot against jace in order to usurp him and force him to answer for the crime of bad hair color, but the aftermath of the dance left the realm in such desperate need of peace that they were willing to accept the ten-year-old son of "maegor with teats" as their new king. if jace had lived to the end, i'm assuming the majority of lords and smallfolk in westeros would be more than willing to forgive the bastard allegations and herald him as a hero and their rightful king. the small council would probably insist that aegon iii would be the better fit, but i'm quite sure when faced with this situation, the realm would prefer to have a seventeen-year-old war hero on the iron throne compared to his extremely traumatized younger half-brother

[kiichu]

20 Questions For Fic Writers

not tagged by anyone, i just found it and wanted to do it :3

How many works do you have on ao3?

60

What's your total ao3 word count?

523,261

What fandoms do you write for?

According to Ao3: Zero Escape, Legend of Korra, Gotham, Dangan Ronpa, Daredevil, Skyrim, FNaF, Frozen, Hazbin Hotel, Life is Strange, Logan, MCU, Nope, Saw, Spider-Man, Squid Game, The 100, FATWS, The Jungle Book, The Walking Dead Game, The Wolf Among Us, Uncharted, Animal Crossing, Zom 100, Ace Attorney

Top five fics by kudos:

Out on a Limb

Smoke and Mirrors

GNAWING

Anodynes

Electric Sheep

Do you respond to comments?

For the most part! Sometimes I don't really know what to say in response, but I appreciate every single comment I get. Like, I adore them all.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

(spoilers lmao) It's a tie I think, between Out on a Limb (in which Troy does die, but he saves Clementine and repays his debt, being remembered for the good choice he made in the end) and Electric Sheep (Dio and Luna's fates are left ambiguous, it's unclear if they're alive but at least they're together wherever they are)

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Any of the fluffier fics tbh, but a special mention for Taken by Storm. It's the last fic of the Nope series, and it shows that the gang is recovering from their ordeal and have hope for the future.

Do you get hate on fics?

I mean, I've seen offhand comments on Twitter, but honestly I haven't gotten any hate on Ao3 at least. :)

Do you write smut?

A tiny tiny bit. It's very rare. But we have Stay Classy for a direct smut thing, with like two other fics having references to sex. It's not really something I like to read or write, and have to be in a ver specific mood to write.

Craziest crossover:

I don't write crossovers haha.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Oh god I hope not. Or maybe I do, maybe I want my old deleted (see also: gone forever) fanfiction.net fics to resurface somewhere.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes!!! Electric Sheep is being translated into Polish. Here's the link: Elektryczne Owce :]

Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Nah. Not my thing.

All time favourite ship?

Dio/Luna. Always always always <33

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I... dunno. I have a few that probably won't ever see the light of day, but I'd rather make that decision and leave it at "everything might one day get posted, but I don't know".

What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm pretty good at descriptions, and putting out my best work possible. The latter is a result of my OCD not letting me post something without passing a very strict self-imposed "quality filter," but still. It does show in the final product, stressful as it is to get there.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Sticking with something. Sitting down and writing. Also making more happen in scenes, with more dialogue.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I've tried to pepper in some Russian in both Out on a Limb and it's just blood under the bridge for the Russian characters, and also some Spanish in Vencido, but it's all Google translated haha.

First fandom you wrote in?

Yu Yu Hakusho :]

Favourite fic you've written?

It'll probably always be Out on a Limb. I worked so hard on it and I reedited it all and made it into a book through a website (I own the only copy so it's not illegal or anything).

I'm tagging anyone who wants to do this!! :]

[tomwambsmilk]

i feel like there is hope in the finale though? the siblings (at least rome and ken and con) are out of the company and out of the ‘cage’ and there is some freedom and hope in that. they have a better chance at being happy then they would have if they stayed in the company. kendall can either die from it or be reborn. rome seems content. the worst thing happened and now they can move on if they choose

Yeah I agree! I do think there's hope in the finale! But I think the edit is deliberately structured to downplay that. I don't think that when we watch the last couple of minutes, we're supposed to think of those things as including glimmers of hope. I think they're deliberately written and performed and cut and soundtracked to feel bleak, or feel like the end of the road, or like proof that these characters won't ever change, particularly because these are the final moments of the show, which turns them into a sort of thesis for the show as a whole. (Especially on this show, which has always been so careful about its final moments, and the producers have talked about choosing final shots deliberately to convey key themes and ideas from each season). With Tom and Shiv we end on the not-handholding, emphasizing the new power dynamic in the relationship (particularly Shiv's lack of power) as well as the death of any real trust or affection between them. Roman maybe has the most ambiguous ending, but even so, we end on him alone in the bar with the martini, which is a reminder both of the loss of his relationship with Gerri and by extension the loss of the potential to be a different kind of person than he is. With Kendall, we end on the water, something which has always been a symbol of death for him - physical, spiritual, and moral. With each of them, the impression we're left with at the end of the show, the moment which becomes the show's ultimate thesis, is one of spiritual death and personal decay. Even the decision to end in the immediate aftermath of the board meeting, rather than adding some kind of brief coda which would lift the characters and audience even marginally out of that emotional intensity and despair, indicates what the audience's main takeaway is supposed to be.

And Jeremy Strong's latest interview (on the podcast I think?) indicates pretty clearly that this was intentional. He talks about the episode as an 'extinction level event' for Kendall; he also talks about questioning some of the choices as being too bleak or cyclical but ultimately relenting because he felt this ending was more truthful to Jesse's vision as the characters being trapped in "a doom spiral" or "a silent scream". In the 'inside the episode' Jesse acknowledges that there may be a future for these characters, but ultimately emphasizes that, in his mind, there is no coming back from the events of the show. So this isn't something that I'm projecting onto the show - I really do think you're supposed to walk away with bleakness, not hope.

And I just disagree with that as a worldview, and personally I think it's not even true to the actual worldview that plays out in the show, which (in my mind) has always included glimmers of hope. But then again, that interpretation is very much rooted in my own worldview. That's where it's sort of difficult to articulate my criticism because I don't think there are any serious artistic or narrative flaws in the finale. It's literally just that I disagree with the philosophical perspective Jesse has brought to this show and these characters, and so I don't like that he chose to emphasize what he did in its final moments. It's not even that he made a bad choice - he didn't! - it's just that I disagree with what it is he's trying to say.

I also don't think that choice negates the quality of the finale, btw. I do think the entire sequence of events, including the boardroom implosion, is a perfect ending. Mark Mylod talks about the inevitability of this ending, and I think he is right, and it does highlight a lot of the core ideas that have always been present in the show. I don't even dislike the final shots in themselves, all of which I think communicate key information about the characters. And I don't think I would object to this ending if there were another season, because the existence of another season would provide implicit hope. Really and truly the only thing that doesn't work for me personally is that this is where they've decided to end the entire show (and by 'this' I mean specifically those 3 shots), because that choice has philosophical implications that I fundamentally disagree with.

[megashadowdragon]

Yu -Gi-Oh! Theory: Seto Kaiba Invented Synchro Summoning youtube comments 

The ending of the movie is left intentionally ambiguous and Takahashi has not confirmed either possibility. He specifically said that his illustration represents, "...just one possible future story." There is no canonical answer to whether or not Kaiba lived or died at the end of the film and likely will not be unless NAS, Konami, and Studio Bridge ever decide to use the character again in a future movie or series. This theory video is based on one interpretation of the film's ending. If Kaiba lived in your head canon, enjoy! I hope he Blue-Eyes'd the hell out of some people. But anyone leaving profane tirades in response to someone else's interpretation will be deleted.   Kaiba didn't die, that pod simulates a near death experience by forcing insane G forces on him so that he can enter the afterlife.  But since he isn't truly dead he's slowly fading back into the mortal world that's why he has that ash floating off him

[yupuffin]

And that's exactly why I'm so disappointed. 😫 The one time so far a major character has gotten a poignant, meaningful, and properly cathartic death, rather than being killed off suddenly in front of the player character for shock value, and it's for a death that, in all likelihood, may be reversed.

I think we're going to have to agree to disagree on the point about Aventurine's demise never being framed as an actual death, though, as multiple characters at several point in the story directly refer to it as such:

Upon 'shackling' him, Sunday tells Aventurine "he only has seventeen hours left to live"

Aventurine resentfully refers to the meeting with Sunday as the staging of an "execution"

Dr. Ratio points out that Aventurine's coworkers would "love to be notified of [his] death in due time"

Aventurine's 'future self' in the Dreamscape mocks him based on the fact that he is currently dying, and later tells him to "die without regrets"

Aventurine refers to the spectacle he instigates on the stage in the Golden Hour as "a truly grand death" (with the dramatic irony here being that his apparent intention is to kill the Astral Express crew, while we know from the previous quests as well as the flavor text of the boss enemy that his own life is the one he intends to wager)

The epitaph that follows the scene where Aventurine disappears into the void ends with "Until the denouement of all coming morrows kisses me, I have then embraced the quiet death."

I'm struggling to find any dialogue that definitively points to Aventurine telling his 'past self' that he fully intends to come back to life. There's a couple of parts in the banter with his 'future self' where he says things like 'someone's going to disappear, and it's not going to be me,' but these all occur before he actually gambles with his life and loses. In his final conversation with his past self, Aventurine says that he will leave the Dreamscape and 'prepare to face his family and make them proud,' but that's worded pretty ambiguously and doesn't seem to indicate a deliberate choice to come back to life, assuming he has any choice in the matter at all.

I think if you wanted to, you could absolutely go for a reading in which the above textual references to Aventurine's death are purely figurative.

Consequently, though, I think the cathartic aspect of Aventurine's death arc would be necessarily diminished, since it hinges on him being forced to confront, and ultimately come to peace with, the potential permanency of his demise -- which is precisely what bothers me about how Aventurine's death is set up in the story, if, from a narrative standpoint, it's quite possible that it's never intended to be permanent to begin with.

I'm hoping that, if Aventurine does get brought back to life, there can still be significant consequences for him, namely in terms of his character arc -- in the conversations with his 'future self,' we got to see a few references to his cocky demeanor being a ruse to hide a deep-seated inferiority complex, and I'd love to see that, for example, explored further.

The whole thing with Aventurine is good because it's devastating. (Notwithstanding the apparent fact that death is temporary in Penacony's dream, I mean.) We got this whole character arc of "Oh, this guy's clearly sketchy because he's trying to bribe you into liking him -- but then it's actually tragic because we find out that his self-esteem is so abysmal that he legitimately thinks there's no way to get you to like him other than bribing you, but at the same time, he wishes he could love himself" -- wrapped up with a nice narrative bow about him finding comfort in eternal sleep as he's no longer forced to confront a future he can't even begin to envision.

Like, on one hand, it'd be interesting to see where his mindset goes if he was made to go on living with the insight he gained over the course of a few internal monologue...

On the other hand, It'd feel like cheating if they just. Brought him back. What, you want me to grieve for two or three days, and then you want to say sike, like, whoa, you did all that grieving for nothing?! It just wouldn't make quite as much sense within the context of the narrative for me.

Sunday, though?!

I can't get over how the rapidly-switching camera angles in that cutscene remind me of the scene in Baccano! where a similar composition implies that the old conductor shoots the young conductor, but, several episodes later, it's revealed that the young conductor actually pulled a metaphorical Uno reverse card and, with the help of some fancy martial arts tricks, disarmed the old conductor and shot him with his own gun instead.

I think it would be HILARIOUS if it turned out that Sunday did something like that. I will believe that this is canon until it's disproved. 🤣

[stainedglassthreads]

I’ve already compared and contrasted Toriel and Asgore’s loneliness, and talked at length about Asgore’s tendencies to cling to the past, especially in Deltarune. But it’s just occurred to me that every single Dreemurr clings to the past, to varying degrees.

Asriel does so most literally and visibly. He had a number of terrifying and traumatic changes thrust upon him, and was then gifted the power to reset time... but never far enough to undo all that was done to him and get his ‘normal life’ back. He refuses to let go of the past, to let go of his best friend, to let the game end... but he finds it just as impossible to return to who he once was before dying and getting traumatized. 

Asgore and Toriel are interesting in that, while they both obsess over the past, they seem to do so in opposite ways. 

Asgore just wants the past back, exactly how it was. In Undertale, he dreams of seeing his wife and child again. When he’s presented the chance of adopting Frisk, however, he swiftly realizes that, due to his own actions and the present attitudes of monsterkind, this is impossible. In Deltarune, too, he asks Sans how to make Toriel feel the same way towards him that he once did. He seeks to forget all the horrible things that happened to return to the past, and upon being forced to confront reality, starts believing there’s only one way to atone for his mistakes. (Well, in Undertale. We’ve yet to see how DR!Asgore reacts yet.) 

Toriel, meanwhile, doesn’t seem to want her ex-husband back in her life, nor does she have the same drawbacks about what monsters will think if their ex-queen adopts a human. She fully acknowledges how monsters may wish to harm Frisk, while adopting them and pledging to protect them, and making plans for their future. Compared to Asgore, she’s ready to move on and forget the past. Perhaps too ready, as some of Flowey’s dialogue implies he feels she’s replaced him. 

Despite that, Toriel may not quite have moved onto the past. I forget where I read it, but I saw a delightful observation that Toriel may be trapped in a cycle of her own, desperately trying to prevent Chara and Asriel from leaving and dying, and failing again and again and again. A new human falls, a new human leaves, a new soul gets put in a jar by the Barrier. Perhaps, metaphorically, this shows that unlike Asgore, who is resigned to the promise he made, she’s still struggling to break the cycle, she hasn’t totally given up hope. If that’s the case, then it’s poignant that she’s the one to interrupt Frisk and Asgore’s fight. She may not be willing to forgive and forget quite yet, but she doesn’t want him to die or stew perpetually in misery, either. 

And finally, Chara. How much the past ways on Chara is left extremely ambiguous. To some extent, they continue to haunt the Underground through Frisk. We know that their own past on the Surface never left them, even Underground with a new, loving family. Most of Chara’s relationship with the tragedy and their past can be extrapolated from Flowey’s Post-Pacifist speech, I think. 

First, while the speech is directed at the Player, Flowey seems to believe he’s speaking with Chara. His behavior implies he thinks Chara would continue sticking around, because they’re worried about the friends Frisk made throughout their journey. His dialogue also implies that Chara may have had reset... but rather than abusing it, they wanted to destroy it. Which, in my opinion, matches up extremely well with the attitudes they have about consequences in their own No Mercy speech. 

Maybe Chara was haunted by their past on the surface, to the point it poisoned their chance at a fresh start and happy life. Maybe by the time the Barrier breaks, Chara is the most well-adjusted of the Dreemurrs, the most willing to actively fix the problems created by their plan and pass on without regrets. Maybe, like Flowey, they’re a lonely, traumatized kid who doesn’t want to let it end, who doesn’t want to say goodbye to their best friend again. Maybe a bit of all of them, or none of these things. 

It is interesting, though, to see how each Dreemurr is haunted by the past, and how they react. 

[semi-imaginary-place]

Yeah Ao no Flag is a romance manga but more than that its about the lives of highschoolers as the begin transitioning to adulthood and all the messiness that entails. I don't usually have patience for the drama of highschool romances and the will they/won't they, actually Ao no Flag is the only one I have read to the end which is a testament to its quality. I've heard this series compares to Kids on the Slope for its nuanced depictions of complicated emotions and highschool problems but I haven't read it so I can't say.

I kind of want to see a sequel about those 7+ years like I would have liked to see Taichi and Touma's relationship develop and yet that would also be a very different series than Ao no Flag which is specifically about the third year of highschool, college and the early 20's come with a host of different problems.

Maybe I'm reading too much into things but when Taichi met with Futaba for the first time in 5 years and found closure for their breakup, I think their talk about future he wanted to choose referred to Taichi planning on progressing his relationship with Touma. Earlier in the chapter we see signs of Touma and Taichi's cohabitation like the two toothbrushes and the page right after Futaba is a cityscape shot of Shibuya with the famous 109 building, Shibuya being one of the first areas to offer legal protections of any kind to same gender partners.

Futaba is the one to push Taichi to meet Touma in ch 52, imagine if Taichi being Taichi let that opportunity die and that relationship wither away by doing nothing. She pushes them to have a heart to heart alone. This is what I like about the main cast, they've all helped each other grow as people from Futaba being a little more brave to Taichi not running away from his problems and not letting what other people say get in the way of his relationships and happiness. Taichi from the start let his feelings of inferiority get in the way of his friendship with Touma. Thinking about it that way Taichi originally was attracted to Futaba because he left she was "on his level" as compared to Touma who was too good for him. He distanced himself from Touma in highschool because he felt inferior in comparison with other people treating him differently from Touma. It was Taichi that changed and pulled away from their friendship. By the end of the series we see him starting to overcome that and that's when he reaches out to Touma which contrasts the begining of the series where is always Touma reaching out to Taichi.

I do hope Masumi chose her husband because she awakened to realizing that while she likes both women and men and not because she thought conforming would make her happy, but either way she seems happy with her choice in the end and that's what matters not how she got there.

I can see how people might have been blindsided but reading through while knowing the ending, Touma was always important to Taichi and there were hints the attraction was mutual from the paneling to how Taichi looked at and viewed Touma. Through ch53 KAITO leaves Taichi's relationships unresolved, him and Futaba are still kind of awkward around one another and he's only then actually communicated with Touma, everything is left ambiguous and I love that because it hints at hope without making anything concrete and is a great tone to leave the main story on. Futaba and Taichi breaking up is pretty realistic, not many highschool romances actually last. It's the first serious relationship for both of them and that's usually about learning about yourself and growing as a person and also a relationship many people also grow out of. The cast in people's lives aren't stagnant, we are always meeting new people, bonds wax, wane, and change forms. It has been years of course they have all met new people. In a way the epilogue reframes the series as an old highschool memory. The emotions and struggles at that time were real but Yokki was right in the greater scheme of things you're career path is more important than any of highschool dating drama going on.

One of the main themes is people's choices. People should make their decisions regardless of what others think and should pursue their own happiness which looks different for everyone. What future someone wants to choose is theirs to decide. We see this through the cast making many choices (some of them bad choices) and those are tied up in personal circumstances that an outsider has no place judging. Its repeated multiple times how the effects of someone else's choices are something another person has no control over so there's nothing for that other person to feel guilty about. With this in mind the ending to Ao no Flag was very appropriate, its an open ending and we learn nothing concrete. The epilogue is so far in the future (over 7 years, it could be 15 for all we know) that we the audience have no right to judge where the cast is in life because we know nothing about those years. Personal relationships are just that personal, and it doesn't matter that other people think about it. All the readers who were angry at the ending prove this point again, the characters went and did what they wanted regardless of what the audience thinks.

[dangermousie]

Heroes Death Derby

Well, we have eight eps left and it’s clear that most of our characters will drop like flies. So, here is my odds-of post on our future corpsicles...

The Chancellor, the two Jail Psychos and his Guard (with the awesome name of 13 Doom) - 100%

They are bad guys, they are 100% dead, the only question is who will do them in. I really hope their deaths are vvvv gruesome and that WXS finally achieves his dream of taking out the Chancellor. If I had my druthers, I’d love to have BCF to take out two jail psychos before his own inevitable demise but I will settle for any kind of murderation for those two.

Marquis Fang Ying Kan - 100%

Man is a rapist, a murderer of WXS’ father and has long conversations with skeletons. His brain is half rot and half rabid weasels. He’s 100% a goner. I’d love for Lei Chun to be the one to do him in, second runner-up to be SMZ because that would be a truly epic fight (and they in-canon mention that if those two fought, the outcome would not be clear) but I think it will be WXS.

Su Meng Zhen - 100%

Much as it pains me, the man has enough death flags on him to be a one-man parade. He’s been coughing blood and collapsing the entire drama, he’s already lived past the age the doctors thought he would and he needs peace and quiet but all he gets is shock and heartbreak. The only question I have is whether he will die like La Traviata, dramatically collapsing while beautifully spitting out blood or in battle. Whatever happens, please please don’t let him be killed by Bai Chou Fei or Lei Chun because I won’t be able to take it.

Bai Chou Fei - 100%

If I were a betting person, I’d bet he’s the one whose ashes WXS has in his saddlebag in the prologue. The moment he got tortured into evil and became the sexiest murder zombie to walk the earth, he signed his death warrant. I’d give even odds to him being slain in battle with WXS (for that extra gut-wrenching factor - what finally broke him was the believed loss of WXS, to now be killed by actually alive WXS after he irrevocably went evil because of that loss is in line with a drama from the man who directed GMP) or killing himself after achieving a brief moment of clarity and realizing what he’s done.

Di Fei Jing - 75%

You know he’s gonna take on the person who he thinks assaulted his sister and die. Gorgeous secondary characters in evil sect don’t have long lives. But there is a small chance he can be left to run the sect as the sole sane person in it.

Lei Chun - 70%

She went full on evil so normally I’d say she’s a goner except I think she has a decent chance to survive because living a long life all alone, after all the people who loved her have been killed and she can blame herself for that is in a way the most brutal punishment. Side note - sure sure SMZ killed her Dad but it was an accident; she should have taken a leaf from Li Qin’s character in The Wolf. That woman had to cope with the fact that her OTP killed her Dad, and deliberately at that, and quite reasonably went “well, but he’s hot! And he’s willing to compensate for my loss of relative by helping me make new ones!” What a waste to have SMZ at your beck and call and do nothing with the man!

Wen Rou - 60%

She’s sweet, she’s loving, she’s functional and she’s WXS’ last light in a dark world. I don’t fancy her survival odds. Not to mention that WXS in the prologue doesn’t really look like a man with a loved and loving wife at home. But it all depends on how truly old-school Heroes is. If it was an 00s drama, I’d say she’s definitely dead. As is, not the best odds for living but here is hoping.

Lei Mei - 50%

She can live or she can die taking a knife for BCF or similar. She clearly loves him (and if he still had his sanity, it actually could have been a really good eventual couple. BCF needs to discover it’s better to be loved devotedly than love unrequitedly.) She has morally-ambiguous girl dying for a main written all over her. But maybe not - maybe she will finally be like Sul Hwa in Chuno, who took the freedom and life lessons Dae Gil offered her and despite loving him, went on to a new life after his death.

Wang Xiao Shi - 5%

He’s in the prologue, miserable but alive. 5% only because this is totally the kind of narrative you can see him walking off and an arrow hitting his throat in the last two minutes.

Yang Wu Xie - 5%

He’s gonna go mourn on SMZ’s grave like Hachiko.

Anyway, two weeks and we will see how good I am at predictions :P

[heavenunderthemoon]

Olly, Olly, Oxen Free {Hotch x daughter!reader}

Warnings: PLEASE, be advised of the SEVERE mentions of gun violence, murder, death, etc. This is a heavy piece, so please, please, please, do not put yourself at risk to read this, if you would like to know the plot without reading let me know and I will accommodate as best as I can!

This is set in “100″, so, daughter!reader is currently trapped with foyet in her childhood home. Alright, enjoy. 

"Y/N."

You sprung from your place on the floor, watching your brother retreat past the living room, his feet happily climbing the old route he used to take in the childhood home he was raised in. You  doubted he forgot it so soon, even with his young age. This was the house they had made home. Over the last year, you would've done anything to be back in this house, surrounded by the memories of your past life. The life in which you weren't forced into the witness protection program, abandoning all of your friends due to a serial killer hellbent on destroying your father's life.

Your hand reached out, gently grabbing the cellphone extending from the hands of your mother's.

"Dad."

You forced herself to sound calm, composed. Sitting only ten feet from you was a man who had previously shoved a blade into your father's abdomen just to prove a point. You figured seeming weak wasn't particularly a good idea.

There was the hum of an engine, one that you knew well. When you was younger- much younger- you used to wait up for you father to come home from cases. Most nights you fell asleep before he came back, but on the rare occasion you actually made it past midnight, you could hear that very same hum of his government issued SUV pulling into the driveway, subsequently causing you to dart out of  bed to jump into his waiting arms. It never mattered to you that you would receive a scolding from your mother for not going to bed at a proper time, not when you would see the smile that grew on her father's face when you accomplished your goal.

That smile, so rare and so blinding, hardly even captured in pictures. Your father was a tired man, a hardworking man, a dedicated father, but all of his good qualities had hardened into stone from the heat of his job and sometimes you feared that eventually, even you might not be able to crack that tough exterior. It seemed silly, sure, but your mother used to be able to find the chinks in his armor, used to make him laugh and smile and love and then one day she couldn't and who was to say that it wouldn't happen to you too?

"Y/N/N, I love you, you know that?" He used the nickname Jack had accidentally given you. When he was just learning to talk, the boy was unable to fully pronounce your name and you had been stuck with it ever since. You used to hate it- or, at least pretend to, but you could never yell at Jack. The boy was too good at absolutely melting you.

Your father's voice, which was typically strong and gruff, came out a bit cracked. It filled you with a sinking feeling. If your father wasn't composed then how the hell were you supposed to be?

The man who hoisted you on his shoulders every Fourth of July to see the fireworks better, or grabbed every spider that made you scream for your life. The man who taught you how to swing a baseball bat and then immediately yelled because you whacked him right in the knee. A fearless, strong, admittedly taciturn man that was making abundantly clear the ambiguity of your future.

You swallowed down that fear, you couldn't afford to be afraid right now. Y/E/C  eyes looked up to your mother. She was still beside you, looking at her daughter as if trying to engrain every single facet of your face in her mind, burning the image of her daughter into her memory.

"I know, I love you too." You didn't know how you managed to keep your voice so even but to anyone listening it sounded like a normal conversation. She could almost imagine they were sitting at a dinner table (something they hadn't done in a year because of the Witness Protection Program).

Pass the salt. She would've said.

"I need you to listen to me carefully, Bug." If you hadn't been so worried that you might die soon you might've found yourself scolding the man not to use that nickname anymore. After your friends had slept over in seventh grade and heard your father use it you were teased relentlessly, but now you didn't mind it. You didn't mind your father using a nickname you hated. You didn't mind a lot of things now that you were facing death, serial killer breathing the same air as you and your mother, standing in your living room, staring at you with cold, calculating eyes.  

It's funny how little things matter when death enters the picture.

"Remember when I taught you to drive?"

Your eyebrows furrowed, and you glanced to your mother, trying to keep your face void of emotion.

You hadn't learned to drive. You had begged your father, of course, but he had said no. You remembered the fight that had ensued, his words loud just to overpower your teenaged protests. "There's no use learning to drive when your mother's here, sometimes me, and the metro, it's useless. It would do you better to learn something more useful, like shooting a gun."

Oh.

The sinking feeling returned in the pit of your stomach. Or maybe it just never left. Your eyes hardened with resolve over what you knew her father was asking you to do, and you nodded.

"Yeah."

A tiny breath of air left your parted lips, and even with the confusion laced on her mother's features and the amusement playing on Foyet's, your mind cleared a bit.

Frontside. Trigger press. Follow through.

"I'm a terrible driver." You murmured to her father. Your hand began to sweat at what he was asking of you. You recalled the shooting lessons. It had been a year or so ago, the man wanting you to be prepared for anything and then he had been shot and you hadn't seen him since. Even with the little practice, you hadn't been too bad, but this was nothing like the shooting range. This was pointing a gun at a killer and hoping to anything that was good and holy that you didn't miss. Even so, who said you could get to the gun before Foyet got to you?

"You're good enough."

Good enough. You wanted to scream.

Foyet rose from his spot on the floor, and Haley stiffened in her place.

"I think that's good enough, right, Y/N?" The way he moved, eyes trained onto you, alight with a kind of...mischief? Yes, mischief. Like an adolescent boy who just found his father's stash of fireworks. His body moved like a predator. Refined, sophisticated, and calculated.

And, as he moved closer, you could smell him. He didn't smell like you thought a killer would smell. Though, to be fair, you hadn't ever given much thought to the scent of a killer. Maybe you thought that someone capable of such dirty, heinous crimes would smell as such. Like the rotten core would seep through their pores and become a putrid scent recognizable to those surrounding him. Instead, he smelt clean. Like laundry detergent and freshly washed hair. The hand that didn't hold the gun reached up, taking a strand of your hair into his fingers and running it through them deftly.

"Don't touch me." You pushed him back on instinct and, not seeming to expect such force, the man was shoved back two steps. Rather than cocking the gun right then and there, Foyet looked at you with interest and then, he did something you didn't expect. He smiled.

A laugh fell through his lips. It bubbled and boiled and hit your ears like nails on a chalkboard.

"Wow, you've got a feisty one, Aaron. I think she gets that from you, the old ball and chain over here is a bit of a whiner." He chuckled to himself like he said the world's funniest joke, and you glared.

"Leave them alone." Your father may as well have been on mute because the killer paid no mind to his orders.

He breathed in a deep sigh, looking at you with those same bright, calculated eyes. Then, as if coming to a consensus, tilted his head. "How about this, how about you go hide, I'll give you a head start, and then I'll come find you."

You could feel her mother bristle from beside you, quiet whimpers coming from her mouth. The hum of the engine played in the background, and the wind chimes on the front porch sang a tune with the breeze. "No." You said firmly.

Foyet pouted, going to stand closer to the two. With each step he took closer to the two of you, it felt like a nail going into her coffin. You could see the twitch in his hands, as if itching to plunge a blade into your mother's flesh, yet, you couldn't just leave your mother. You couldn't leave her to die.

"Ah, come on. You're a teenager- a teenage girl, no less, aren't you guys supposed to be fun?" His tone was teasing and coupled with his non-imposing figure, he shouldn't have been able to chill you with his words but the way his eyes bored into yours they did.

You felt a hand on your elbow, a nudge and you glanced back to your mother. Haley was smaller than you, it had been that way for about a year or so now. You had hit a growth spurt once you entered high school, inheriting your father's height, and it caused you to be a couple inches taller than your mother. Her eyes were filled with tears that were streaming down her face without care. You had seen her mother cry more than most daughters should.

Haley liked to cry at night, after putting her children to bed. She didn't think about how often you stayed up, listening to the sobbing on the other side of the wall.

A hand cupped your face, and you leaned into the warmth. How many fights had you two gotten in over the past year? You had always been a daddy's girl. He was never home, and it left your mother to be the 'bad guy' in most situations. And then, you all had been forced to pack up your lives and vanish. That year had been filled with nights of yelling at each other. Fights about small things. Like, your music playing too loud, or drinking too much coffee. And big stuff too. Like, you confronting your mother about having an affair.

Your relationship had been rocky. But, she was still your mother. She still reminded you to wear a coat when it was cold out, or washed your sheets when you felt sick. She made your favorite meals when you were sad, and bought  nail polish that she thought you would like. She was your mother, and you didn't think you would ever be able to ignore that.

"Y/N, go." Her words were stern, and it reminded you of a scolding. But your mother's lips were tugging at the corners, and she was caressing your cheek so softly that you thought you would collapse right there. Your heart clenched at the sight of your mother.

Would this be the last time you saw her? The thought made you want to scream, cry, and punch something all at once.

For the first time that afternoon, you let your mask slip. Your eyes welled with tears, lip trembling. "Mom, no." it came out shaky, and you didn't have to turn around to see Foyet smiling at the way he could make an entire family fear for their lives in a mere couple of minutes. You could simply feel it.

Haley nodded, both her hands cupping your face now, scanning it over and over again. Your eyes, a fierceness to them that mimicked her own. A button nose that sat above rosy pink lips. On your chin, a small scar. You were an adventurous child. You hadn't been afraid to climb the monkey bars despite being far too small for them and when you had fallen off, you had busted the skin open. Haley remembered being panicked, seeing you covered in blood, rushing you to the hospital, to find that you were calmer than she was. That's how you always were. You were never scared. You were brave and fearless and kind and even if you played awful, punk alternative music that made Haley's ears want to bleed, you were such a sweet girl with a big heart. The mother stood on her tiptoes, kissing your forehead.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, trying to burn the memory of her mother's lips on your forehead in your mind. And when you opened them again, you tried to burn the image of your mother as well. Even now, red eyed and sniffling, your mother was beautiful. Everyone always told you, you looked just like your mother. Haley used to have blonde hair. It had passed her shoulders and you used to beg her to play hair salon because of it. She had cut it after the divorce and you had a suspicion that it was because she craved change. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, just like yours. It made her skin pull taut when she smiled. Her nose was soft and dainty- something you had always been jealous of.

What if you never saw your mother smile again?

Haley was nodding, nodding and patting the girl's cheek and it took you a moment to realize she was speaking once more. "Go, baby. I'll be okay."

No, you won't. You wanted to say. You wanted to let your body fall into your mother's arms and have the woman hold you like she did when you were a child. You wanted to feel your mother's hands run through your hair and hear the woman sing you to sleep. You didn't care how childish it seemed, you just wanted your mother.

Your shoulders shook and you fought to keep your emotions from consuming you.

"I- I love you." It was a desperate attempt at closure but it did nothing to make you feel better. It only made your mother smile.

"I love you too." Haley gave one final pat before a light shove and you felt numb. You couldn't feel yourself hand the phone to your mother, nor could you feel your feet move in the desired direction. Everything in you felt like it was simultaneously being doused in cold water and burned in hot flames. Your mind kept screaming at you to go back. Turn around, grab your mother and hope for the best but you could hear Foyet talking with your mother now and she knew that your father had told you what to do next.

It was weird.

All the nights you had spent in that stupid witness protection program, closing your eyes imagining you were back in your childhood home. You would pretend you were back in your room, waiting for your father to come home. You would pretend your mother was putting Jack to sleep and you would pretend that everything was normal. Now you were back and everything was wrong.

Focus.

After teaching you how to properly use a gun, Aaron had told you where one could be found in cases of dire emergencies. Your feet stepped lightly, moving as swiftly as you could. The laces on your converse slapped against the sides of the shoes and you silently pulled open your father's nightstand. It hadn't been touched since you all had moved out.  It was normal upon first glance. A couple of papers, reading glasses, sleeping pills. You knew better.

You pulled at the string on the bottom, the false top giving in immediately and revealing the silver .38. You grabbed for it, cocking it as quietly as you could. The weapon was heavy, yet, familiar in your hand. You thought that in a time like this you would be more shaky, but all you could focus on was your mother's quiet sobs from the living room a whole story down.

The sound gave you hope. If she could cry, then she was alive. You pushed on with that thought in mind, rounding the corner. Just before you could head back downstairs and possibly take down Foyet, you heard it.

Gunshots.

Your mother cried out the first time, but it was completely silent after the second two. Just the light thud of a body hitting the floor.

You bit down on your cheek to keep herself from screaming. The taste of blood followed soon after. Your hand rose to your mouth, attempting to muffle the cries that attempted to escape.

"Y/N!" A sing song-y voice called out. There was a thumping sound on the stairs and after a sickening moment, you realized it was the sound of your mother's body hitting the wood. He was dragging her up the stairs, wanting to display her just how he liked. Your eyes burned and you let the tears fall down your cheeks without care. They dripped off your chin, falling onto your shirt. It was a band t-shirt. Your mother hated it, said that the swords were too violent, but she allowed you to wear it anyways.

You darted into the closest door- Jack's old room- eye's scanning your surroundings for a plan. Whatever Foyet was doing, you knew you didn't have much time until he was coming after you.

"I just wanna play, Y/N. Come out, come out wherever you are." He sang out. He must've taken your mother- your mother's body, you corrected yourself bitterly- to your parents bedroom. With a chilling realization, you remembered you had been there only moments before. He was close to you.

Your eyes landed on the closet, overflowing with toys, even months after not being in use. Jack tended to get whatever he asked for- not that he was spoiled, he was just hard to say no to. It wasn't difficult to squeeze into it, leaving the door open a crack. The gun sat in your hands ready and waiting.

You steadied the sound of your breathing.

How was you going to tell Jack about mom? Well that was a bit optimistic, now, wasn't it? Presumptuous of you to think you would live through the next five minutes to be able to tell your little brother that our mother was dead, You thought bitterly.

"I think I'll lay your body right next to your Mom. You'd like that, wouldn't you? So you can be together?" He was in the hallway, and even with the barrier of Jack's door and the closet door, the sound of his voice made you shiver. It was smooth, charming, even. If you hadn't known he was a complete psychopath you wouldn't have given the man much thought. You wouldn't have thought him capable of doing the heinous acts he had done.

There was a creak, the door opening to the room and your arms rose slightly. Your eyes were peaking through the crack, your heart racing. You could see the man moving into the room, searching for his next prey- and that's what he thought you were. Prey. He thought you were an easy target. Everyone did.

Everyone thought you were just some stupid kid. Some people said it outright and others just assumed. You could tell when you first met your father's team, some of them had stereotyped you as well. They had asked her about school and about boys and gossip, because they assumed that was all you were capable of speaking about and then you had surprised them by mentioning books and Neo-noir films. You were accustomed to being underestimated. And you were betting your life that George Foyet was doing the same.

As soon as you saw the man move into the middle of the room, you sprung. The door flew open and before you could hesitate, you pulled the trigger. Pure shock could've been the reason, you were able to get out of the room. Or perhaps you had managed to shoot him in the head and end your family's suffering once and for all. You weren't sure because you were moving purely on instinct. Your feet carried you through the house, jumping over toys and broken chairs and bloodstains that weren't there before.

"You bitch!"

Okay, so he was alive. He was chasing after you but you didn't look back. You jumped into the linen closet, out of breath but not allowing yourself to pant as you wanted to. You could hear the slight groans of the man as he made his way through the house, though it was farther, as if he was walking in the wrong direction. You had slowed him down, that's for sure. The gun in your hand felt warm, like a pat on the back, but the thought of your mother's dead body lying somewhere in the house sat in the back of your mind.

Where was Jack? You thought briefly. You had to trust that he was safe. Trust and pray that whatever their dad had said to him had made sense. You hoped he couldn't hear anything that was going on. That he didn't hear the sound of your mother being murdered and you shooting the killer.

You  felt the towel shelf press into your back, but you didn't dare move anymore. You were sure Foyet hadn't died now. If anything, you might've made him more angry.

It smelled like fresh laundry in the small space and it reminded you of Sunday nights. Your father was usually home, cases typically being taken during the week and coming home Saturday nights. That's why you liked Sundays so much. You liked waking up to the smell of pancakes while your father played a Beatles album. He would sing into a spatula and twirl your mother around the kitchen. And Haley would laugh and tell him to stop, but she never actually meant it. And, when he noticed you coming down the stairs, he would take you in his arms- no matter how big and tall you had gotten, he never stopped doing it. He would spin you around as well and when you was little you would dance on his feet, but when you were older, your bare feet would touch the cold hardwood floor.

Your mother would do crossword and pretend not to notice that your father was giving not-so-subtle hints every so often. Your father would have you catch him up on what you had been up to that week, and you would have to help Jack read through the comics because he didn't really understand the jokes. Sundays were your favorite days because instead of being a separate family like they were every other day, they were all together and it felt normal.

You closed her eyes, trying to imagine it was Sunday.

A large clatter rang out, effectively snapping you from your thoughts. You could hear footsteps, fighting, yelling. It was hard to tell how long you waited in the closet, gun pressed to your chest. You could hear someone outside the door, light footsteps against hardwood.

The light on the bottom was obscured from a large shadow and you tried to prepare yourself. What would death feel like? Maybe you was selfish, or maybe you were a coward, but you didn't want to know. You wanted to stomp your foot and say that it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that your mother was dead. It wasn't fair that you were about to die. The door was ripped open and you extended your arms, about to shoot blindly, when you saw who was before you.

"Woah, hey, Y/N. Y/N, look at me."

You had stopped crying long ago, but your entire body was shaking. There was so much tension in your shoulders, it felt like somebody had tied you up entirely, slowly but surely squeezing the life out of you. You hadn't realized it before, much too focused in getting as far away from the serial killer in your house as possible, but when you had shot Foyet, some of his blood had splattered onto you. You could see it now that the light was on it. It sat on your hands, partially dried and partially wet. And you could feel some of it on your cheeks.

You wondered what you looked like.

Derek stared at you. Your eyes were wild, darting between the gun in your hands and the gun in Derek's. Your cheeks, flushed as they were, were painted lightly with splattered blood. The only evidence of previous tears were puffy eyes, but you hardly seemed weak right now. You seemed...feral.

"Y'N, it's me. You're safe. it's me, it's Derek. Put that gun down." It was strange. It was like you could see his lips moving, you could see that he was speaking but you couldn't hear the words. All you could hear was the sound of your mother's body hitting the stairs one at a time.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

"He's dead. Y/N, he's dead." The sound came back all at once. Everything came back all at once.

You could see people behind Derek. There were cops and medical examiners, flooding in and out of your childhood home. They all seemed to be moving toward the same place, all in the direction where you had fled. They were heading toward the body, you realized. The body of your dead mother. There was the faint sound of sirens, and there was chatter. You wanted to yell at them, scream for them to be quiet. And then you saw someone else.

Your father was coming toward you. He was covered in blood. Who's blood was that? Was that your mother's? Was that Foyet's? Movement caught your eye.

JJ was holding someone in her arms, he looked confused, pointing at his sister, eyes alarmed at the weapon in her hands and the Jaraeu woman seemed to be trying to turn him away. He was asking for you.

'Y/N/N?' He said.

Your shoulders dropped, the weapon falling into the Morgan man's waiting hands. You stepped forward. Despite your sudden awareness, everything felt like it was in slow motion. The world was moving with resistance, and you opened her arms, almost crumpling in relief when Jack squirmed away from the blonde agent and ran into your waiting arms. You scooped him into your arms, sitting him on your hip.

"Y/N!" Despite all the chaos around you two, you let yourself focus on your brother. He seemed fine. Confused, surely. He had looped his arms around your neck but his eyes squinted at the blood on your cheeks that hadn't been there before. His little eyebrows furrowed, and he reached one hand to poke your cheek. "Are you okay, Y/N?"

Jack loved you. Before you two were put into witness protection program, he didn't see you all too much. You were so busy with school and hanging out with your friends, that you hadn't even been home very often. Then, you didn't have much of a choice.

You  liked showing Jack your music- the clean versions, of course. He would scrunch his nose at certain metal heavy bands, but you assumed he liked most of them just because you did. He liked to play cards with you, and have your draw him funny sketches. And when he would have bad dreams, you never hesitated to let him sleep with you.

You felt multiple sets of eyes on you, your father pulling you into a hug. They all pretended not to notice you flinch. You kept your eyes on Jack.

"I'm fine." You took a hand, running it through the boy's ruffled hair from hiding god knows where. He giggled at the action, and you let your hand rest on his cheek for a moment. Your mother was dead somewhere in this house, her body laid across the floor, slaughtered. You swallowed down the rising bile in your throat.

"Let's get you checked out, yeah?"

[dragon-in-the-watery-bowl]

[Warning: Spoilers of Danganronpa Another and Super Danganronpa Another 2 under the Read More]

I'm pretty bored, so I decided to write what happens more or less on the endings of the Danganronpa Another Fanseries.

Danganronpa Another:

Event that causes the endings: Fake!Yuki recovers his memories as Utsuro and has to chose between "Hope" (Overwriting Utsuro's personality) and "Despair" (Let Utsuro's personality return and dissappear).

"Hope" (Bad) Ending: Fake!Yuki overpowers and eliminates Utsuro's personality, deciding to save the survivors and turn himself in after that, because of his crimes as Utsuro, but Akane breaks down and sends a Monokuma to kill him, with herself killing herself soon after. The fate of the three survivors is ambiguous (Fake!Yuki dies almost instantaneously from the attack, leaving the player in the dark of what happens next).

"Despair" (True) Ending: Fake!Yuki gives up and Utsuro's personality returns. He almost succeeds into making the survivors fall into despair and sends the Monokumas to kill them, but Akane has a change of heart and stops the attack. Utsuro tries to kill Akane, but AE!Yamato appears and pep-talks the survivors into having hope again. The Monokumas activate the self-destruct program of the island and injure Akane fatally (Because she was protecting Rei from the attack). AE!Yamato guides the survivors to the exit before shutting down and they escape, while Utsuro and Akane die when the island explodes and collapses. Before dying, Utsuro tries to use the Divine Luck to save Akane, but the only thing it does is leaving her a brain-dead body whose other organs still work as they should.

Super Danganronpa Another 2:

Event that causes Bad Ending 1: Sora and Akane discover the true state of their body and the fact that they're technically dead, and Akane shuts down. She comes face to face with both Utsuro and Sora. She has to chose between "Utsuro" (Giving up on the fight against AE!Mikado and go to the afterlife back to Utsuro) and "Sora" (Have hope and grab the last chance to save Yuki, and repent for her crimes, she has).

"Utsuro" (Bad 1) Ending: Akane gives up, causing the virtual world to remain shut down forever, stopping AE!Mikado, but, at the same time, killing both Yuki and Akane's body, causing the Divine Luck to die with them. The other survivors escape, but Iroha and Tsurugi's futures look really dark, because of Utsuro having blessed them with the Divine Luck at some point in their lives.

Event that causes 2nd and 3rd endings: In the trial, AE!Mikado reveals both the state of Yuki's real body and Sora's status as an AI and his puppet for the success of Killing Game and Utsuro's resurrection, causing both Sora and Yuki to break down, before sending everyone except Shobai and himself into fake words where their fantasies "become" reality. Sora's is the Killing Game never happening and her and Yuki having a happy life. In this fake world, she's asked with questions that she can answer with something related to the Killing Game (Showing that she still wants to fight AE!Mikado and save everyone), or something completely different (Showing that she wants to ignore the truth and give up, Yuki's life be damned).

"Denial" (Bad 2) Ending: Sora gives up and stays forever in the fake world, living a fake happy life with Yuki, and gets eliminated when the virtual world shuts down. Meanwhile, AE!Mikado kills AE!Utsuro and steals Akane's body (And stealing the Divine Luck in the process). The soldiers of the Kisaragi Foundation find him roaming the building, and is implied he uses the Divine Luck to kill them all. The status of Tsurugi, Rei and the survivors except Shobai is ambiguous (Could have been left permanently brain-dead because of the shutdown).

"Truth" (True) Ending: Sora believes that she gave up, but Akane's consciousness inside her forces to recognize that she didn't gave up, that the "Akane" in front of her is just a part of her, and that she's not just an AI who will do AE!Mikado's every whim, making Sora realize that she has the Divine Luck because of her connection with Akane's body. She liberates herself and the others from the fake worlds, and beats AE!Mikado and stops his plans, via asking Shobai to use the personality overwrite program AE!Mikado was going to use to steal Akane's body to transfer Yuki onto her body. Tsurugi, Rei and the survivors escape, while Sora, AE!Utsuro and AE!Mikado are deleted when the virtual world shuts down.