#his thread is more nebulous

[radiodark]

lest you think i'd done actual research let me assure you all i'd done in this case was look the song up on wikipedia, but to post what's there in full because it's interesting:

The supposed site of Bessie Bell and Mary Gray's bower, and of their grave, is recorded in a c. 1860 Ordnance Survey name book, with the following comments:

This grave is situated on the north side of the Almond, and about half a mile West of Lynedoch house. Bessie Bell, according to the common tradition, was daughter to the Laird of Kinvaid, and Mary Gray, of the Laird of Lynedoch. Mutually attached in strong and tender friendship they lived together at Lynedoch, when the plague broke out in 1645; and to avoid it they retired to a romantic spot called Burn Brae, and there lived in a Bower in complete seclusion. A young gentleman of Perth, an admirer of both, visited them for the purpose, it is said, of supplying them with food, but unhappily he communicated to them the very pestilence from which they had fled. Falling victims to the disease, they were, according to custom, refused sepulture, in the ordinary burying-ground, and slept together as they had latterly lived.

oops jk now i've done some actual research -apologies to this innocent post i'm dropping all this on, and here's a recording of martin carthy singing it if you're curious but not familiar.

There is also this letter from 1781 recorded in the 1822 Transactions of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. Child noted though that the year listed for the plague in the letter (1666) was likely off, since the plague didn't hit Scotland that year, and that 1645 was more likely.

and ooh the same Ordnance Survey wikipedia mentioned also adds the a description of the ruins of their of their home:

A small Brae in the woods about ¾ of mile west of Lynedoch celebrated for having once been the residence of Bessie Bell and Mary Gray. About the middle of this brae there is a heap of stones said to mark the site of their bower. The stones have been thrown there by visitors in order to do so.

So there were two landowners who contributed to the upkeep of Bell and Gray's graves- Major Barry, as he mentioned above, cleared the rubble, built up the graves, and added a stone marker. Not quite sure where this print hails from (perhaps by one C J Smith?) but it approximates Barry's description.

The other landowner was the very "love-made warrior" mentioned by the editor of Transactions of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland in the footnote, 1st Baron Lynedoch Thomas Graham. Graham's wife predeceased him by five decades, and in his grief he threw himself into soldiering and rose to be Wellington's second in command. Graham inherited Lynedoch from Barry in 1787 and at some point, finding the wall dilapidated, had it removed and replaced with a stone parapet and 5' iron railings circling the graves, plus he covered them with a slab inscribed with the words, "They lived, they loved, they died."

The stone was soon covered with smaller stones brought by visitors, but there are many images online showing the railing still standing-

Here is the most recent photo I've seen, shared by the Almondbank Tibbermore Church on fb in 2020- they wrote, "The grave of Bessie Bell and Mary Gray who sadly died of plague in the 17th Century.

As the plague passed trust that Covid19 will also pass."

One has to break their modern perspective when looking back at history. Not on awful shit, but business of life stuff.

What if the reason so many songs say people died of lovesickness or sorrow in songs is that people back then actually assumed shit like that. If you didn't die cause a horse kicked your head in, or you got shot with an arrow, or you didn't die one of the like, 20 diseases they had names for. There's tons of death records way past when you would think that amount to "struck down by god."

People just fucking died. If a girl was pining for her man all the time, why not just assume thats what killed ger?

[cacaitos]

like, again i also resign myself to recognize that basically to summarize most of the elements i tend to prefer are on berserk, and so (for the topic at hand) naturally I've grown to observe more the similarity and difference between casca and grifi at least on their sense of dedication. moreso bc they're an item rather than in the general sense than the general story does.

[sparrowlucero]

Even if a creator is a bad person it's still okay to like their work. People need to mind their own business.

Honestly it's not really that sort of situation. I'll actively defend Steven Moffat here.

There was a huge hate movement for him back in the early 2010s - which, in retrospect, formed largely because he was running 2 of the superwholock shows at once, one of which went through extremely long hiatuses* and the other of which was functionally an adaptation of an already well regarded show**, making him subject to a sort of double ire in the eyes of a lot of fandom people. Notably, his co-showrunner, Mark Gatiss, is rarely mentioned and much of his work is still attributed to Moffat (and yes, this includes that Hbomberguy video. Several of "Steven Moffat's bad writing choices" were not actually written by him, they were Gatiss.)

People caricatured the dude into a sort of malicious, arrogant figure who hated women and was deliberately mismanaging these shows to spite fans, to the point where people who never watched them believe this via cultural osmosis. It became very common to take quotes from him out of context to make them look bad***, to cite him as an example of a showrunner who hated his fans, someone who sabotaged his own work just to get at said fans, someone who was too arrogant to take criticism, despite all of this being basically a collective "headcanon" about the guy formed on tumblr. Some if it got especially terrible, like lying about sexual assault (I don't mean people accused him of sexual assault and I think they're making it up, I mean people would say things like "many of his actresses have accused him of sexual assault on set" when no such accusations exist in the first place. This gets passed around en masse and is, in my opinion, absolutely rancid.)

On top of that a ton of the criticism directed at the shows themselves is, personally, just terrible media criticism. So much of it came from assuming a very hostile intent from the writer and just refusing to engage with the text at all past that.

Like some really common threads you see with critique of this writer's work, especially in regards to Doctor Who since that's the one I'm most familiar with:

A general belief that his lead characters were meant to be ever perfect self inserts, and so therefore when they act shitty or arrogant or flawed in any way, that's both reflective of the author and something the show wants you to view as positive or aspirational.

An overarching thesis that his characters are "too important" in the narrative due to the writer's arrogance and self obsession (even though this is a very deliberate theme that's stated several times)

A lot of focus on the writer personally "attacking" the fans or making choices primarily out of spite.

A tendency to treat the show being different to what it's adapting as inherently bad and hostile towards the original.

Just generally very little consideration and engagement with the themes, intent, etc. of the shows

This one's a little more nebulous and doesn't apply to all critique but a lot of it, especially recently, is clearly by people who haven't seen the show in like 10 years and their opinion is largely formed secondhand through like, "discourse nostalgia". Which. you know. bad.

I think these are just weird and nonsensical ways to engage with a work of fiction. I also think it's really sad to see the show boiled down to this because that era of who is, in my opinion, very thematically rich and unique among similar shows, and I'm disappointed that it's often dismissed in such a paltry way.

This isn't to say people aren't allowed to critique Steven Moffat or anything, but the context in which he basically became The Devil™ to a large portion of fandom and is still remembered in a poor light is very tied to this perfect storm of fan culture and I just don't agree with a ton of it.

* I'm sure most people have seen the way long running shows and hiatuses will cause people to fall out with a show, with some former fans turning around and joining a sort of "anti fandom" for it while it's still airing. That happened with both these shows. ** Doctor Who will change it's entire writing staff, crew, and cast every few years, and with that comes a change in style, tone, theme - the old show basically ends and is replaced by a new show under the same title. As Steven Moffat's era was the first of these handovers for the majority of audiences, you can imagine this wasn't a well loved move for many fans. *** I know for a fact most people have not sought out the sources for a lot of these quotes to check that they read the same in context because 1) most of them were deleted years ago and are very difficult to find now and 2) many of them do actually make sense in the context of their respective interviews

[intuitive-revelations]

Theory: Something serious is up with the TARDIS

I had been wondering about this all series, but after Rogue today, it's finally been confirmed that something's going on with the TARDIS (on top of all the other arc threads going on!).

The moment I picked it up was in The Devil's Chord, where the TARDIS makes a strange groan and creaks after landing back in 1963. Ruby thinks it's from Maestro, but the Doctor says it's "something else". As of today it's happened again, twice! Once in the episode itself, once in the next time trailer. The exact same sound effect!

Someone on reddit pointed out a few weeks ago that this sound appeared even earlier too, in Wild Blue Yonder (notably also when we first saw Susan Twist, had gravity changed to mavity, and welcomed the Pantheon into the universe). Each time, it's also had attention drawn to it. Here's a video of each scene, followed by a direct comparison of each sound:

(I did have a quick glance to see if it appeared elsewhere, maybe even during Flux. As far as I can tell however, Wild Blue Yonder seems to be the only non-S14 appearance.)

What's more, going back to that Reddit thread, someone pointed out what the Wild Blue Yonder script says about this moment:

And then the TARDIS seems to moan. The Doctor fascinated. DONNA: Is it working? THE DOCTOR: I think so. Strange. He reaches out, touches the TARDIS, wondering. And that 'strange' will come back to haunt him, one day. But now...

(Suddenly the TARDIS freaking out over Donna's spill might make a bit more sense...)

So what the hell's going on?

Well, between a trailer scene and some news that just came out a few hours ago as of writing this, I think I may have an idea. Given it's based on trailer footage uploaded and then removed from YouTube, I'll put it below beneath a read more:

In a removed Disney+ teaser trailer we get two frames of the Doctor screaming out into space (with Mel behind him). Except it's not from "his" TARDIS:

It's the f*cking memory TARDIS!

And here's the thing. Not only was this trailer scrubbed from the Disney+ and BBC channels, but in the other trailers, this clip is entirely different! Not only is Mel gone, but the TARDIS interior is now Fifteen's own, and the TARDIS is in a different, generic region of space.

Just before this, we also see a similar nebulous region of space matching the unmanipulated clip.

But why on Earth is this such a big deal, that the BBC/Disney would go full MCU and give us a deliberately altered clip? The only previous time I remember Doctor Who doing this was for Series 10, hiding the plot point of the Doctor's blindness. It's not because of Mel, who literally appears in the released trailer. It's also seemingly not because of the background, despite it also being altered (unless the two moons are a clue with the planet being Gallifrey or something - the thought had occurred to me - but that's such a tiny detail, and we also only see one sun). Instead, it must be the Memory TARDIS. But why?

In-universe, I have no idea. On one hand I'd be delighted to get some answers as to its nature. Assuming it's connected to the groans we've been hearing, then it could be the TARDIS undergoes some sort of metamorphosis into this state? But we've seen the TARDIS change all the time, whether for safety, to recover or whatever. I also can't imagine general audiences are falling over themselves to find out the in-universe explanation for a Classic Who re-release framing device. Not to mention, apparently the sound will go on to "haunt" the Doctor...

...maybe the TARDIS straight up is taken out of commission in some way? And the Memory TARDIS isn't the same ship, but the Doctor's way of saving the day without her? Maybe even remembered into existence Fitz/Amy style?

Out of universe however, it's just been announced yesterday that we're getting more Tales of the TARDIS.

And not just more omnibus stories with past characters returning for in-universe commentary... but with Fifteen and Ruby! What's more, it's apparently a one-off, right before the finale (but, note, after the first part next week).

Which means it's important. Possibly extremely so, given the edited trailer scene. It might even serve as an interquel, given Fifteen and Ruby are somehow in it.

I've seen two common theories. Either a) it will be Pyramids of Mars, and we're getting Sutekh in the finale (presumably with Fifteen and Ruby partially because of bringing back Elizabeth Sladen obviously not being an available option - and even if you thought up another character, eg. Luke, I doubt Tom would be interested, at that point anyway), or b) it will be something tying into Susan returning.

Honestly between the remaining trailer clips (eg. sandstorms and dusty planets), a tease RTD supposedly gave in DWM, and an old interview with him where he supposedly floated the idea of bringing back a Classic Who for a finale and airing the original serial on BBC3 beforehand, I'm kinda leaning towards the prior, even though it wasn't at all on my radar.

However, this still doesn't actually answer what's up with the TARDIS.

It could quite literally be anything. However, here's a few ideas, some reasonable some weird, that I have come up with:

Old age / stress. This is a weird one, but oddly enough something I had thought of once in the past, and I just saw someone else come to the same idea on Reddit. The idea is that while the Doctor has a new regeneration cycle and now a good few years, if not decades or more, of rest and recovery, the TARDIS may struggling in it's own right (especially if it is somehow old enough to have once been the Fugitive Doctor's). However, while this could be something interesting to explore, and I think isn't entirely mutually exclusive with other options, I can't imagine going anywhere near a storyline of the TARDIS itself 'wearing thin'. Besides, if we did, I like to imagine it would have been foreshadowed with size leakage, as per Name of the Doctor.

Relating to the above, could it be something linked to the TARDIS splitting in The Giggle? However, the sound starts before then (not that that means much to the TARDIS, but still).

Laws of rationality breaking down. This one makes the most sense in a lot of ways, between the expanded universe (particularly Christmas on a Rational Planet) and Flux, we've seen the TARDIS cannot survive in an irrational universe. While time has stabilised for now, we're still seeing magic and other Old Time forces encroaching in on the Web of Time. I'm a bit torn with this one however, as while it works from a lore and writing perspective, plus matches with this starting in Wild Blue Yonder (right after the Mavity incident... interestingly), it seems odd it's not more connected with what happened in Flux? Why are the sounds and effects on the TARDIS completely different?

Something to do with the Doctor's fobwatch. In Rogue, the Doctor blames the sound on indigestion. We know we're getting more Timeless Child related stuff - could this somehow be linked to Thirteen dropping the Division biodata module deep into the TARDIS? Would be a weird time to pick this up though, and I'm not sure exactly how that would have had such an effect.

The most actually likely, but least possible to theorise about: it's something time-wimey to do with Ruby, the villain(s) of the story, and/or Susan Twist, especially given this started after her first appearance.

Regardless, I'm just excited to see what's up with the Memory / "Remembered" TARDIS, because it's seems we're about to learn something...

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Rapunzel, Rapunzel.

Pairing: Yandere!Vil x Reader x Yandere!Rook (TWST).

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Word Count: 3.0k.

TW: Loose Tangled AU, Prolonged Captivity, Violence (Magic and Physical) and Blood, Dehumanization, Imbalanced Power Dynamics, Vil and Rook Are Making Out In The Corner While Reader's Having The Worst Day Of Their Life, and Manipulation.

The arrows hurt more than the fall.

The fall, you’d been expecting. Rook might’ve been able to scale the tower with little more than a dagger, a few footholds chipped into the weathered stone, and a burning curiosity, but you weren’t so graceful, didn't have the luxury of the physique you might've, had you not spent the last eighteen months restrained to a handful of rooms. You knew that you wouldn’t have the time to be as careful as you needed to be, that you’d be fortunate to make it off of your windowsill before losing your grip, and when the time came to let go and pray you broke an arm rather than a leg, you were ready. You could brace yourself. You could see the threat looming ahead of you, and as Vil called your name in the distance, you were able to fall into its open arms of your own volition.

The arrows weren’t something you’d thought to ready yourself for. Vil’s poison, maybe, the weight of his newest curses being etched into the fabric of your being, but not a weapon, not the sting of piercing metal burrowing into the back of your shoulder, then the plush of your side. Even then, you did what you could to keep running, to move forward through the dense forest despite the jagged rocks and winding brambles cutting through the flesh of your bare feet. You didn’t know where you were going, let alone what to do when you reached your nebulous destination, but you didn’t have to. You needed to get away from Vil’s tower – that was it. You could figure out what to do next after you’d escaped him.

With that in mind, you pushed yourself to run faster, to ignore the pain racing through your upper body as you put a few more steps between yourself and the ever-shrinking tower that sat above the treetops, but even that was an effort cut short. There was a bolt of searing pain, a white flash playing across your vision. Your left leg was buckled underneath you, leaving you crumbling to the ground with a broken, ragged scream. You dug your teeth into your bottom lip, trying to swallow the sound back before it could force its way out of your chest, but whether or not someone heard you didn’t really matter. You’d seen him shoot hawks out of the sky mid-flight, thread darts through the eye of needles sitting yards away. Rook wouldn’t fire unless he had his target in sight. He’d known exactly where you were the moment drew his bow. This was just his way of letting you believe you’d ever stood a chance.

This was just his way of letting you believe he’d ever been on your side. 

You pulled your injured leg into your chest, fighting to hold back the pained tears welling in the corners of your eyes. You were tempted to stop restraining yourself altogether and cry until the agony subsided, but your hunter emerged from the foliage before you could start to truly wallow if your self-pity. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve approached you silently, been on top of your fallen body before you so much as noticed he was within arm’s length, but Rook made no effort to conceal his presence. If anything, he seemed to want you to know exactly where he was. There was a deep laugh, the muffled sound of a longbow being swung over his shoulder, the feeling of his body blocking out what little light the setting sun still hard to offer, and then, he was crouching in front of you. A gloved hand cupped your chin as he looked down on you with the same adoring, love-stricken expression he always seemed to wear. You’d always done what you could to return it, in the past, to think of it as a glimpse of sunlight in the darkness that was your life with Vil, but now, it was all you could do to glare and look away.

“Merveilleux.” He wasn’t out of breath, but his voice was airy – barely more than a whisper. His leather-wrapped knuckles ran over your cheek, just as slowly and just as adoring as they had on the day you met – the day you’d woken up to the first stranger you’d seen in weeks kneeling at your bedside, idly stroking your hair and complimenting your lovely (albeit, quite difficult to reach) home. You’d tried to warn him away, to tell him what Vil had done to all the other adventurers and heroes who’d so much as approached his tower, but he refused to listen. If Vil hadn’t taken such a liking to him, he’d be little more than a pile of ash you’d have to sweep up the next day, or better yet – another withering rose left in your windowsill to warn away the next intruder. Vil always did have a flair for the romantic, but he and Rook seemed to have that in common.

He'd changed, since that day. When you first met him, he’d been rough around the edges, his hair uncombed and his skin as calloused as it was burnt. His clothes had been nothing short of a travesty – threadbare and ill-fitting, repaired a thousand times over by someone clearly not used to mending. Now, he was just as much of an embodiment of Vil’s ideals as you were: his hair grown out long and restrained by a violet ribbon, his freckles faded and framed by neatly cut bangs, his clothes of all the same dark silks and pristine furs as Vil would’ve chosen for himself. He was as much of a pet as you were, really. The only difference was how enthusiastically Rook embraced his role and how desperately you tried to escape yours.

“In fact,” he went on, his eyes drifting to the arrows still lodged in your back, your thigh. “I don’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful. A damsel pulled from the pages of the most wonderful sort of fairytale, truly.”

“Go fuck yourself.” And then, with a half-choked snarl, “You were supposed to— I thought you were trying to help me—”

“Ah, the searing heat of rage! It shades the color of your eyes with such life.” Rook clicked his tongue, his grin taking on a wry lull. His hand fell from your chin to the collar of your blouse, toying with the mangled fabric as he spoke. “A poor dove, fallen from its nest. Don’t worry, petit oiseau – I’ll make sure you get home before the wolves find you.”

He moved to take you in his arms, but you did what you could to shamble away from him despite your limited mobility. It was difficult to speak, your ribs having taken the brunt of your initial fall and endured further abuse during his first volley of arrows. It was difficult to meet his eyes, knowing what he’d taken away from you, but you forced yourself to do both. You tried to remind yourself that it was still Rook, that you were still facing down the man who’d held you in his arms as you cried, who told you stories of heroes and villains and happy endings when you began to think you might die in captivity, but fond memories were difficult to recall when his arrows were still embedded in your flesh. “You said that— You said that the prince would distract the witch as her captive escaped,” you spat, already aware of how juvenile you sounded, trying your best to stumble through the same story he’d told you a thousand times. You’d taken it as a code, treated it as if you were both colluders in the same scheme, but an ever-growing part of you was starting to think that his stories had only ever been that – stories. “Why didn’t you distract him?” When Rook failed to answer, you bared your teeth. “Were you ever trying to help me escape?”

There was a beat of silence, of stillness. A rabbit rustled somewhere in the underbrush, a robin called out to its mate, and Rook sighed, shaking his head with the kind of humored exasperation a parent might show to a child who just asked about something very, very silly.

He didn’t just toy with your ragged collar, now, but caught it – taking it in his fist and pulling you upright. With his free hand, he took the shaft of the arrow embedded in your shoulder and pulled it free, the head catching under your skin and rendering everything it touched a bloody mess of gore and viscera. The same process was carried out with the arrow embedded in your side, this one accompanied by a searing burn, another second taken to twist the arrowhead free of your skin. You weren’t able to hold back your tears by the end of it, no matter how tightly you clenched your eyes shut, no matter how much it hurt to dig your teeth into the side of your cheek and will yourself not to break down in front of him, not to lose the last semblance of control you had, under Vil’s care.

“I never lied to you,” he said, as he took up the shaft of the third arrow – the one plungest deepest into your thigh. “You know what Vil would do if you didn’t return. I promised you a happy ending, and this is how I intend to give you one.”

With no hesitation, no effort to clot the blood flowing in thick streams from your gaping wounds, he pulled the last arrow free. You let out a fractured wail, doubling over and attempting to curl into yourself, but Rook was already there, already pulling you into his chest as you sobbed openly, freely. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him pull a hunting knife from his belt, the silver of the blade tinted a deep, shimmering violet. You went stiff, but there was little you could do. There was a flash of light caught on steel, a nick of pain in the side of your neck, and then, you were limp in Rook’s arms, quickly losing consciousness as he pulled you against his chest and started towards the tower.

~

You felt velvet against your cheek, first.

Crushed, cool, deceptively soothing – you recognized it immediately, an image of one of Vil’s favored robes surfacing in your mind against your will. Next were the bandages wrapped around your shoulder, your waist, your thigh, then the fur rug underneath you, that of some great beast a would-be hero had once brought to try and rescue you. Vil had wanted to mount the prince’s head on a pike at the base of the tower, but you’d begged him not to, and he’d taken the monstrous stead’s pelt as a trophy, instead.

You took a long, quiet moment to collect yourself, to bask in the last peaceful moment you were likely to have, but your tranquility was quickly interrupted by the feeling of a wooden comb raking through your hair and over your scalp, the teeth dulled by use and the shape familiar enough to make you shudder involuntarily. Vil’s airy laugh played in response, paired with the last traces of Rook’s muttering voice. A new addition, one that left the taste of bile rising up from the back of your throat. One you never wanted to acknowledge again. “I know you’re awake, little one. Might as well face the light now.”

He said that, but when you finally forced yourself to open your eyes, you found that was no light to face aside from the flame of a low-burning candle sitting on a nearby table and the silver-tinted glow emanating from your hair. Clearly, your unconsciousness hadn’t been a good enough reason for Vil not to refresh his eternal youth, tonight.

He’d positioned you as he always did – at his feet, on your knees, with your head resting in his lap. Despite how close you’d come to getting away from him, his expression betrayed no panic, only confident serenity and the slightest trace of smugness. As was to be expected of him. Vil found joy in very little, but somehow, he always seemed to take a certain amount of pride in your defeat.

Your defeat, and your horror. He’d calmed over the course of your captivity, but you could still remember how he’d lorded over you during your first days in his tower, how open he’d been about just how long he’d spent peering your lonely little life in your lonely little cottage, content in the knowledge that no company meant there’d be no one to exploit your magic. Vil hadn’t just ruined that, he’d done it with zeal.

“Raise your head.” It was a command, because Vil didn’t make requests. Reluctantly, you obeyed, and Vil took you by the jaw with one hand, brushing your hair away from your face with the other. Your hair was damp, your ruined clothes exchanged for a black nightdress, simple in design but impeccably crafted. You couldn’t bring yourself to be surprised. Vil’s standards for you were only second to only those he held for himself. It was more than likely that you hadn’t made it more than a step into the tower’s walls before Vil deemed you in need of one of his ice-cold baths and something more presentable to wear. “No cuts,” he went on, turning your head to either side. “But more bruises than I care for. Couldn’t you have been more gentle?”

You opened your mouth, but Rook answered on your behalf. You could remember, only days ago, being thankful beyond words to have a buffer between yourself and Vil, but now, you couldn’t say you felt anything beyond resentment. “The lasting evidence of a struggle can add a rugged undertone to one’s charm. And oh, if only you could’ve seen the way they struggled!” He was behind you, holding you up, on arm wrapped around your waist and his legs spread around you. He leaned forward as he spoke, his chest slotting loosely against your back, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. “It was fantastic, like watching a songbird with a broken wing struggle to fly. The relentlessness of desperation paired with the inevitability of its downfall - truly magnifique!”

That earned another laugh, a row of jewel-tipped fingers raked through Rook’s hair. “I’d prefer to keep my songbird in one piece.” And then, after a slight pause, “In spite of that songbird’s best efforts to snap its own neck, of course.”

You shrunk into yourself. You’d tried to escape before, to pick the lock on your bedroom or poison his tea or, on one memorable occasion, to steal the spell book he always seemed to keep at his waist, and there’d always been a punishment to accompany your misbehavior – a crop taken to your back or one of your few privileges revoked. You couldn’t imagine what he’d do to you, this time. You couldn’t imagine that anything could’ve been worse than finally getting out of his tower only to be dragged back and deposited into his arms. “I’m sorry,” you managed, eventually, with only the intent of lessening whatever rage he must’ve held for you. “I… Rook is right. It was futile. I shouldn’t have tried to run.”

“And?”

And? There’d never been an and, before. When you could bring yourself to offer an apology, he’d always either accepted it ouright, ignored you completely, or clicked his tongue and promised that hollow words wouldn’t be enough to prove your remorse. You pursed your lips, but made yourself force something out. Silence would be seen as disobedience, and further disobedience would only make things worse for you. “And, it was short-sighted. I wouldn’t have gotten very far, and even if Rook hadn’t found me, I don’t know where we are. I wouldn’t know how to fend for myself. I—” Your voice cracked, your vision starting to blur once more. “I shouldn’t have gotten carried away by stories and fairy tales. I’m sorry.”

Vil let out a labored, languid sigh. There was one more squeeze to your cheeks, and finally, he let you go, setting down his comb in the same fluid movement. There was a small smile, a tap to his thigh, and Rook drew back just far enough to let you push yourself to your feet. Your legs immediately gave out, but Rook was fast enough to catch you, close enough to lower you into Vil’s lap himself and drink in the appreciative hum Vil offered, by way of reward.

“That’s very sweet,” he started, once you’d settled against him. Rook continued to hover above you, but you did your best to ignore him. “But I want you to apologize to our dear hunter, too.”

Something bitter leeched up from the back of your throat. You opened your mouth as you turned to face Rook, but closed it as soon as you saw him, as soon as you caught a glimpse of that careless grin, those half-lidded eyes. For as hesitant as you were to approach him, you snapped toward Vil reflexively, unable to stifle your reactions. “But, he doesn’t use my—”

“He went through so much to bring you home.” He’d shot three arrows. He’d tracked you like a wild animal. He’d brought you back to Vil after promising that he’d help you get away from Vil – after promising that he’d make sure you got your happy ending. “And he’s been so patient with you, since he joined us. Not just anyone can bear your sulking.”

You tried to protest, but your voice caught in your throat. It was more disbelief, than anything – another variable you hadn’t thought would hurt quite as much as it did. Vil scoffed, and Rook gave you a sympathetic smile, and you sat there, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“He lied to me,” you managed, finally. “He said he would help me escape.”

Vil’s lips quirked downward. You saw his fingers twitch, his spell book pulse with a sickly emerald light, but rather than summon a poison-coated dagger or turn you into some chirping, cage-bound bird for the next day or so, he looked towards Rook, more trust in his eyes than he’d ever afforded you.

You felt sick.

“I said that our ending would be a happy one. The poor dove must’ve misinterpreted what I meant by that.” It would’ve been a mercy if the affection dripping from his tone turned out to be ingenuine. It would’ve been a mercy, to find out he was only ever trying to hurt you. “I hoped that I might be to stay with the two of you – at least for a time. If you think I might be a bad influence,” A flash of a grin, a length of blonde hair allowed to fall over one of his eyes, “Then I only ask that you allow me the time I’ll need to savor a death by your hands properly.”

There was a bark of a laugh, a sharp snap of Vil’s fingers. Your eyes dropped to the floor as Vil caught Rook’s tunic in his chest and pulled him closer, as he’d done with you a thousand times. Fabric rustled against fabric, mouths crashed into mouths, but you willed yourself to ignore it, to just bite your tongue and be thankful that Vil’s attention wasn’t centered on you. To be grateful that you weren’t the only one stuck in this cage, anymore. You tried to be grateful. You wanted to be grateful.

And yet, you couldn’t seem to convince yourself that Rook was a prisoner, rather than yet another lock hanging from the bars of your cage.

[nomazee]

dan heng x gn reader — 1.0k — HIGH SCHOOL AU, delinquent reader, you MIGHT be able to tell that i've been playing persona 5 with the way i wrote this, himeko is dan hengs adoptive mother SPREAD THE WORD, nebulous and ambiguous school setting

notes: my first drabble of what will probably be hundreds in the dan heng x delinquent reader saga... THANK YOU GWEN ( @tragedy-of-commons ) for entertaining me and my silly ideas , GUYS READ OUR BIG THREAD ABOUT THIS CONCEPT LINKED HERE i loved yapping about it and i cannot wait to write a million more drabbles for this concept OKAY!!!

warning for mild blood description but nothing really graphic, just the aftermath of a scuffle

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

Dan Heng finds you behind the school in a pool of your own blood, though—it’s less of a pool of it, and more of a steady drip drip drip through the fingers clasped over your bleeding nose. You’re scrambling to get back up on your feet at the sight of him, and he catches a glimpse of a stupid smile from behind the gaps in your fingers. 

Whoever beat you up—successfully, by the looks of it—has long since disappeared, and it’s just you and Dan Heng and your bloody nose alone in the grassy courtyard. 

“Are you serious,” Dan Heng deadpans, because this is not the first time he’s caught you like this and it surely won’t be the last. 

“You should see the other guy,” you joke back, the same way you joked a thousand times before and the same way you’ll joke a thousand times again. It was never funny, not in Dan Heng’s opinion, and each stupid quip of yours makes his patience run thinner and thinner. 

The sight of blood smeared across your face is sickening. It seeps into the cracks of your fingers with every attempt you make to wipe your lips clean, but blood clings and sticks and you never learn your lesson. Dan Heng sighs, the first of many, already swinging his backpack off his shoulder and rummaging through it to find his usual pack of baby wipes and gauze. 

It’s not exactly a daily occurrence, but this has happened often enough to train Dan Heng’s hands. He moves silently, brow furrowed and fingers shaking with hesitation—like he’s scared that he’ll hurt you, which is funny because you’ve already been hurt at the hands of someone else. If he lingers on that thought for too long, his stomach will start to twist, so he leaves it alone.

The damp cloth of a baby wipe is cool against his fingers as he swipes it across your face, his other hand firmly planted on your shoulder to keep you still. He clicks his tongue when you make a gargled sniffling noise, muttering a low stop that before you choke on your own blood. 

“Why so quiet?” you ask, still with that stupid smile on your face even as he pulls out a second wipe for your face. “There’s so much to talk about. Did you take that quiz in Gallagher’s class today? It was so bad! Half the stuff on there wasn’t even in the study guide.” 

“Shut up,” Dan Heng mumbles, loud enough that you can hear him but quiet enough that there’s no real bite to it. The shake in his hands has only grown, because there was so much blood dried on your face that it’s already soaked through the wipe and smears across the tips of his fingers, and it’s not just the sight of blood that makes him nauseous, but the knowledge that it’s yours. 

“Heng,” you say, something like a petulant whine in your voice, and he wishes god, for once, can’t you take this seriously, you’ve caused him so much grief in the last two months of knowing you and it’s a miracle that he hasn’t gone gray already. Your hand—still blotted with crimson, dried into rusty smudges—goes up to grab his. It’s pressed against your cheek, the half-dry wipe still in his grasp, clinging to your skin. Dan Heng holds back a flinch at how warm your hands are compared to his own—cold, clammy, trembling.

“It’s late,” you continue, voice still light but the weight of your words settling deep between his shoulder blades, “I have to walk you home. Otherwise your mom will think I’m busy beating you up.”

“Not—“ he starts, choked and face warming so suddenly that it makes his head spin, “—she’s not my mom,” and it’s an oversimplification, and not important right now, and soon he’ll develop an immunity to your distractions. “That was a lot of blood. You should be going straight home.” And he realizes he doesn’t even know where you live, doesn’t know how far you are from his home, how out-of-your-way it is to walk him home nearly every day. He doesn’t ask—you’d never answer. 

“It wasn’t that much,” you wave off his concern, “it stopped bleeding already. And my nose isn’t broken. And I’m walking just fine!” It’s one positive after another with you, and Dan Heng sighs again, already losing count of how many times he’s done it. 

There’s a moment where you waver, face tensing and wobbling, bloody lips bitten back for a second before that stupid grin is on your face again and you say, tersely, “What, scared you’ll get caught with me?” 

And isn’t that an odd way to say it—caught with me, spoken like it’s a curse. Like he’s paying penance by standing behind the school with you, your hand clasped around his. It takes every ounce of self-control for him not to drag his fingers down and wipe the blood off your face himself, staining his fingers and his heart. He wonders what it would mean, then catches himself, again and again, like he’s been doing for two months on repeat.

“No,” he says, urgent in a way that’s unfamiliar to him, like he’s trying to prove himself, dedicated in a way that makes him nauseous, the same way that the blood on your face makes his stomach squeeze. “That’s— not it. You can walk me home. But Himeko will— she’ll fuss over you, you know that. It’ll be annoying.” 

“Annoying?” you say, incredulous. “As if! I love that woman. I hope she has those almond cookies, you know, like the ones from last week,” because of course you walked him home last week, too, and Himeko spent thirty minutes making you taste-test every sweet thing she had in her cabinets all while giving Dan Heng an unsettlingly knowing look. He represses a shudder at the memory, and gives you an acknowledging hum. 

“Probably not,” he tells you, “she eats them all before I even get a chance.” 

“She wouldn’t do that if you told her they were for me! Since I’m her favorite person, and all.” And Dan Heng can neither confirm nor deny, but his finger twitches when it brushes against your hand as you walk side-by-side, and he thinks you might’ve hit it right on the money, whether you’re Himeko’s favorite person or his.

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

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[goodlucktai]

a bigger heart grew back

rise of the tmnt post-movie characters: leo & splinter, raph & splinter word count: 5k title borrowed from no hell by cloud cult

read on ao3

x

Splinter thought he had lived through all of life’s worsts already.

Losing his mother, estranging himself from what was left of his family, moving to the States as an orphan of his own making, falling in what he thought was love and losing his freedom as a direct result—

Years spent underground where he was forced to fight like a dog, an unwanted mutation that guaranteed his exile from society, that first bleak night in the sewers with nothing but the clothes on his back and four infants who depended upon him entirely and the utter conviction that he was going to fail them—

The resurrection of the Shredder, the collapse of Splinter’s home and the exodus of his children, the fear he had become unfortunately intimate with in those fraught hours—that his boys would become orphans, too—

Raphael’s escape pod opening and Leonardo tumbling out, eyes glassy and chest heaving with panic—sweet, sensitive Red covered in a fleshy pink parasite and forced to attack the siblings he loved more than life itself, those little turtles he had fussed over and carried and kept safe since he was just a little turtle himself—

But nothing compared to hearing the voice of his second youngest child as he prepared to end his own life.  

His precious Blue, who could sell water to a fish, bravely trying to convince his siblings that it was right for him to go. Already pulling away, beginning the vanishing act, even as Raphael begged him not to do it. 

All for that tiresome, nebulous greater good. As if any happy ending could possibly exist with Leonardo removed from the narrative. 

Splinter had thought he knew what pain was, but his heart, patchwork, secondhand thing that it was, had never broken like this before. He crumpled to the ground, and listened to Blue’s line on the comms explode into a strange whine and then static and then nothing, and it was over. 

His Blue would never crawl into his armchair for late night Spanish telenovelas again, Splinter realized. Would never wheedle and bribe and coerce him into chess matches, because he didn’t seem to know he could just ask and Splinter would play as many matches with him as there was time in a day for. Would never run from a successfully antagonized sibling and fill the lair with his ringing, infectious laughter. Would never fall asleep at the kitchen table over a medical textbook he pretended to be too cool for in the daylight hours. Would never effortlessly argue his twin out of the lab for dinner, would never lift Orange up on his shoulders to get a hard-to-reach mixing bowl because teamwork makes the dream work, would never painstakingly stitch together a ripped teddy bear for the brother whose fingers were too big to handle needle and thread ever, ever again. 

There is not a word for a parent who has lost a child. There is not a word for that particular flavor of grief that carves you empty at the same time that it fills you to the last hopeless, drowning inch. 

April sobbed openly beside him, her small, strong shoulders shaking. She had always been exactly what Splinter would have wished for in a daughter, and so the Hamato curse didn’t spare her, either. It takes and it takes and it takes. 

And then Michelangelo turned his back on despair and handed his family a miracle. 

Splinter could feel his remaining sons’ ninpo stir and then surge together, and the sheer forceful brilliance of it staggered him from all the way over on the other side of the city. He knew better than to hope—but he also knew that nothing existed in this world or the next that could possibly outstubborn his children, or strong-arm them into abandoning each other, or quite frankly make them do any single thing they adamantly as a group did not want to do. 

“Guys,” April choked out. “Talk to me, what’s going on? Hello?”

Thudding footfalls announced Casey approaching at a run. He jumped over one of the pinned Krang’s flailing tentacles as if he dodged ballistic alien parts every day of his life and skidded to the ground beside them on armored knees.

“I felt it,” Blue’s child from another life gasped, face tacky with half-dried tears. “That’s Uncle Angie opening a door. No one else could do it but him.”

Casey had a familiar katana at his side, blue and gleaming. His fingers seemed like they wanted to linger on the hilt but he handed it over to Splinter agreeably enough. The lingering ninpo in the blade usually welcomed Splinter warmly, eager to be of use, a telling mirror of the way Leonardo himself was so anxious to please and be praised. But this time the tool that Splinter picked up was an innate, lifeless thing. 

He prodded tentatively with his own qi. The runes flickered once, half-hearted, in the manner of a dog waking at the sound of a key in the door, ascertaining the person there was not the one it belonged to, and laying its head back down to sleep. 

Splinter would not be able to follow the whims of his son’s ninpo to create a portal while it lay dormant. His own uselessness crushed him. 

“Raph mentioned Staten Island earlier,” April said, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm and pushing herself to her feet, business-like and brisk because she couldn’t afford to be anything else. “I doubt the ferry’s running, and the bridge is going to be a gridlock nightmare, so it looks like we’re stealing a boat.”

“If your mother asks, I did not condone this,” Splinter said hoarsely. “That said, the marina is too far to run to, so first we are stealing a car.”

They were halfway across the river in a cruiser that probably wasn’t meant to sustain the sixty miles an hour April was pushing when that startling shout of their family’s ninpo finally started to fade into a soft-spoken susurrus. 

Before it was too quiet to make out clearly, he felt it: that achingly familiar mischievous blue energy, like a playful breeze flying above everything. Much smaller than usual, less spirited—giving more of the impression of a tiny tide pool creature hiding inside its shell than a smartmouthed sixteen year old boy with the whole world in his corner—but present. 

Alive. 

“Sensei,” Casey whispered. 

“They got him,” April said, a ferocious, not-to-be-trifled-with look in her eye, all but daring the universe to try to make her a liar. “They saved him somehow, I know it.”

They were both Hamato enough to feel it as certainly as Splinter did.

But the boys hadn’t thought to include anyone else in their immediate, hard-won victory—and in fact, the call Splinter, April and Casey finally received some ten minutes later was one of outright panic. 

“Dad, dad, are you there?” Orange’s voice warbled. He sounded all of fifteen years old and frightened in a way that set Splinter’s fur on edge instantly. “Dad, Leo’s hurt bad. He was awake a second ago, and talking even, but then he stopped making sense and just—just fell—”

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Purple added, high-strung and liable to start biting if one more thing went catastrophically wrong within a mile of his person. “I’m scanning him but I don’t—I’m not a doctor I don’t know—”

“Send the readouts to me,” Casey said quickly, pulling his mask down, its lenses glowing green as the interface came to life. “Sensei trained me in field medicine, I can help with anything short of an open-heart surgery.”

“You take after your father,” Donatello replied. “Irredeemable overachievers.”

That faint thread of gratitude in his voice would go unheard by anyone who didn’t know him, but Casey huffed a near-silent exhale, having heard it loud and clear.

What Future Boy had to share with them wasn’t great, but it wasn’t the worst it could have been, either. Leonardo had sustained a number of broken bones and soft tissue damage, the cartilage in his right knee was torn as if the joint had been viciously twisted, one of his cheekbones was fractured, and even his shell had suffered a few hairline cracks. Altogether, he was looking at a long recovery, not unlike what the survivor of a traumatic car accident might have had to look forward to—but he would recover. 

It wasn’t enough to prepare Splinter for actually seeing him. His Baby Blue, a tiny little thing in Raphael’s arms, with a face so beaten it was hard to make out the bright red stripe on one side. 

“Okay,” April said, voice thick with anger and hurt and love. “Okay. Everyone on the boat.”

And finally they were home, after the longest day in history. Casey confirmed his initial diagnosis, with the caveat that they would know more when Leonardo woke up. He insisted to an audience of grim faces that it was a very good sign Leonardo had been awake and coherent in the first place, however briefly. 

So Blue was disinfected and splinted and bandaged and medicated and then tucked safely away in the infirmary bed. Everyone else was seen to in short order. It was an easier task than it usually was, since none of them were remotely willing to leave just yet. 

Splinter made a mental note to call Draxum to double-check that Michelangelo hadn’t pushed himself too far in creating a gateway—the glowing lines on his hands had faded, and beyond an occasional tremor, he promised his family up and down that he was actually fine. Donatello’s shell was a quiet source of concern, but the only person alive who could harass him into a checkup without getting maimed for his trouble was currently very much out of action. Raphael’s eye was definitely infected, and blood vessels had burst when he’d ripped the parasite away, coloring the sclera an alarming red. 

The rest of the clan watched in some unspoken, exhausted wonder as Casey unthinkingly maneuvered around Leonardo’s infirmary as if he’d spent part of every day of his life there, knowing which drawer to find compression gloves for Orange in, locating topical pain reliever for Purple that he could apply himself and medicated eyedrops for Red in quick succession, before ultimately offering a bottle of extra strength Tylenol to April, who accepted it gravely. 

“You’re a weird kid,” she said. From her, it was a declaration of approval. “You better plan on sticking around.”

“Oh,” Casey said at length, surprised. Clearly, he hadn’t thought ahead to what the after of his mission would be shaped like. His gaze lingered on Leo’s little bundled-up figure in the bed, so full of love and grief for a man who didn’t yet exist, and Splinter thought to hell with it. The kid was as good as his grandson if you squinted. 

“We’ll find a bed for you,” Splinter said, some tiny corner of his mind free from screaming worry and bone-deep exhaustion already plotting where to make room for another subway car. “In the meantime, the sofa is yours.”

With that, five out of six children had been packed off to sleep. It took April and Michelangelo combined to pry Donatello’s hand from Leonardo’s, and subsequently his entire person from the infirmary. Raphael pulled a chair up to Leonardo’s bed and Splinter didn’t try to argue him out, knowing when to pick his battles. 

Red had a familiar look on his face, an elephant in the room that often went unacknowledged for both their sakes. That look that said you’re his father but he’s my kid, too.

He had earned the right. No one could argue that. Late night vigils were his wheelhouse and had been ever since he was about nine years old. When Splinter didn’t have to be quite so present—when he started to let the tired gray encroach more and more, when he stopped getting out of bed right away at the sound of a child crying—Red quietly learned how to tend fevers and stomach bugs and bad dreams. 

Soon enough, the boys stopped calling for daddy when they were hurting and started calling for Raphie instead. And their Raphie always came when they called.   

Which was why it must have hurt like a blade piercing clean through his ribs when Leonardo finally stirred at something approaching two o’clock in the morning, blinked muddy gold eyes open slowly, looked up at the familiar shape of his biggest brother beside the bed, and flinched. 

The world hadn’t ended yesterday. It was happening now instead.

Splinter had thought he knew what pain was. But life did not seem to ever run out of brand new lessons to teach. 

“Leo,” Red whispered, heartbreak obvious in every inch of him. His hand was frozen in the air between them, arrested right in the middle of reaching out. 

“No,” Blue managed, twisting around like he would attempt an escape the second he figured out where his limbs were in relation to the bed, IV be damned. The lines on the heart rate monitor started to crest dramatically. 

“Leo it’s okay it’s—it’s me, I’m not—I’m not going to—I would never hurt—” 

His voice strangled itself into silence. After all, at least some of those grisly black and blue marks around Leonardo’s neck were from him. 

“Papa,” Leonardo cried out, the call reaching directly into Splinter’s heart with hooks and yanking him out of his chair. “I want papa, please, please—”

Clambering onto the bed, minding all the hardware, Splinter placed a careful hand on his second-youngest’s feverish head to soothe him. 

He felt like an imposter, especially with Red still frozen like a statue behind him, but that part of his heart that had been smothered once, allowing his children’s cries for him to go unanswered and someone else to pick up the slack, was the loudest part of him now. 

There was physically nothing else he could do but stroke that bruised forehead with the pad of his thumb and tell him, “Hush, Baby Blue, your papa is here. You are safe. You are home.” 

Leonardo turned his face into Splinter’s hand, hiding as much as he was capable of. Raphael took one staggering step back, then another, then turned on his heel and fled the way Splinter had no memory of him ever doing before, infirmary door crashing behind him. 

Torn completely in two, Splinter summoned conviction from those ancient spirits housed in his soul and forced himself at knife point to be strong for his family for once in his goddamn life. 

“What are these tears for, silly turtle?” he murmured, the same way he had when Leonardo still mostly fit in the palm of one hand. Back then, all Leonardo wanted was to be held. He wondered if that was still true. “You are the safest little turtle who ever lived. There is no one left in this world who is stronger than the people who love you, don’t you know that? Your baby brother pulled down the stars for you. Your twin did not let go of your hand even once. And your big brother carried you home. You are safe. You are so loved.”

It was a nonsense litany for the most part, all true things said to someone who clearly was only absorbing every third word or so. But Blue stopped hiding his face at some point, eyes wet with tears he is even now too stubborn to let fall. 

Splinter felt as though he was looking at a childhood memory of himself, trying to be strong when it would have been better—kinder—to allow himself a much-needed moment of weakness. 

“You think you’re too grown-up to cry in front of this old man?” he said, gently pinching Blue’s cheek on the side of his face that hadn’t been crushed beneath a monster’s fist. “Try again in about a hundred years.”

Blue blew a tired raspberry at him. Splinter laughed, surprised at the show of spirit, his heart doing cartwheels at this proof of his irrepressible little boy unchanged by the close brush with tragedy. Winning a laugh from his father was enough to coax the ghost of a smile across Blue’s face. 

“How are you feeling? We have some water for you here. No, don’t sit up. Let me help.”

He really ought to let everyone know Blue was awake, but they had just gone to sleep. His other kids needed their rest, too. It had been a truly terrible day. 

And now that Red was out of the room—that thought dripped with oily, unpleasant guilt—Blue seemed to be in a more solid state of mind. He had winced as he tried to sit up for water, but if he didn’t have whiplash after a psychotic alien flung him around like a terrier would its chew toy, Splinter would eat his tail. There were none of the red flags Casey had warned him to be on the lookout for. The only thing Draxum had done right in his life was develop a mutagen that made these boys all but indestructible. Splinter would have to find the mental fortitude to choke out a thank you to him for that. 

“It has been a long time since a sick little turtle has called for me,” Splinter murmured, stroking Blue’s forehead around the bandages. “Normally you are all ready to fight each other to the death to monopolize Red’s attention.” 

It was only partly a joke. Leonardo gazed up at him, eyes glassy. It was hard to gauge how much of their conversation was sticking the landing and how much was somersaulting straight over his sluggish head. 

Then Leonardo said, “He hates me.”

“Pardon?” Splinter said stupidly. 

His son blinked, and finally fat tears rolled down his cheeks, soaking into bandages on one side, unchecked on the other. 

“He hates me,” Blue insisted. “He’s right. It was my fault.”

“No one hates you,” Splinter said, reeling. He’d been right here the whole time and yet somehow he was suddenly flailing about two miles behind. 

“You didn’t see his face. You didn’t see—and his eye—all because I—I couldn’t—” He sobbed, an awful sound, and turned to press his face into his pillow. Once he started crying he couldn’t seem to stop. The rest of his words stumbled out thick and choked and terribly sincere. “I couldn’t just—be what I was supposed to be. And he—and it was all my fault.”

There were few things Splinter regretted more than his fumbling of the leadership role. He had always known that Blue was too clever for his own good, that he had a head for strategy—as evidenced by his early mastering of chess, entirely outpacing Splinter’s own skill level by the age of eleven. 

Acknowledging that in theory and learning to trust it in practice were two separate beasts, but watching from the front row as his baby outsmarted Big Mama of all people left little room for doubt. 

On the other hand, Red was as solid and dependable as they came, the foundation his siblings built their whole lives on. As far as they were concerned, the sun only rose in the morning because Raphael hung it up there. 

But Splinter’s eldest son was prone to anxiety that tended to fall on him like a guillotine, a kill switch to his rational thought. The twins floated terms like ‘panic disorder’ and the entire family was well-versed in helping him through his episodes, but if even an ounce of the burden on his shoulders could be reduced, that could only help. 

Red would be happier and function better in a support role, where his top priorities would be to protect his little brothers the way he always had protected them, and to smash whatever Leonardo pointed him at. 

Splinter should have sat them both down and explained it. He shouldn’t have left Red to feel as though he had done something wrong, that he had failed somehow. And he shouldn’t have let Blue believe he would be shoved into the deep end and left to sink or swim.

His boys were little gremlins who thrived in chaos and learned best on the fly. Splinter had thought the surprise announcement would have been an utter shock at first and the new normal by dinnertime. They were always so much on the same page, so in tune with one another, that he couldn’t have guessed it would turn into the tangled mess of hurt and frustration and miscommunication and blame that it did. 

He should have stepped in the first time Red punched through a wall in a fit of anger and Blue laughed as though his biggest brother’s good opinion of him didn’t matter in the slightest. Instead he was a coward, unable to face them and admit his wrongs. He left his children to resolve it themselves and suffer in the meantime. 

He should have done better. Maybe one day he would learn. 

For now Splinter held Blue’s face in one hand and wiped it clean with a cloth in the other, patient with every new flood of tears. The last time he had seen Blue cry was the night the Shredder destroyed their home and killed Karai. There had been no time to comfort him then. 

He takes after his Gram-gram, Splinter thought, and tried not to resent her for it. 

“No one hates my sweet Baby Blue,” he said, willing the stubborn child to hear him. “Especially not my other sweet baby Red. You are a very confused turtle, that’s all. You will see. No one hates you.”

“You don’t,” Leonardo mumbled. “You’re not allowed to. You’re my dad. You don’t have to like me, but you’re not allowed to hate me. S’in the—the contract. You signed it. Legally binding. No arbi-arbi—”

“Arbitration. I would like to study your mind under a microscope. Maybe then I will have a hope of understanding these twists and turns it takes.” 

Splinter’s voice sounded nothing but fond even to his own ears. 

His children were all incredible people worth knowing, worth living for, and it was a very special joy to still be surprised after all these years by how much more he loved them today than he did the day before. To think about how much more he would love them tomorrow, even though it felt impossible to love anyone more than he loved them right now. 

“You are so important, Leonardo,” Splinter said gently. “To me, and to your siblings, and to your friends. We would miss you so much if you weren’t here. We all want to see you get well.”

“It’s not about me,” Blue said, wobbly and miserable and matter-of-fact. “I know it’s not. I have to make up for it. I’ll prove—prove—”

“You have nothing to prove. It was not your fault.” Splinter pressed Leonardo’s chin gently to close his mouth when he inevitably opened it to argue. “Hush. You did not steal the key. You did not open the door. It was not even your responsibility to stop either of those things from happening. You are a child. It cannot be any one person’s duty to save this planet on their own. That doesn’t even make sense.” 

Blue’s expression was becoming thunderous, which was silly and endearing, because his cheeks were still tacky with the remnants of his tears and half of his face was a swathe of bandages and without his mask he looked years younger than he already was. Splinter felt affection unfold in his heart like one of those absurdly big tropical flowers with petals the size of dinner plates, taking up more room than it was allowed and spilling out the sides and going on forever. 

“Can I tell you something else? Your brothers aren’t allowed to hate you either. It’s in the contract as well.”

“They do,” Blue said tearfully, face still screwed up beneath Splinter’s hand. But his eyes drifted in the direction of the door, and the wanting in them was plain to see. Splinter took matters into his own hands. 

“If I’m right, you must finish watching The Strange Return of Diana Salazar with me.”

His son took a moment to digest that, slower on the uptake than usual. Finally, he asked, “Don’t we have like a hundred episodes left?”

“I said what I said,” Splinter said sagely, then patted his cheek and hopped down from the bed. 

He found Raphael exactly where he expected to find him, sitting just outside the cracked infirmary door, a hunched over shape that seemed unwilling to take up a single unnecessary inch of space. 

Red stared up at him, unbandaged eye wide. 

“I don’t hate him,” he blurted. “I could never—I wouldn’t even know how.”

“I know, my dear.”

“Even if he’d done it on purpose,” Red went on. “Even if he stole the key and took it to the Foot and opened the door with his own two hands, I wouldn’t have done a single thing differently.”

Splinter had worried when the turtles were very young that Raphael would frighten one of his siblings accidentally. He was so much bigger than them and toddlers were not well known for their self control or emotional regulation. It was a lingering fear that Red would say or do something he did not mean in the heat of the moment, and alienate himself. That something would happen in a split second that would cause his brothers to grow up wary of him. 

It was an unfounded worry. Raphael was a quiet little boy, the last of the four to start talking, and as sweet as an American dessert. Splinter’s little apple pie. Even as he got older and started playing rougher, testing his strength and raising his voice, he never forgot when he needed to be gentle. 

His brothers never ran from him unless they were avoiding bedtime or a well-deserved grounding or really did not want to go watch wrestling, Raph, it was boring. Otherwise he was their North star. 

Even now, Leonardo would rather hide himself away than face a world in which he no longer had a Raphael to run to. 

“How could he think that?” Red asked desperately. “He was going to die back there and he thought that’s what I wanted.”

Splinter cupped Red’s face in his hands and told him, “Blue was trying to do what his hero would have done. All of my children are so quick to sacrifice for each other. It is a wonderful thing to love someone so much, but consider the example you are setting.” Red’s good eye filled with tears, and Splinter was powerless to do anything but kiss him firmly on the forehead. “As empty as our lives would have been without him, they would have been just as empty without you. You are fundamental to us. Please remember that.”

“I know, pops,” Raphael whispered. “I’ll remember.”

“It is not always possible to win without losing but we must fight tooth and nail anyway. Abandon honor and heroism. Do what it takes to bring yourself and your brothers home. I would much sooner tell the great Hamato clan where they can stick it then let you join them before your time.”

It coaxed a shy smile from his eldest son, the barest exhale of a laugh. Still his sweet apple pie, no matter how big he got. 

“I’m gonna go see him,” Red said bravely. “I’m missing out on premium Leo time while the gremlins are asleep.”

“Very wise,” Splinter said, patting his cheeks in approval.

Leonardo had managed to drag the blanket up over his head while no one was around to stop him, and only one golden eye peered out at them from his makeshift shell. 

Raphael snorted and leaned over to peel it back down, heedless of his smaller brother’s protests. He let one hand linger on Leonardo’s scuffed plastron, and the other cupped the back of his bruised head. 

“You’re so dumb,” Red said. “I love you more than anything. If you ever try to go anywhere without me ever again, I’ll make your life a living hell. Capiche?”

Blue stared up at him. It’s very possible he didn’t understand every word of that. But the tone seemed to get through. 

His hand drifted up slowly, as if it weighed a thousand pounds, to cover the one planted on his chest. When the world didn’t end and his big brother continued to smile down at him like nothing between the two of them was any different than it used to be, Blue risked a smile back. 

“I capiche.”

“You’re not alone, okay?” Red went on, playfulness gentling into sincerity. “We’ll figure it out. I’m in your corner, right where I’ve always been. But for now let’s get some sleep, big man.”

He didn’t move his hands even after Leonardo had dozed off. He just hooked his foot around the leg of his chair and scooted it closer to the bed before sinking into it. 

Splinter joined him, and felt both aged by the last hour and rejuvenated. He needed a good pair of running shoes to keep up with these kids.     

“He never asks to play chess with anyone else you know,” Red said suddenly. 

Thrown by the non sequitur, Splinter could only offer an intelligent, “Huh?”

“Leo only learned how to play because of a comment you made once about—I don’t even remember what you said. But it stuck with him. He wanted to impress you. And he started learning Spanish because of those weird soaps you guys watch. He drove us crazy practicing every day but he never let up.

“I know that it seems like he does whatever he wants without rhyme or reason, but I think he just tries really hard to make it seem that way. Otherwise we’d all clue in to the fact that every single thing he does is just—him trying to get closer to us somehow. And then his cool guy cover would be blown. And god forbid that.” 

Raphael brushed his thumb over the crown of Leonardo’s head, much like the way Splinter had earlier. 

“He doesn’t love you for no reason, pops,” Red went on, not looking at him. “None of us do. Even when getting out of bed was the hardest thing in the world, you came running when I needed you. Every time I needed you. I learned all my moves from the best.”

Splinter had seen the worst of the world. He was no stranger to pain. 

It was only occurring to him now that the opposite was also true. 

His life was so full of impossibly good, underserved things; every day a little brighter, every night a little richer. 

Four little creatures tumbled into his world by chance and then filled it to the brim with mayhem and color and laughter and pride, and he would not take a second of it back. He would not change a single painful part. 

If only he had known as a young man where he would end up someday. It would have made those earlier years so much easier to survive. 

Pretending his own eyes weren’t wet, Splinter said, “It will be hell on earth in the morning when Orange discovers we let him sleep through Blue waking up. You had better rest while you can.”

Smiling to himself, Red folded his arms on the side of the bed and rested his head in them, tilted so that his brother was within line of sight of his good eye. He had capitulated to the changing of the guard without complaint, but he was still tense. Primed for danger. Anxiety no doubt at play. 

But Splinter was not without his tricks. He stroked Red’s carapace between the spikes, humming an old TV theme song under his breath. He did this for upwards of an hour once, back when Red was still small enough to be held in his lap, fussy and clingy after a bad dream. 

Sure enough, with a great, shuddering sigh, Raphael’s shoulders went slack, and his breathing evened out—asleep within moments after the day he’d had.  

“I’ve still got it,” Splinter murmured, and let himself have the win, as small as it was. If nothing else, he could give his children a safe place to rest. 

And that really was no small thing at all. 

[thyras]

→ dark queen

PAIRING → halbrand (sauron) x f!reader

WORD COUNT → 848 words

WARNINGS → 18+ mdni - manipulation, fingering, implied previous sexual encounters

SUMMARY → you pledge yourself to the dark lord even if it may cost you your soul.

“Be my queen, little one,” A dark, nebulous smile filled his scruffy face as you watched those green eyes darken slightly. Your heart racing as you knew the truth. The whole truth. Galadriel had tried to warn you off, but you knew you could never. You craved his touch and how his power felt underneath your fingertips. Halbrand was a drug you could never stop seeking, even if it would be your end.

Halbrand placed his fingers underneath your chin, bringing your face back to meet his gaze. You opened your mouth to say something but felt your mouth dry with indecision. He was evil. Darkness incarnate, but you had seen something, even if for a brief time, something that looked like a light in the darkness. It was fleeting, and he kept it locked away mostly, but you saw it in the deepness of the night when he was buried deep inside you. His moans and sweet nothings seeped into you and planted those seeds of darkness you now struggled with.

You were a good person, deceived by the Dark Lord, but you could not help loving Halbrand. His corruption went to your core, making you throb with anticipation. A smile rose on your lips as you bit down on your bottom lip, his brow raised in suspicion as he watched your gaze.

“Little one?” he questioned before you spoke.

“I will be your light in the dark and serve you however you need me to.” That nebulous smile rose again, and you could not help but reach up to caress his stubble. His free hand moved to grasp your wrist and travel down your arm, sending sparks across your skin.

“That is good to hear,” Halbrand leaned in and hovered over your lips; his dark, firey scent filled your nostrils as your eyes closed in anticipation. “My sweet queen,” his warm lips briefly met the skin of your jaw, sending your heart into a frenzy of activity. They traveled down your neck toward the junction of your neck, his fingers still traveling up your arm before wrapping around your neck. A deep moan escaped your lips as your Dark Lord held you in his grasp. The energy around you was dark and seductive as it always was with him. “What do you need from me, my lord,” You breathed as his fingers tightened slightly around your neck. It was enough to restrict some air but sent even more aching to your core.

“I need you, sweet one,” His lips finally met yours as his hand around your neck loosened. Your fingers wound in his brown curls as he laid you on the cool forest floor. Those strong hands caressed every inch of your body as you smiled into his furious kisses. “For all eternity,” He breathed on your chest as his fingers pushed up the skirt of your gown, his touch sending calm ripples through you as they traveled up the delicate skin there.

Your breath caught as you felt his finger meet your sensitive entrance. He traced across the entrance as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, causing a whimper to fall from your lips. Halbrand let out a low growl as he felt your body react to his touch. With no warning, his finger entered you and drew out a squeal at the sudden intrusion, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as your hips arched to meet his come here motions. “I own this pretty pussy,” he breathed on your lips. “I own your mind, body, and soul, little one.”

“And my heart,” you said through a strangled breath as the pad of his hand pressed against your sensitive bud. Your words caused him to stall slightly, slowing the motions. Your eyes opened to meet his dark gaze, and the world around you fell into an eerie silence as you felt the cold air roll into the forest. Darkness crawled into you as you dared not to look away from his gaze, wrapping itself around you as his motions quickened. Those dark threads bound themself around you, sealing your promise to the being encasing you. A promise that you could never imagine breaking.

“And you have mine,” he breathed as the air snapped with a particular fire before you felt your orgasm build when Halbrand began to rub his thumb against your bud. The world warmed, and the light returned as you felt your orgasm pool in your belly. “Come around these fingers, my queen,”

That was all it took for you to succumb to your first orgasm as his dark queen. Your walls squeezed down around his fingers as you ached to feel him buried deep inside you, knowing that now it would be a completely different experience. A call of his name left your lips, causing Halbrand to chuckle softly. His lips captured yours as you tried to catch your breath.

“I need you,” you whispered against his lips.

“Of course, but first, I wish to see if I can pull even more sounds out of those pretty lips.”

[johannesviii]

Parallels, foreshadowing and narrative echoes in Infinity Train Book 3 episode 1 "The Musical Car" [2/2]

Continuation of the first post. Had to split it in two cause I hit the new image limit. Let's jump right back into it

When I look at you, I see me

Yeah you're right, Grace, that red cape was a bit too much. Someone else thought it looked cool, though

Negative reinforcement (in this case, excluding someone from the group) being turned on its head and used against her by the same kid later on

"I need a big light to emulate the dawn before the battle"

Simon's cringe fantasy novel

So she wrote the foreword of the story, uh?

"Down with the false conductor" seems to be the part of their weird little cult's tenets that Simon likes the most

Yeah that's right Grace let's bully turtles there's no way it's going to feel weird later

that one is more nebulous than the rest but "you're sure you can carry us both ?" "Wanna find out ?" ":)" well they sure found out if she could metaphorically carry both of them uh

The threads of Grace's remaining Apex gear snap while trying to avoid a turtle

No comment needed

"I owe you one" (that one makes me particularly insane)

Actually she saves his life three times in this first episode. Guess how many times he tries to kill her in the last one

"It will be like old times! just me and you!" "yeah! old times" cool cool what if I cried my heart out

Obviously I haven't listed literally everything but that's already a lot. Feel free to be insane with me in the comments

As a friend unironically said:

[prismaticpichu]

(Inspired by an ask recently sent to the lovely @altocat!!)

I kinda have an… interesting perspective on the “Jenova controlling Sephiroth during Nibelheim” debate x3

While I do think the whole thing is objectively nebulous (as in we’re intentionally supposed to be left without a clear-cut answer), I do believe that Sephiroth was indeed himself at Nibelheim. I do believe he was the one who chose to kill the townspeople, set Nibelheim ablaze, and did believe think—amid self-induced, sleepless delirium—that Jenova was his mother.

HOWEVER!! I also believe that, although Sephiroth was the one driving the car at Nibelheim, that his emotions were coming from his own brain and anger, Jenova had the capability to 100% control him under completely different circumstances. Something important to remember is that Sephiroth was completely alone for 7 days in a row, slowly degrading in his own right as he read book after book after book after book… Books that ripped apart his world, stabbed him in the back, told him in brutal, endless detail that the fundamental threads of his world were a lie. A lie. And this was all after Genesis—his friend, his rival, his enemy—cut the wound right open in the first place, after Angeal had died, after Zack had seemingly forgot about him… and after Sephiroth forgot about him, too. He had no one left. He had nothing in his world to live for. He had no friends. He had no one who cared. He had no dreams. He had no aspirations, no hope, no comfort…

He had nothing.

Nothing, of course, but a false painting of his Mother.

BUTBUTBUT… what if these weren’t the circumstances that Sephiroth was in? What if he wasn’t alone? What if, instead of leaving him alone, Zack was there? What if he refused to leave? What if they talked, vented? What if it wasn’t even Zack who did it—what if it was, I dunno, Tifa?? Or Cloud?! Or just Sephiroth himself pulling himself together a little?

What if… what if he was okay?

ISTG THIS ISN’T JUST SOME FIX-IT POST LOL, I HAVE A POINT xDDD And that point is, should Sephiroth have recovered even the slightest bit from the Reactor visit rather than immediately falling into an irreversible rabbit hole of despair, I DO think Jenova would’ve pushed back harder. I DO think we would have seen more of a struggle on Sephiroth’s end; I DO think, overall, that Jenova woulda been more in the picture had she needed to be, had Sephiroth not been left to his own devices with no one to stop him from utterly destroying himself from the inside out. I think we definitely woulda seen more things in a similar vein to how he clutched his head/struggled against some kinda invisible pull in the Reactor (when, remember, he still had something by his side…) x,3

Obv, LOL, this is more headcanon territory than anything, and I’m not gonna sit here and pretend there’s a game where Sephiroth is saved in the library xD Nibelheim is Nibelheim, and things played out the way they did x3 But I do ultimately think Jenova has more power than we give her credit for, and definitely could have fully brainwashed Sephiroth had she needed to. She just didn’t… didn’t LOL, bc the guy was broken enough at the time as it was.

[flightfoot]

recs for older/future ladynoir/time skip post show? like early to mid 20s where they're still ladybug and chat noir, i keep looking but can never really find anything except where chat noir goes off grid, but i think i'm just bad at it haha

Hm... yeah there are definitely some out there, though most of them are post-reveal. I dunno if that's what you're looking for, but I'll just see what I can find. I'm assuming, based on this description, that you're looking for something where Ladybug and Chat Noir are superheroes, and not a No Powers AU.

---

Boulangerella by @aidanchaser

Once upon a time, magic was wild. The two princes of the kingdom have been tasked with choosing their brides by the end of their 21st birthday celebrations. Crown Prince Adrien Agreste will have to choose between a woman who can protect his kingdom, a woman offering the power to wake his sleeping mother, and the woman he has loved and admired for the past year. Then there's also the seamstress that he is suddenly falling for. By the time he realizes he doesn't have the power to choose at all, it may be too late.

I love a good fairy tale AU, and this is no exception. Aidanchaser started writing it before Season 5 came out, so it's wrong about some things. Most notably, Felix's posthumous father was a good and decent person here, and one of the twin rings is Felix's Amok while the other one is Adrien's Amok, instead of both of them being Adrien's Amok.

This was a well-crafted tale, with kwamis operating as Fae: they can give power, but only if the wielder gives something up to pay for it. For temporary usage of their power, it can be something small and innocuous, such as giving Plagg cheese in exchange for his help. More expansive uses of their power requires greater sacrifices however, even sacrificing more nebulous things such as memories or hope.

The kingdom's currently being terrorized by this unknown villain, Hawk Moth, as in the show. Ladybug and Chat Noir emerge to battle him, but for some reason (*cough, cough*), King Gabriel isn't fond of the superheroes and wants them captured.

Gabriel isn't the only threat out there, Lila's skulking around, hinting that she knows how to wake up Emilie from her mysterious illness, if only Adrien marries her. And she's not about to take no for an answer.

If you've been wanting a fairy tale/fantasy Miraculous AU, I recommend giving Boulangerella a shot!

---

Through Yellow Eyes by @echo-has-queries

"Nooroo bleeds and Paris drowns in his blood." The day of the Blight, Paris bore witness to a horror too grand to comprehend. Only Chloé Bourgeois bore witness to a miracle. Marinette, Alya and the rest of Paris will need more than faith in Gimmi to survive. As the city's sanity hangs by a thread, bodies, minds, and souls are traded with the unknown in order to hold on to the things they each treasure most. Written for the AU Roulette Challenge 2024 with the prompt: Cosmic Horror AU

If you like Cosmic Horror (Lovecraftian I think? Though this isn't really my wheelhouse), then this is the story for you! I love seeing how Paris copes with the madness seeping through its streets, somehow going about daily life despite it all.

Kwamis here are more inhuman, more separated from humanity. There's no cute little miniature form to help bridge the gap. While humans can still meld with kwami, it's not all quite as firmly in the human's control as it normally is, and the side effects are worse. It doesn't help that the kwamis can't fully understand squishy little humans' wants, needs, or morality.

Like, as Ladybug, Marinette can't remember her human name, and her human concerns are somewhat muted. While as Marinette, she can't remember certain aspects of her time as Ladybug, and only regains those memories when she transforms again. She also has to be careful about restoring everything, as she can't just give Tikki a cookie and call it a day. Instead, she herself needs to eat enough to compensate for the lost energy, which can be a substantial portion of the goods in her parents' bakery.

As for Adrien... well, this is still going off of Sentimonster Adrien, though the ritual to create him went differently... and went wrong. But he is still Adrien.

Chloe's interesting as well, she's this sort of priest, this missionary for the kwamis, but her methods are... well, not the best. She still has a bunch of her canonical hangups, even though she IS somewhat helpful.

I love Alya in here, she's just desperately trying to figure out what's going on so that she can try to fix it, especially since Nino's one of the people who's been driven mad by the Blight. She does find some answers, and even ends up being partially responsible for Ladybug's creation and Chat's and Ladybug's subsequent fight against the worst effects of the Blight, but the risks, danger, and side effects she suffers are still significant. Though some of those side effects can be used to her advantage.

Anyway, I really enjoyed this AU and thought it was an interesting take on the subject, I highly recommend checking it out!

---

Mamma Mia! by @ladynoirfanao3

When Marinette discovers she is pregnant, she is distressed to realize any of the three men she slept with in the recent past could be the father; Chat Noir, Ladybug’s partner and ex with whom she had gone through a tearful breakup - the mysterious Cat Walker, Ladybug’s rebound - or Adrien Agreste, Marinette’s current boyfriend. Bit of a twist on the base concept of Mamma Mia, where she doesn't realize all three potential fathers are, in fact, the same man.

So this is a fun little fic. I loved seeing Adrien and Marinette independently wrestle with the situation - Adrien, with maybe being the father of his former girlfriend's children (but maybe not), and Marinette, with needing to tell her former and current boyfriends that they might or might not be the father, and having to deal with a potential change in their relationship because of that.

Oh yeah, this fic is rated M, but the sexual content is relatively mild. The foreplay is detailed, but the actual sex is just implied.

---

Fate, Destiny... A Hamster by @mostmagical

After finally moving into his very first apartment per Ladybug’s suggestion, Adrien discovers something no movie or TV show could have ever prepared him for: someone else's hamster.

Marinette was so excited to have her first pet. If only it would stop escaping!

At least now there’s an excuse to talk to the new neighbor.

(Adrienette Never Met AU)

Funnily enough, this is based on a true story. Specifically, the author’s own experience of having her hamster run out and be found by a neighbor.

Anyway, this is adorable! Marinette and Adrien become smitten with each other extremely quickly, with Marinette’s hamster keeping giving them reasons to talk. Very effective wing-hamster, that one XD. 

---

I (Wish I) Knew You by @buggachat

University has been hard on Marinette. Making new friends and maintaining her grades is a lot easier said than done when she has to disappear at odd times to fight akumas. She's struggling, and with Alya away with family and Adrien painfully out of reach, she's never felt lonelier.

If only she could talk to someone who really understood her struggles... but it's not like Chat Noir would know anything about loneliness. Right?

Nice aged-up Ladynoir fic here! Marinette’s struggling with losing friends and lovers because of her flakiness due to her superhero activities, until at last she breaks down. Thankfully, Chat Noir’s there at least - and it soon turns out he’s got problems of his own that he’s been hiding.

There’s some fluff and angst, it’s mostly just the two of them navigating life, dealing with their feelings and talking things out.

---

Tell Me Why You Love Me by @linnieluna

“Anyway, that piece of paper contains the name of this texting app. It’s completely anonymous, so you can download it, make your account with no attachments to your personal life, and communicate with me outside our suits. I included my username on the paper, too, so you can add me once you’re done."

Her partner skimmed through the words on the paper and nodded his head. “Brilliant as always, M’lady. I’m surprised we didn’t figure this out sooner within our superhero careers.”

“Yeah, it would’ve been nice to have this before, but hey, better late than never. Make sure not to have your phone screen on the messages if you’re going to leave it somewhere. We don’t want anyone reading our texts. Also, this is for emergencies only. No jokes or puns. I can only deal with you for so long.”

“I don’t know if I can agree to that last one,” he said.

Now 22 and working full-time, Marinette and Adrien seem to be getting busier and busier, which means fewer opportunities to keep track of akumas and show up on time. With the idea of using a messaging app to communicate with each other without revealing their identities, their lives immediately grew to be easier... until it wasn't.

This starts off as a mostly slice-of-life fluff fic, but about halfway through things turn dramatic when Monarch learns some things he really shouldn’t and takes action. I had a lot of fun with it as it was coming out, it’s worth a read.

---

Wedding Belle by Ilioneththird

Monarch is gone but the Butterfly has taken his place. When an old schoolmate of Marinette’s from her Francois Dupont days gets upset that a couple who have been engaged for a long time still aren’t making any wedding plans, the Butterfly akumatizes her into Wedding Belle, a supervillain with the power to force couples to get married. Guess which other longstanding couples and “just friends” she will target 😉

---

Love is Blind by @jennagrinsoverml

Tired of all of his potential girlfriends being blinded by his face, his fame and his name, Adrien takes a chance to compete on Love Is Blind: France, where he hopes that dating without seeing each other—or learning each other’s names—will finally help him to be lucky in love. What will he do when he realizes that his Lady is one of the contestants, however? And will he be able to win her heart where he’s never succeeded before? Meanwhile, Marinette is looking to meet the right guy after years of pining away for someone who has only ever seen her as a friend. She’s not entirely sure if she can fall in love with someone without seeing them, but the things that have always mattered to her most are the kinds of things that can’t be seen. What will she do when she realizes her heart is being pulled in two directions? And will she be ready to make a decision in time?

---

Remember That Time When by @mostlovedgirl-writes

Twenty-two-year-old Marinette Agreste was looking forward to the anniversary trip she would be taking with her husband Adrien that weekend. Those plans are derailed when she wakes up in her old bedroom... and she’s seventeen again.

[branwyn-the-half-witch]

Comparative Mythologies of the Long Night: Part One – Blood Betrayal

(posted alongside the twitter threads of the same title)

‘...the fact that some cataclysm took place many thousands of years ago seems certain’

A series of threads examining the myths of the first Long Night, and what it may tell us about the next.

In World of Ice and Fire (WOIAF) we learned that the Long Night was not merely a Westerosi story, but an apocalyptic event that impacted the entire Known World. That it was the same event is undeniable, because the stories share common threads; darkness, and unrelenting cold.

These threads will examine the origins of the Long Night, the stories of the heroes that fought against it, and will examine the parallels that exist with the main series (ASOIAF) in order to determine whether we can learn anything from these nebulous, uncertain legends.

We have one primary story for the origins of the Long Night, which comes to us from the Great Empire of the Dawn, the ancient predecessor of Yi Ti; this was a vast land ruled by the descendants of the God-on-Earth, only son of the Lion of Night and the Maiden-Made-of-Light.

These rulers, associated with specific gemstones, ruled a vast but increasingly troubled and sinful realm for thousands of years until the throne passed to the Amethyst Empress; however, the younger brother of this first Empress usurped the throne, with deadly consequences.

This ‘Blood Betrayal’ is explicitly cited as ushering in the Long Night. Examine how the Bloodstone Emperor’s reign is described; note that he is highlighted as practising specifically necromancy and slavery, and as having cast down the true gods. All hallmarks of the Others.

As an aside, this is the only mention we have of ‘the sinister Church of Starry Wisdom’ still found in port cities. This is a HP Lovecraft reference (‘The Haunter of the Dark’, specifically) where a cult of the same name worship ‘Nyarlathotep’, an outlier in Lovecraftian mythos because he is upon the earth, alive, and can take the form of a tall man. Unlike the detached, unfathomable horrors of Lovecraft’s other monstrosities, Nyarlathotep is deliberately cruel and openly beguiles and propagandises cults into existence to serve his goals.

Sound like anyone we know? The parallels between how Nyarlathotep functions and is described and Euron ‘when men see my sails they pray’ Greyjoy is quite striking, and the fact that the ASOIAF version of this cult is found in port cities serves to underline the parallel further.

GRRM seems enamoured with examining this kind of figure; one who operates by twisting both the physical and metaphysical into propaganda to serve privately hellish and disturbing goals, whose strength is more intellectual than physical, whose weapons are first and foremost the evil men are already willing to do. The Bloodstone Emperor, the Night’s King, Euron, pre-tree Bloodraven (and possibly even post-tree), the Undying; even Mel is a play on this theme insomuch as her reputation; only her inner thoughts reveal that there is more mortal than monster in her.

It’s important to hold to GRRM’s propensity for echoing his themes, heroes AND his villains throughout the world-building, because he’s writing a Song, and so both harmony and leitmotif are crucial.

(Your obligatory ‘Lovecraft-was-a-massive-racist-so-bear-that-in-mind’ note)

The Long Night is framed explicitly as an act of divine retribution; note the symbolism again that the ‘light’ deity turns her face away, and ‘night’ is the punishment wreaked upon the world. It is worth considering that, as above, the world was in a state of decay prior to the Blood Betrayal; this event is analogous to a great many divine cataclysms throughout our own legends, that come following an inciting horror after a long time of mortal hubris and moral decay. As with the fall of Babel, the Long Night leaves the world a broken and divided place.

The world was saved from the Long Night, and the sun returned. But it was not redeemed, and the Maiden-Made-of-Light still has her faced turned away. Evidence of this is shown in the malformed seasons; WOIAF gives us two knowledgable sources, sound, but untrusted by the Citadel. Septon Barth attributes the strange seasons to a magical matter, and one Maester Nicol contends that the seasons were once of regular length and reliable constancy, of which the only evidence were the most ancient of tales – those likely to pre-date the Long Night.

So what can this origin story tell us? Well, it has all of the hallmarks of GRRM’s main series and interlinks two of his cardinal sins; kinslaying and usurpation – most particularly of a rightful female ruler. Targaryen history is sown with usurpations of the House’s women, from the very beginning, reaching a climax with the Dance, and descending into a long nadir where the dragons die out and Targaryen women lose the last ember of escape available to them. I shall speak later of the notion of blood debts being imposed on the innocent to pay for the survival of all humankind, so make a note of that theme occurring in such a primal level here, in the construction of the mythos, and so all-encompassing that the whole world suffers for the actions of one man – and remember that in relation to Targaryen women specifically.

Within ASOIAF itself, the Red Wedding is such a horrific spiritual crime, it reverberates through time and space to touch far-flung dreamers. It has much the same feeling as this mythic betrayal, which I would be unsurprised to learn also involved the breaking of guest-right.

It is perhaps evocative of the described moral decay that led the GEOTD to be thrown down in the first place, that made it seemingly deserving of the scourge that would come to ruin the world. The Others are already on the march by that point in the story, of course, but much of the War of the Five Kings phase of the books does little to dissuade the reader from the belief that the world is due a massive paradigm shift, as lightning striking the tower. When the world is so unfairly and brutally structured, apocalypse becomes a necessity.

This concludes Part One. Part Two concerns the most famous name from our roster of heroes, and their famous sword.

[adore-laur]

GOLD RUSH: EPILOGUE

— part one | part two | part three

——

Four Months Later

Spectral shadows now haunt the vacant house in Tennessee. They are ones of yourself and Harry appearing as nebulous figures wistfully retracing the steps of every memory played out in each room. 

Every wall you were sensually backed into. 

Every floor you collapsed onto with heartache. 

Every dark corner that sheltered your fears. 

The wilted vines of romance that grew under the carpet and ascended toward the roof are surely felt by whoever exists there now, trapping their feet and trying to pull them down into their depths of despair. Their once vibrant color pales from perennial neglect, and they yearn for a single drop of love. 

The two lovers are no longer the providers of such an arduous task. 

You have broken free from the poison ivy and moved to untethered fields. The deadly nightshade that crawled over your body is no longer lethal, and your stitched heart is now thriving with unburdened lungs. Harry willingly took the needle and delicately sewed each open wound with threads of honeysuckle and lavender, patiently waiting for the crevices to bond back together until they blossomed into feelings of certainty and candor. He never pushed the process, always letting you grow at your own pace and sharing his sunlight when you needed it most. 

You adapted nicely to the new soil. You left your dirt behind and pulled up your roots to bury them elsewhere. Somewhere more nurtured with eternal blue skies. 

Harry's roots have always been grounded, so the day he left his home pierced thorns in all he's ever known and left him bleeding until you tore off your petals of armor to seal the gash. The cure was in you all along.

You wonder where he is now. 

As you sit alone on the late January grass, no snowfall settling across the blades in rural South Carolina this time of year, you miss his warm presence beside you. The knitted cardigan you wear replaces his skin; the breeze finds secret passageways through every petite hole in the fabric. Your arms, terribly sore from moving boxes all day, could use his own wrapped around them. 

The lake past the lush, rolling hills is gray from the reflection of the clouds above, and the water looks inviting. No other house can be seen for miles. It's what you've dreamed of—a perfect place to start afresh and continue raising your family away from camera flashes and prying questions. You have privacy at last. 

A sudden, soft plucking of guitar strings draws you from your thoughts. The acoustic melody plants seeds in your bones, coursing through the marrow until they lovingly consume your soul.

There he is. 

Music follows him wherever he goes. Even when an instrument is absent from his versed hands, he still carries a symphony with his words. Either sung or spoken, they slip off his tongue with entrancing ease. 

"Look what I found," Harry says in a way that exudes childlike wonder. 

You smile and turn your head, finding him treading toward you while wearing your cardigan and holding a green resonator guitar by its neck. The heavy black case is in his other hand. 

"What box was that in?" you ask, admiring how his hair blows in the wind. It falls into place perfectly. 

"The huge one that I totally didn't have trouble carrying." He smirks at you, narrowing his beautiful green eyes. The light in them is finally back.

Laughing, you watch him set the case down next to you before sitting on it. He then places the guitar on his lap, its curve naturally fitting along his thigh. "Wonder if it's still in tune," he murmurs, twisting the tuning pegs and strumming random chords with his jeweled fingers. 

You're waiting for him to mention how you kept it even through the divorce, but it never comes. You should have a little faith in him for not bringing up that withered phase of life, but it was so miserably monumental that it permeates your mind anyway. 

"Hi," Harry whispers with a hint of shyness, as if he's acknowledging you for the first time. You bask in his natural incandescence. 

"Hi. I wanted to talk to you about something." 

He inhales and nods, absentmindedly playing a few dissonant chords. "Okay." 

"I know this move has been hard on you," you say while looking into his eyes, "and I just want to know how you're feeling." 

The fatal flaw in your relationship's early stages was a lack of communication. It was a bit ironic, considering marriage is built on the mere foundation of it. Perhaps that's why it didn't work out the first time. 

"I feel good." He lightly slaps his hand on the guitar to stop the strings from vibrating. "Really good, actually." 

You could cry with relief. "Yeah?" 

His lips quirk up. "Yeah. I obviously miss Nashville, but I'm starting to love it here." 

You nod understandingly. "It's quiet, you know? So different from the city." 

"I think this move is exactly what we needed. To leave all those bad memories behind." 

Leave your dirt behind. Bloom somewhere new. 

"Can I say something I don't tell you enough?" you ask, tucking strands of windswept hair behind your ears. 

Harry lays the guitar down and begins picking at the dead grass by his feet. "Will it make me cry?" 

"It'll probably make me cry." 

He looks at you for a moment before patting his lap twice. "C'mere. I don't like it when you're far away." 

You stand and then settle sideways on his thighs, his arms instantly circling around your waist. His touch was something that took you a while to allow yourself to accept. It started with longer hugs and holding hands, then soft and lingering kisses on the cheek. They all led to bigger things, like kissing his heart-shaped lips and letting his hands rest on your hips or neck. Making out like teenagers on the couch to make up for lost time felt more purposeful than ever. It felt different this time around, more significant. His touch was a telltale sign that the petals could still be saved from wilting and falling to the frozen ground. 

It was a slow blossoming of sprouts, but he was understanding. That's all you could've asked for. 

"What's on your mind, baby?" Harry quietly asks. 

Unwarranted tears form in your eyes as you look at the man you almost entirely let go of. When your gaze traces the features of his face, you wonder how you would have lived without him. How does someone possibly keep from loving him? You're glad you didn't fall victim to that. 

"I just... I'm so proud of you," you shakily whisper, a teardrop sliding down your cheek. 

Harry's chest deflates. He breaks eye contact, visibly swallowing and rolling his lips in before responding, "I know you are. You've never made me doubt it." 

"But it's not just with your job. Even when we weren't together, I was proud of who you were." 

"You shouldn't have been. I was a mess." 

You shake your head. "The way you still tried to mend things while grieving is something to be proud of, Harry. You should be proud of yourself." 

"I did it because I love you," he says with shimmering eyes. "I did it for her." 

Her, meaning your daughter. She's away with your grandparents for the day while you and Harry unpack and set up the necessary furniture. He does everything for her, and you firmly believe she was the single ray of light in his phases of deep depression. 

"I know, but I was worried about you. No matter how angry I tried to be, I still cared about you so much." You take a deep breath before continuing, "When you came over during the first few months..." You pause and let out a weak sob. "You scared me. You didn't look like yourself, and it fucking terrified me. I remember your cheeks were so... so hollowed." 

Harry looks out at the lake, almost ashamed. His thumbs rub soothing circles on your hips, and you've never been more grateful to see the supple skin on his cheeks today. 

"We never really know grief until it happens to us," he says, laying his head on your shoulder. "I didn't eat for days. Didn't shower. Barely left my bed. I lost myself completely." 

You know you shouldn't apologize, but you do anyway. "I'm sor—"

"Don't," he interrupts. "Please don't." 

"It killed me. I had never seen you so sick." 

"But it led me back to you, didn't it?" He softly kisses your arm and smiles against it. "All that pain led me to this moment, love." 

You rest your hand on his stomach. "That's not the point, though." 

"I think it is," he remarks. "Everyone goes through shit, and everyone learns something from it." 

You sniffle as Harry takes one of your hands and blows warm air onto it. "What did you learn?" 

He stares at you while kissing your wrist. "That your love was worth the fight. And I don't regret fighting my goddamn life for it." 

His love-laced words rush through you like liquid gold and heal every stitch on your heart, leaving only scars behind.

You don't regret diving into his waters anymore. 

——

[brabblesblog]

Ch 17: Whom have I in heaven but thee?

Astarion has ascended, and she has stayed with him. Life in the Crimson Palace isn’t as idyllic as it seems. Is there a chance for their relationship to go back to how it was? Or is it too late for the Ascendant and his consort?

This series is about Ban, my Tav, and the Vampire Ascendant. Will be angst and smut, with sprinkles of fluff.

This fic is a softer take on Ascendant!Astarion and of the changes he undergoes after the rite. Can Ban handle the change, and if a chance came, would she choose to run? And can the Ascendant win her back in time? Inspired by the concept of vampire wives and that IGN interview with Larian that discussed the ascension.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Astarion and Ban are presented with an opportunity whilst visiting the former Shadow-Cursed lands.

Read on AO3.

Masterlist.

Moonrise Towers.

Still empty but less dour, the old crumbling walls looked less threatening and more desolate than anything else. Seeing the sun shine on the facade felt wrong-

A nudge, and Ban shook off the thought.

“Are you alright, love?” Her husband stood beside her, wearing one of his older shirts - one from before. Astarion had packed clothes he’d worn during their adventure, shirts and trousers that had not seen the light of day in months before this.

“I’m not risking any of my actual clothes, Ban.” Astarion stuffed the old clothing into his pack haphazardly.

She tried not to laugh as he made an attempt to close the now-bulging pack and failed.

“You do know you needn’t bring so many shirts, right? It’s just Reithwin and the surrounding area.”

He stared at the pack, frowning. Living in the Crimson Palace meant an abundant if not limitless amount of clothes; he’d become accustomed to changing on a whim. Conceding the point, he dumped the contents of the bag out, picking through the small mountain of clothing that spilled out.

“I suppose so,” he grumbled, “I’ll just have to subsist on a meager variety of shirts then. Pity.”

Pulling her mind out of her reverie, Ban shrugged. Was she alright?

So many memories they’d created here, good and bad alike. Sometimes it was still hard to reconcile the fact that she shared those memories with the man next to her, not with some nebulous phantom of him.

Astarion marked the silence; he saw her turn away, expression closing off.

“Ban.” His voice was tense, but not excessively so. He took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Let’s just head inside, love.”

He led her through, eyes scanning ahead to avoid any potentially dangerous spots. He’d done this back in the early days too, scouting ahead for traps and ambushes. Ban wasn’t the most observant sort; he’d found out early on that she needed protecting.

Funny, that. He had thought he was using her for protection, but had quickly found himself wanting to shield her from danger in return. His eyes had always sought her out in battle, shooting at anything that dared approach; just as she’d cut down anything that had tried to get to him.

Initially, it had been to ensure she wouldn’t fall to a stray arrow or an errant sword. It wouldn’t have done to have their leader die, leaving no one by his side when Cazador inevitably came for him, would it? As the days had passed, however, he’d begun to have to repeat this fact to himself, reminding his heart that petty affection - even love, gods forbid - wasn’t the reason, here. Obviously, that plan had failed miserably.

Pushing Ban away that day in Vel’s mansion had been instinctive, a reflex that hadn’t warranted a second thought.

“Ban-” He pointed, but it was a little late. Her boot snagged on a piece of broken stone; she toppled forward and Astarion braced, catching her effortlessly.

“You seriously have to pay closer attention,” he chided, but there was no anger there; just amusement and a little nostalgia. He held her close, allowing himself to revel in her presence.

“Sorry,” Ban said automatically. She let him wrap his arms around her, head pressed against his shoulder as her mind drifted back.

"You- ... you're incredible. You deserve something real. I want us to be something real."

Memories. They shouldn’t be painful, and yet they stung. She turned her face to hide from the world, from him; unwilling to admit that she was still mourning, grieving a life that never came to pass.

Astarion felt her tense, muscles shifting as though preparing for a fight. He sighed, part of him wishing to confront her. The larger part decided to wait for a better moment.

He pulled away, pretending to miss her tears. He kissed her forehead.

“No need to apologize, darling,” he murmured, “Just missed a rock. Which - well, you do do that a little too often for my liking, but -”

She smacked him, melancholy forgotten for the moment. With a satisfied smirk, Astarion continued leading her through the ruin.

They arrived at the table where Araj had set up shop. Astarion ran his fingers across the wood. He could smell it even now, the drow’s blood - rank and vile and alien. Ban had shown him he was more than just a thing to be used then, that his choices mattered. He had never forgotten.

“That was interesting, the drow,” he mused. “A pity she’s dead, or I would’ve had her brought to the palace and killed her myself.”

“Astarion,” Ban said, a little leery of the tone his voice had taken.

He paused, hand stilling against the wooden grain of the table, meeting her eyes. “Oh, not literally. Can’t I say something in jest, Ban? I didn’t kill her when we saw her at her shop, did I? In fact, I like to think I was positively polite.”

A small smile broke across Ban’s features. It was difficult at times, figuring out what was a joke with him and what was not. She knew that in some ways, it wasn’t even he who changed, but rather her perception of him; something she’d been working on, but she admittedly still had a ways to go.

Astarion exhaled. He took a step towards her, hands held out. He was still worried, fearing the day she’d shy away from his touch yet again. But she let him take her hands, and just like every time she did, he felt a wave of relief.

Bracing himself, he met her gaze.

“Can we talk, Ban? Tonight,” he murmured, swallowing down the urge to avoid it altogether. After that confrontation the first day they’d arrived at Halsin’s community, Astarion had felt a lot more willing to be open around his wife. He could sense Ban trying to do the same, though her doubts still seemed to linger; he had resolved to fix that.

“I… of course,” she said, worry crossing her expression.

He squeezed her hands. “It’s nothing big, nothing that will change things,” he reassured her. And at least on his end, he was resolved that it would hold true.

Ban stared at him for a moment. In these ruins and in those clothes, Astarion looked exactly like he had back then, down to the soft expression on his face and the slight, uncertain curl of his lips. The sight was comforting, and she nodded.

“Tonight, then.”

With that said, Astarion led her further into the ruins of Moonrise Towers.

Having played with the children after dinner, Ban headed back to their little hut. She opened the door to find Astarion on the bed, shirtless; his hands were behind his head, and he was staring out the window.

“Do you ever think of choosing him?” he asked, not meeting her gaze.

“Choosing-” She frowned, then realized what he meant. “Halsin. Choosing Halsin.” She gestured at the hut they were staying in. A calm, quiet existence; days spent playing with the children and nights wrapped up in Halsin’s warm embrace. She could not say she hadn't thought of it.

Astarion’s eyes slid back to Ban. He watched her, a hand moving down to tap his knee absently. Waiting.

“Perhaps,” Ban finally said, “It would have been a peaceful life.”

“Happier,” Astarion corrected, still staring at her intently, eyes tense. His lean body lounged on the bed in a well-practiced position that suggested nothing but nonchalance.

“Okay. Happier.” She crossed her arms. “What of it? Is this… is this what you wanted to talk about?”

There was a small twist in the calm of his features; he forced himself to ease off. “It’s one of several, but yes,” he returned to the topic at hand, “If you want. Should you want - still want that.”

Say it.

He drew a deep breath. The hand tapping his knee stilled, the manufactured pose disappearing under rapidly tensing limbs; he readjusted, sitting up.

“If you still want Halsin-“

His voice cracked, the depth of his emotion proving too much. Hurt, a little anger. Fear.

His eyes tried to convey what he could not say; his mind reached for hers, and she allowed him in.

Thoughts. Images. Ban dancing with the children, riding on Halsin’s broad back. Smiling. Doing chores. Running in the woods. Carefree; happy.

Astarion quirked an eyebrow at her, and let his emotions suffuse the images.

The first thing Ban felt was a wave of jealousy - he wanted Ban to save those smiles for him, and him alone. This wave, however, was miniscule compared to the weight of his envy; Astarion was sickened to imagine her with Halsin, but he also wished to be the one running in the woods with her, making love on the forest floor - to be the one she lived such a simple, carefree life with.

Ban was ready to snap, to ask him what the point of this exercise was when the color of his emotions changed. There was more, more to him that he wished for her to discover.

See me, he thought, opening his heart, pouring it out before her waiting gaze.

Joy, at seeing her happiness. Contentment, knowing that she finally had what he so longed to give her. And the deepest one of all - resignation, knowing it wasn’t him who’d been able to give it to her. Not soon enough.

“Do you understand?” he asked. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, but he could at least show her.

“You’re saying you’ll let me go.” Ban was disbelieving.

Astarion barely believed it himself. But he’d seen her with Halsin, seen how easily she laughed in his presence; how she effortlessly allowed him into her space.

Astarion thought he and Ban were getting there, but a part of him wondered if it wasn’t just better to save her the trouble. He looked away. In his breast, his heart raged in a blind panic.

Take that back, you fucking idiot! You’re throwing everything away!

He felt her hand on his shoulder and looked up, surprised.

“I want to be with you,” she said.

“What? Why?” Familiar words; he found himself wistful at the memory. “I’m hard work, Ban. You know that.”

He took the hand on his shoulder and brought it to his lips.

“It is.” She tried to meet his gaze, but he kept his eyes firmly on her hand.

“It sure is worth it, though,” Ban added, “I still choose you.”

Astarion merely nodded, for once speechless; he tugged at her hand, drawing her to the bed alongside him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, “I needed to hear that.”

She nuzzled into the crook of his neck, and he braced himself for the next thing he was about to say.

“Ban. I want to know… what’s on your mind. What’s been on your mind for a while now.”

“Nothing? We’ve been happy, no?” she immediately deflected, but Astarion shook his head.

“Better than before, certainly. Happy? I wouldn’t use that word. Not on your end, at least.” His eyes stared forward, boring holes into the wall of the hut. “If you seemed happy, Ban, I wouldn’t have asked you about Halsin. I would-”

His jaw worked, tightening. “I wouldn’t be so worried.”

She could feel his chest rise and fall faster, fear breaking through the facade he was trying so hard to maintain.

“I didn’t want to hurt you. Scare you,” Ban ventured cautiously. But she now recognized that in doing so, in shielding him from the truth, she had inadvertently caused the very thing she’d been trying to avoid.

Astarion laughed, a short and pained bark of noise. “You think I don’t see how you look at me? Most of the time you don’t anymore, thank the gods, but sometimes, Ban - you look at me the way you used to. After.”

After the ascension. When he had begun to lose her, bit by painful bit.

“I don’t mean to,” she said. She drew away from him, just enough to see the hard lines of his face and the way his eyes refused to look anywhere but the wall. “Astarion, please. Look at me.”

Astarion acquiesced after a moment of hesitation; their gazes met. For a heartbeat his eyes were glassy and distant, but then they shifted, becoming wide and round. The uncertainty was plain to see; he no longer made any effort to hide it when it was just the two of them.

As vulnerable as it made him, he knew it was necessary. If she couldn’t do it, he would have to, no matter how much he loathed it. For her. For them.

“I still mourn what our life could’ve been if you didn’t ascend,” she admitted, “Brief flashes of memory, small flickers of pain here and there. A lot less often now, but still there at times.”

“Do you still see two different people?” A question he hadn’t dared ask since the night she’d decided to move back in.

“No,” she said with certainty, “I merely still grieve what we could have been - a different future, not a different person.”

He absorbed her words, understood them. A moment passed while he gathered his resolve.

“I know we said it would take time,” he finally said, “And I am… willing to wait. But can I ask for one thing?”

She frowned, biting her lip - unsure. He saw it, and a wave of hurt washed over him.

“See.” Astarion pointed out, smiling sadly. “That’s exactly what I mean, Ban. You’re doing it right now.”

“Doing what?” Her tone was a little too harsh, and she winced. “Just tell me. Don’t hint at it and expect me to know.”

“You don’t tell me how you really feel. You close yourself off, like you did after the rite. You just disappear, and your face goes blank. Empty. I-” He shook his head. “I’m terrified of it, Ban.”

She considered his words, painfully aware that he’d hit the nail on the head. In moments when she felt wary of him she hid away, an almost involuntary response drilled into her during those months between the rite and her flight. Perhaps even before Astarion came into my life, Ban mused, but didn’t allow herself to dwell on those… thoughts.

“You’re not wrong.” Ban weighed her words. “It’s… almost just instinct, Astarion. I get nervous when I can’t read you, and it makes me want to run and hide.”

Astarion breathed out heavily, eyes falling shut. “Can you do this for me, then? One thing. When it happens… tell me. Ask me what I’m feeling. What I’m thinking. If I can’t tell you, I’ll show you.”

He took her hand, relieved when she let him without question or resistance. He placed it gently over his heart.

“I know I haven’t been kind, especially those six months. But if we are to fix this - us,” he added, trying to blink away the moisture gathering in his eyes. “I need you to at least try to talk to me, that’s all. If you’re frightened of me, then that’s alright. If you want time to yourself, then so be it. I would just prefer to know your thoughts, and wish to have mine be heard in return.”

His eyes opened again; they were a little bright and wet, and he fixed her with yet another smile. He aimed for hopeful; it came out tremulous. “It’s the least you can do to help your husband out, don’t you think, darling?”

A small attempt at lightening the situation, but one they needed at present.

“Of course,” she nodded. “I think I can at least do that.”

His face brightened. “That’s all I ask.”

Astarion’s hand cupped her cheek, and he leaned in to press his lips against hers. It was a gentle, unhurried meeting of mouths; he let her in, allowing her to taste him.

“Ban. While you were with those damnable children,” he murmured, laughing a little as he pulled away from the kiss, the tips of his ears flushing pink before he proceeded. “Halsin gave me a, ah… a present.”

“You?” she laughed, incredulous.

“Well, for us. He apologized for what happened - and yes, it was an actual apology this time, mind you.” He looked smug, and although Ban doubted the veracity of his claim, she didn’t contest it.

Astarion slipped a hand under the pillow at his back, pulling out a small package.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it, and I don’t presume to know what exactly you and Halsin did when you were together, but-”

He unwrapped the package, revealing a whittled cock.

Ban stared.

She stared for such a long time that Astarion began to worry.

“We don’t- look.” He began to wrap it back up, but Ban grasped his wrist to stop him.

“I could do it,” she offered, “But I don’t have any experience in that location, and I’d rather have it be you if it’s in-”

He couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of him; he quickly grabbed her for a kiss, affection overwhelming him.

“Ban,” he said slowly, each word dripping from his lips, “If I wanted to fuck you in the ass, I’d do it with my cock.”

She shivered at his words; Astarion smirked, smugly pleased.

“This isn’t for you, darling.”

[happilyfeatherafter]

Happilyfeatherafter’s ficrec Fridays

It's February!! Welcome back to another week of ficrecs. A mix of post-confession therapy, poetry, and glorious AU this week. (I thought I'd not read much because this week has been, quite frankly, a bastard, but apparently this was a lie!)

If you missed last week’s you can find my previous rec lists here for more!

2 February 2024

maybe i like pleasure pain by tothewillofthepeople (@kvothes). After the perfect darkness of the Empty, Cas finds the world a little…overwhelming. Dean tries to help. Post 15x18, Cas is both touch starved and touch sensitive, and the sensory overload of the world can be a bit too much. He craves Dean's touch, but resists asking for it. A really beautifully written, metaphor laden examination of chronic pain, disability, trauma and the physicality of the body and nebulous presence of mind. All wrapped up in an abundance of love and devotion. Absolutely gorgeous.

Prayer to a False God by K_A_Mindin (@katerinaalianovamindin, art by @gaytedlasso for @spnbangbang) It’s been two years stuck in the Empty, where the Shadow showed him his worst mistakes over and over again. Then he's brought back, to Jack and to Dean, and silence continues to rein, the unspoken acknowledgement of the confession lingering in the air...until Cas decides he needs to stop letting silence rule. Alongside the emotional pull of this thread, the D/S dynamics which grant Dean the permission to speak his truths, through prayer, and through physical release, are a joy to behold.

i like your shoelaces (thanks! i stole them from the president) by @you-cant-spell-subtext-without is a brilliantly funny take on Misha's "Dean is a custodian in a fast food restaurant. Castiel is the President of the United States" fic prompt from a convention, told through the narrative hook of a Cinderella story. Delightfully tongue in cheek, and laugh out loud, this is currently a wip but a must read to bring joy to your inbox each update.

FROTUS by kathscradle takes the very same prompt but approaches it in a very well executed slowburn that says ok but seriously what if? My favourite thing about this fic is the importance of family, Cas being the widowed single parent of Jack and Claire, and Dean stepping up in his new role as step-Dad. Add in the slowburn relationship unfolding through long distance hyper-monitored correspondence, and all the national security matters at hand, this longfic gave my The West Wing/Scandal/Destiel brain a great big hug.

birthday candles by rhinestoneangels (almondrose/@pinknatural) is a super cute, ever so charming Dean's birthday ficlet in which Castiel's sister Anna drags him to a birthday party for a friend of hers who he has never met. He googles what to bring to a birthday party and settles on baking cookies...one fire later and fortunately, the firefighter who shows up to save Castiel from himself is very dreamy, and what a coincidence! It's his birthday, too….

I've also fallen down a rabbit warren of destiel and spn poetry, and I really really love this one by @whatladybird and this one by @eyelinerdean, @donestiel's incredible poetry gif edit series and I'm very excited to keep reading more on the @spnpoetryrenaissance blog. Has anyone seen a 2024 prompt list? Asking for reasons.

PS if you'd like to be added to a tag list for my ficrecs going forward please let me know!

[positivelybeastly]

SEEING THE HEADCANON THING

TW for my intense negativity.

ITS TIME FOR ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF

GOATS GREMLIN GIBBER JABBER

You don’t have to answer this one if you don’t want to, hell you don’t even have to read it cause this installment has

rage

Behind it.

So is it Riggs Raging Rant time? Yes.

Sorry for the intense negativity but it gets my GOAT. It genuinely does so much, and I know you most definitely understand this.

It sucks when I have seen more than once “oh I love the O5” or “I drew the O5!” AND HANK ISN’T THERE OR ITS JUST HIS HAND OR SOMETHING THAT ALLUDED TO HIM.

Literally I have SEEN someone say “oh the O5 have such a great sibling dynamic.” And they give examples for everyone EXCEPT HANK.

Im sorry did we forget how to count everyone?

I get it. I’m an artist and drawing 5 people in a picture is hard. It is. But like…drawing even three people together is hard hell sometimes even two when the idea isn’t cooperating. But don’t say you did something for the O5 WHEN ITS NOT ALL 5 OF THEM.

It just hurts…it hurts a lot and for some damn reason it gets me to tear up genuinely. LIKE I KNOW HES A FICTIONAL CHARACTER BUT LIKE— OW

Anyway sorry again, have a nice day I wish positivity upon you, and I’m probably gonna go home and draw hank when I’m off of work.

Okay, so, I feel this so intensely, because it is absolutely a trend that I've seen in the X-Men fandom, over and over and over again, and the sheer lack of trying to hide it just - galls me.

Like, with that headcanon post, it's not even that they don't think about Hank. Guess what? I don't care if people don't think about Hank. I think they're missing out, sure, but so what? Everyone in a fandom thinks everyone else is missing out on something, because everyone has a favourite that they like in a different way to everyone else.

It's the fact that they want to look like they're including him, and yet they can't be bothered to spending three seconds just - thinking, about something, even if it doesn't pass muster!

Like, 90% of these headcanon posts are completely garbage if you know these characters, they're mass produced fandom slop designed to slot these characters into pre-existing archetypes for better mass consumption, but you can really tell who they at least tried to cram into one of those archetypes? Hank, though? Ehhhhhhhhh.

But I have a special bone to pick here, that is intensely related to this point, and I'm gonna share it with you.

Let me introduce you to the O5xmen sub-Reddit.

I got invited to this place . . . oh, I don't know, probably about a month or two ago? I took a quick look around. It's fine. It's niche, but whatever, I run a Beast RP blog, who am I to judge for niche?

And then I noticed it, as I looked back through their history - which didn't take long, it's not been around for very long.

This was the second post in their sub-Reddit.

I will give you a hint, and tell you that no-one said Hank.

Oh, someone just came out and said it, that's nice.

You ready, kids?

So, uhh. Hank and Peter actually have the closest relationship of any of these people. They've worked together multiple times. Hank has come through in a pinch for Peter a ton of times.

It's almost like Hank is one of the most well connected X-Men characters because he's spent time on other teams, fostered other relationships and friendships, and broadened his horizons, and that has a tangible impact on things.

But whatever. They'd be 'science bros.' A nebulous fandom term for 'these two characters are nerdy and I don't want to spend any time examining that, so let's just sweep that under the rug!'

OP, you can just say you don't give a fuck about Hank, it's incredibly clear that no-one on this sub-Reddit does.

I just gave you four. Think harder.

And it's just that, ad nauseam.

Like, guys. Just admit you don't give a fuck! Stop pretending! Stop acting! 90% of people on Reddit read these threads on the toilet or during their commute, the 10% that actually does more than upvote or downvote are the real devotees of whatever the sub-Reddit in question is - and that 10% also cannot pretend to care!

And it's like . . . the natural retort is, okay, well, if it bugs you so much, why don't you do something about it?

The answer being that I do? That's what this blog is about? That's what my Reddit account is about, even? Look at my post history.

I am the number one Beast discourse generator on Reddit. Because there isn't a number two. I can only be active on so many sub-Reddits. Eventually, I get tired of having to be Hank's champion everywhere because people refuse to pick up a fucking book and read it properly - and, to go back to that O5Xmen sub-Reddit?

Why would I join it? It's full of people whose only conception of Hank is as a war criminal, or as 'the other one.' I can only fight so many uphill battles because people are bone-headed idiots. I refuse to be that one Beast guy you invite into your O5 discussion so I can elevate conversations about your fave while you in turn look at Beast and then swipe left. That isn't my cross to bear.

That's one of those things I like about Tumblr. I get to curate my friend circle a lot more aggressively, and I can just shut out anyone I don't want to interact with. The people I follow and am followed by here, the people I talk with on Discord, they're the people I know I can trust because I know that they're genuine. That's you guys. That's all of you. If you're reading this, that's you. You can read this because I can trust you and I know you're here out of a genuine interest.

But these other people? Pffft. Just say you don't like Hank and move on. Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining - and for the love of god, have some fucking fandom etiquette, and don't post in Hank's tag for the express purpose of saying he sucks, because that just makes you look like a fucking cretin.

. . . Anyway, thanks for letting me vent, goat. :P