#i think it gives her plot armour

[dredgesnails]

i have so many thoughts i want to write down on how gem plays the life series like its a game and the theory that she's not trapped like everyone else, she can leave whenever she wants, but trying to verbalise it just turns into me going oohehheh gem... hehhhehouaugh

[zoe-oneesama]

I wonder if maybe Emilie's "main character syndrome" made her think nothing bad would happen to her from using the Peacock Miraculous because she thought she'd have plot armour, like "Well, it's never going to happen to me!" And maybe she didn't just use the Butterfly Miraculous instead because it's for giving powers to other people and not yourself (unless you exploit loopholes like Gabriel did).

Initially, but when The Signs started happening, SL Emilie accepted her new role: Tragic Heroine. What misfortune that she has to die, that her husband and son and totally not girlfriend have to mourn her for the rest of their lives, what an unavoidable series of circumstances that have led her to haunt the narrative forever. Who'd have thought that this story was a bittersweet poetic tragedy?

lol the idea of people Moving On never crossed her mind.

[ivypos-writes]

i have often dreamed of those fires

— aemond targaryen

summary: He’s a firestorm. Her skin burns in his hands.

Or, marriage is her first duty. The second comes in the insurmountable task of seducing her own husband.

warnings: 18+, aemond x wife, arranged marriage, soft and insecure aemond, and a horny wife, he’s touch-starved, sexual tension, first times, fingering, p in v, multiple orgasms, smut with a sprinkle of plot, and the plot is just seduction before the smut

word count: 7.5k

notes: giving in to the brainrot while waiting for s2. english is not my first language. all reviews are very appreciated! thank you for reading<3

(also available on ao3.)

MASTERLIST

She spends the first night of her marriage in solitude.

The bedchamber bears no resemblance to the one she owned all her life. The lights are subdued, and a darkness her eyes have yet to get used to rules over every corner. It’s spacious; kept immaculately polished, as befitting a member of the royal family. That’s who she is now, regardless if she feels the part or not.

Prince Aemond—her husband, her husband—left the walls of the room in a hurry, as though scorched by fire. It is a silly thought. He is a dragon prince, and surely doesn’t fear flames.

He seems to fear her, though.

They entered the bedchamber as instructed by tradition, not quite hand in hand, but not too far apart, either. Her ladies rushed after to assist her in undressing; to unpin her hair, letting the waves cascade down her back; to cover her skin with a slip of a dress, more translucent than anything she’d ever worn. She was then left in just the nightgown, with her cheeks tinted pink. Once the ladies deemed her prepared, she was abandoned by all but her husband.

Later came silence.

It must have been the tears that dissuaded him. Once they began to flow, all of Prince Aemond’s attempts to breach the distance between them ceased. She was too shaken to speak; before she could gather her thoughts, he had already left.

Marriage is her duty to the realm. To her family who strived to ensure the best possible match. Marriage is to become her battlefield, and her life, and if the gods are kind—oh, please, let them be kind—it would eventually become a source of joy.

Only she sits alone amidst alien walls and furniture, and there is no trace of contentment she might have once envisioned.

How is she to find happiness, she thinks bitterly, when her husband refused to touch her once?

“Husband,” she greets him, and her voice miraculously doesn’t waver.

He is standing in the entrance to the bedchamber, stiff and pale, with dark shadows marring the underside of his eyes. Pink scar peaks from beneath the leather eyepatch he seems to never part with. His robes are as black as they were every time they have seen one another. He wears darkness like an armour.

Prince Aemond isn’t carved in shapes of impudent rowdiness that she now knows his brother wields to compel attention. There is a quietude in him; a softness coming through the sharp lines of his features. He keeps his face artfully blank; most of the time, it doesn’t betray a single emotion. She does not attempt to look into his eye. She fears that all she’ll find there is repulsion.

“My lady,” he says. Not wife. “I shall escort you to the feasting hall. The Queen wishes for us to break our fast in her company.”

His words lack warmth, though perhaps she should not have expected that from him. Prince Aemond doesn’t seem to possess much fire at all, what with the stone-cold composure he seems to cling to. She wonders if it is only a masterfully crafted mask; if there are any flames deep beneath its layers, flickering and crackling.

She smothers her silent musings. Hurt still lingers inside her.

The Queen may be the only kind face within these walls. Princess Helaena seems to always be lost in her own mind; Prince Aegon is never sober, and on the rare occasions that he is, it seems best to avoid him altogether. She cannot search for a companion in her ladies, or servants, and certainly not in any man.

She is alone.

And her husband doesn’t even want to touch her.

Scarlet shame rises to her chest, and she hopes that it’s not painted all over her cheeks. The Queen will know. She will look at her once, and immediately she’ll realise that she remains untouched.

Perhaps she knows already, and it is the reason for her summons. Perhaps she means to scold her, and berate her, and shame her for all nobles in the Red Keep to see.

Have the servants scanned the linen sheets? She doesn’t recall anyone looking for proof of the newfound union, but surely, they must have.

She swallows her trepidation down and forces her face to remain blank. She cannot decline. It is her duty to obey the Queen’s orders, and this one, she is capable of fulfilling.

When the newlyweds walk down the corridor, it feels like they are miles apart.

Solitude is all she knows.

Her days are filled with nothing of true meaning. She is mostly left to her own devices, be it embroidery or soaking up the sun. She traverses the foreign walls; explores the royal gardens; consumes book after book, hungry for entertainment. Sometimes, she joins Princess Helaena and her children, and they sit beside each other in complete silence.

It is not a bad life. She is luckier than most, she knows, though this fact does little to dissipate her desire for more. She wishes to be alive. She wishes for her smiles to be genuine. To be more than the pretty wife of a prince made of marble.

In truth, she isn’t even that.

Her marriage is not a marriage at all—not in the eyes of the gods—and all the freedom she now has is fleeting. She may lounge about in the courtyard, and eat the best cakes in the entire realm, and read every book to exist, but it’ll take less than a moment for the privileges to be lost.

“My prince.”

She hasn’t called him husband again. They shared all of a dozen words since their wedding night. Prince Aemond is clearly intent on avoiding her company, choosing to spend his time in the training yard or the libraries, and it doesn’t appear that he has even an ounce of desire to change this routine.

He is halfway to the door. Her eyebrow arches.

“Are you leaving?” she asks.

She falls asleep alone and awakes in the same manner, but she never thought that the Prince abandoned the bedchamber completely. Before, she imagined that he slept little.

He didn’t. He simply slept elsewhere.

“I wouldn’t wish to make you uncomfortable with my presence.” He strides over to the door without once meeting her gaze, and his hands clutch a collection of books. “The bed is yours.”

Her voice is harsher than she intends when she spits out, “The bed is meant to be shared.”

The Prince stops in his tracks; she traces the line of his spine when he straightens.

It must be the first time that he looks at her. Not even the vows they exchanged prompted him to meet her gaze. The last rays of sun that crawl through the window turn the purple of his eye a warmer shade.

“Do you—” she begins, and the tip of her tongue wets her lips when they suddenly go dry. Her throat closes up. She pushes herself to continue, “Do you find me repulsive, my prince?”

He must. She has heard many stories of marriage—both good and bad—and none spoke of husbands that refused to touch their wives.

Surely, there must be something wrong with her. Perhaps it is her hair that he dislikes, or her nose, or her lips. Perhaps he imagined her to look completely different, and there is no feature she possesses that pleases him.

Prince Aemond says nothing.

She picks her next words carefully.

“I know that I’m not a wife of your own choosing.” Her hands fidget, and she grabs onto her skirt to keep them occupied. “Neither are you the husband I wanted.”

Warmth. Gentleness. When she was a girl, she pictured a man who would hold her in his arms without shame. She imagined true affection and devotion. It’s been long since ascertained that Prince Aemond is not that husband. That her dreams have always been just dreams.

He doesn’t meet her eyes, and she finds herself vexed by his continued insistence to remain detached. She searches his face for scraps of emotion and finds none. He wields indifference like a sword.

She cannot so easily yield.

Her voice drops; nails sink into the skin of her palms. “You must understand, my prince, that it is me they’ll treat with contempt, should they ever find out.”

And they will. Of course, they will. Her womb will remain empty, and soon they’ll point their fingers at it and pronounce it barren. Humiliation will be hers to swallow; disgrace will fall upon her head like a thorned veil. They will feel pity for the Prince, to be certain, but not for her. Never for her.

The Prince’s hands tighten around the books, but it is the only reaction she receives.

He must not care for her at all. Why should he? She is but a stranger.

But they are now bound to each other. Strangers or not, their lives are intertwined.

She pushes closer to him, and finally, finally he raises his head.

“An untouched wife is no wife at all. It’s a breach of my oaths.”

There is a trace of contemplation on his face. It comes with a crease between his eyebrows, and the slightest twitching of his lips. Prince Aemond lets out a quiet hum, and she must strain her ears to catch its sound before it’s gone.

When their eyes meet, her heart lights up in flames.

“I will not touch you when there’s nothing but fear in your eyes.”

He is gone before she can retaliate.

There is a shift in his demeanour, though it comes hesitantly; with reluctance.

Prince Aemond enters the bedchamber while she’s seated by the vanity. She now recognises the sound of his footsteps—light and unrushed, often reminding her of a predator on a hunt. Her fingers become motionless, weaved into the intricate plaits atop her head. She warily waits for whatever comes next.

They have fallen into a habit of keeping one another at arm’s length. There is a barbed line that divides them, and neither is willing to cross it first.

Fear. This is what he thinks rules inside her heart. He never let her refute—now, she thinks it would have been pointless to even try. There might have been fear that shrouded her expression, but it was never induced by him. She feared the pain, and feared the unknown, but never, never feared the Prince.

He must think himself appalling. Capable of evoking dread. The realisation hits her like a tidal wave. She recalls whispers murmured in shadowed corners, all vicious and biting; wonders how many of them he has heard before. The scar on his face has been there for years. The Prince must have endured constant torment.

Whatever it is that they see—monstrosity, abomination, hideousness—her own eyes perceive nothing of the sort.

Prince Aemond is quite handsome. In truth, he is so striking that her heart jumps out of her chest each time she catches a glimpse of him.

It threatens to jump out now, when she sees him meeting her gaze without the usual aloofness.

He takes a hesitant step forward.

She freezes.

They are never alone. She sees him when they dine, and when he trains, and when he’s lost in another book. She sees him in daylight. In crowds.

Never like this.

There is a silent resolution that she notes in the tight line of his lips. Aemond comes closer, and closer, and doesn’t stop until his heat trickles down her spine.

She holds her breath when his fingers weave in between the strands of her hair.

Prince Aemond’s face betrays nothing. She watches his reflection so intensely that she forgets to blink, and all the while he keeps his expression blank. His fingers are warm. Gentle.

Just hours before, they were holding a sword and aiming it at his opponent.

It certainly feels as if he put a sword to her own throat. She can barely breathe.

His movements are slow and careful. One after another, he unravels the braids, mindful not to tug at her hair. His skilled fingers smooth out the tangles, and every once in a while, they come to her scalp to caress it in a soothing manner.

She traces the curve of his jawline, and the mangled flesh, and the dark eyepatch. He looks rough and feels soft. He is made of contradictions.

When he takes out the last little pin, she breathes out.

It is the first time that he has touched her.

For a fleeting moment, their eyes meet. She wishes to wipe at the mirror, if only to make its image clearer. Has he always been this delicate? Is the glint in his gaze a novelty?

When he clears his throat and averts his eye, his intention to leave becomes explicit. Tension dissipates. This time, she makes no objections.

“Sweet dreams, my prince,” she mutters, and the answer comes in the soft closing of the door.

Her head emerges from beneath the water surface, and she greedily takes air in.

She has wasted her day on blissful procrastination. For the entirety of it, she remained inside the bedchamber, shielded from all eyes and gossip, obstinately rejecting the company of anyone who dared offer it. These people know nothing about her, anyway. Their wish to spend time with her is masterfully feigned.

Sometimes, she misses her home. She misses it so terribly that her lip trembles. She misses being known. Despite the passing time, she has yet to acclimate herself to the new reality. The Red Keep feels as cold as it ever has.

Would she be dismissed, she wonders, if they knew that her marriage was a farce? Would she be ruined, or given a chance to start over?

Perhaps she ought to confess the truth.

Or maybe—just maybe—she should seek out her husband and push him into a wall, and claim his lips until all restraint dies.

Her depraved thoughts seem to summon him.

Aemond enters the bedchamber in his usual manner, and immediately turns back towards the door once he catches sight of her state.

Her breasts peak from the foamy water.

Her skin tints red.

“You don’t have to leave,” she calls out.

The words are quick. Too quick to come across as nonchalant. She bites her tongue, but doesn’t take them back. Perhaps she has reached another level of desperation, and this is the only opportunity she gets to let it run free.

He is more dragon than a man. He cannot keep running from her in fear. She sees the moment that Prince Aemond seems to come to the same conclusion; his hand flexes at his side, once and then again. His shoulders become tense.

She is quick to bite back her smile when he turns around. He wouldn’t have seen it, either way, what with the way he keeps his eye stubbornly downcast.

As if she wasn’t his wife. As if seeing her bare skin was a sin.

Reluctantly, with his head courteously bowed, he moves to take a seat by the table, reaching out for a random book.

Water ripples when she sinks deeper into the bath. If he has no desire to see her, she will not strive to bear herself before him.

The silence is heavy.

“Did you go out for a flight?” she asks, itching to dissipate the suspense.

The Prince hums, as is his habit, and offers a slight nod. “I did. It’d been days since I last rode Vhagar.”

This is a part of him shielded at all times. He keeps it deep in the crevices of his heart—in its darkest, deepest corners. She doesn’t blame him for it. Even without understanding the nature of the fire in his blood, she recognises it as something private. Intimate.

But it is the first time that he spoke the name in her presence, and she cannot hold the reins of her unabashed curiosity.

“When you’re apart,” she begins, “does her absence feel like a missing limb?”

The Prince’s eye turns to her, and though they are far from one another, she is able to catch a glimpse of intrigue.

Briefly, she ponders whether anyone has ever dared ask him unpracticed questions like this. If there was someone who wanted to know him—his innermost beliefs and convictions, and his soul. If anyone attempted to push through the walls he has built around himself.

She supposes that the slightest widening of his eye is an answer in its own right.

Prince Aemond doesn’t immediately reply, and she bites her tongue. “Forgive me, my prince. It is not my right to ask.”

“You’re my wife,” he says simply. It is the first time he acknowledges it. “You have the right to ask anything of me.”

Keeping her bewilderment subdued, she arches an eyebrow when he nods to himself.

“It doesn’t.” Prince Aemond clears his throat, fingers fidgeting against the pages of his book. “It doesn’t feel like a missing limb. Even in her absence, I always sense her.”

It must be the most that he’s ever said to her.

The water has gone lukewarm. Goosebumps rise atop her skin. She could politely request that he take his leave in order to get out of the bath. She could.

She won’t.

“So a part of her lives inside you?”

He turns, and now they are facing one another.

Has the foam dissipated? She doesn’t dare take her eyes off of him, and so she cannot check. If the foam is gone, he can see the outline of her body. Does he see it?

No, she thinks. Surely, he would have already looked away.

“As does a part of me inside her,” he admits. “In more ways than not, we are one being.”

One being. Is this why he refuses to let her come close? Is it because there is no more space in his heart left for her to rest in?

It seems a plausible enough theory. In truth, all theories seem to be true when she’s wallowing in solitude and sorrow and rejection.

“It must be nice,” she murmurs, and this time she is the first to break eye contact, “to be known from the inside. Intimately. In the deepest crevices of your heart.”

Something in him changes. She catches it when she glances at him. The Prince’s hand abandons the book, and when he stands from his seat, she is sure that he’ll leave.

But he doesn’t. She gapes at him when he comes closer to the bath.

“Scoot over,” he instructs.

Her mouth parts, ready to sputter questions, but they all dissolve into nothing when she catches the intensity in his gaze.

She holds her tongue. No words could reflect the depth of her confusion.

Prince Aemond now watches her without past shame.

The scent of fire and smoke permeates the air, and she inhales it sharply. His heat engulfs her back in gentle flames, and she draws her knees to her chest, oddly bashful.

When she does as instructed, he is quick to put his hands on her scalp. A gasp falls from her lips at the touch.

He is washing her hair.

Does he hear her heart pounding? It’s so loud. So very loud.

“It does feel good.” His fingers weave through her hair. “Before her, there was no one who wished to know my heart at all.”

They dine with the Queen, and she engages in conversation with a desperate sort of enthusiasm. The past days have mostly gone in perturbing silence, and she yearns for the opportunity to erase it, even with idle talk. They speak of the gardens, and the ladies-in-waiting, and Princess Helaena’s children that seem to be growing more and more each day.

Aemond holds his tongue beside her, and the quietude in which he wallows no longer takes her aback. More often than not, his silence speaks for itself. All she must do is look into his eye to comprehend the words.

“Children are a woman’s greatest joy,” the Queen rambles on, and there is a softness in her face that takes away all remnants of the usual misery that she wields. “It is only a matter of time before you’ll find it yourself.”

She straightens her spine.

Words die inside her throat. Does she smile and change the subject? Does she confess that she will not find it—she’ll never find it—because her husband has no desire to be a husband at all? All protests and confirmations and pretty promises are insufficient. She thinks it is better not to speak at all.

She nearly jumps out of her seat when something warm engulfs the skin of her palm. It’s Aemond. He has taken her hand into his, and the way he holds her is both gentle and firm.

Do they not fit perfectly? Aemond’s hand is larger than hers; its lines are harsher. She lets their fingers lace together, and when she hesitantly turns her eyes towards him, she finds him already watching her.

He holds her gaze with unmasked expression, as if to say: this is me trying.

She is possessed by a surge of boldness.

The lights of the chamber are dimmed, and she is long prepared for the night. There is a tremble in her hands. She cannot discern if it’s one of trepidation or excitement.

Aemond offers nothing more than his usual greeting when he stalks into the room. It’s neither warm nor cold; as always, it’s not enough. She watches him stride towards the table, and he sinks onto the chair, hands reaching for one of the books.

He doesn’t truly read them. It took her a while, but she now sees right through his habits. Aemond repeats the same exact process every night. He sits with a book, and keeps his eye downcast, and sometimes—just sometimes—his gaze moves towards her when he thinks she isn’t looking.

Each day, he comes back not to read, but to see her.

Each day, she waits for him to act.

There are moments when they touch, and when their touches linger longer than they should. There are moments when he takes her hand into his, or brushes hair away from her face, or grabs her waist as he walks by. There are moments that she allows herself to push closer to the heat that he radiates.

She is tired of surviving on moments alone.

With her breath unsteady, she waits.

Aemond taps his fingers against the surface of the table, and she cannot help but observe the motion. His rings shine in the flickering lights.

“What are you reading?” she asks, keeping the buzzing anticipation on a leash.

His shoulders tense. She never interrupts his lectures.

The floors are cold beneath her bare feet. She keeps her pace slow. The distance between them shrinks, and soon she is standing right behind him.

Aemond’s heavy exhale hits her ears. She wishes she could preserve the sound.

With her shaky hands, she reaches for his shoulders. He is firm and solid; strong and warm. Scorching. When he says nothing—when he doesn’t move away—she lets her hold on him tighten. Just this once, she wants to touch him as though he was hers. Like a wife ought to. The way she never learned how to.

Emboldened by his stillness, she bends closer; their faces are at level. She brushes away the silver strands of hair that shield him from her, and soon she is free to take the sight of him in.

The line of his lips is thin and tight. There is a small, white scar on his temple. His skin catches the slightest hint of pink, and it crawls onto his cheeks in gradual motion. He is right there—right there—and her mouth is dry. She puts her lips to the soft skin of his cheek before she can hesitate again.

Aemond’s breathing turns rugged. She sees the rise and fall of his chest, quicker with every inhale. Her fingertips burn with the want to feel his heartbeat.

When she grabs the book he holds in a vice grip, he turns to her.

Their noses brush.

The air is gone. There’s nothing left of it. Her gaze trails from his eye to his mouth, and they’ve never been this close.

It takes the smallest tilting of her head for their lips to meet.

She is blinded. Flames flood her vision. Her heart bruises her ribs, and Aemond’s fire burns her tongue, and never before did she imagine that a kiss could leave her so ruined.

He is quick to match her pace. His mouth moves against hers with a brutal force; he breathes her in, and she catches the silent groan before it dissolves. She nibbles at his bottom lip, hungry for more, and when their tongues mingle, she no longer remembers her name. He’s sweeter than any cake she’s ever tasted, and she wishes to forever devour him—to never, never stop.

But then his lips are gone. Strong arms seize her hips, and he effortlessly moves her away from him.

She doesn’t understand. Aemond shoots out of the chair, and rushes towards the door, and she watches his shrinking figure—always, always watches him leave.

She senses his gaze on her skin.

An entire day has gone by, and she’s long since stopped expecting Aemond to return. Her heart has turned into stone. She forced it to do so.

And now he’s standing there. Watching.

“Am I not worthy of your affection?”

She regrets the obvious cracking of her voice, though there is little to do about it now. He isn’t deserving of the mask of collectedness that she could attempt to put on. She will not veil her hurt. Because he chose to cause it, he may well see its aftermath.

Aemond doesn’t answer. She knew that he wouldn’t.

“Is it because there’s no fire in my blood that you deem me below you?”

She turns, eager to see his features, and then almost wishes that she hadn’t. There is something broken about him. His face is ashen, marked by shadows of exhaustion. His lip quivers.

“I’m chained to you,” she half-whispers. “The least you could do is not tighten the shackles around my neck.”

“I never wished for it.”

“I never wished for it, either!”

There is a dull ache in her chest. The stranger before her won’t meet her eyes, and she loses her footing again, alone and tired and desperate for a change.

She won’t beg. She’ll never beg.

But she is not yet ready to stop pushing.

“You won’t even let me close.”

Aemond’s face crumbles, and she finds nothing in him but raw, agonising vulnerability.

“It is not easy to learn something so foreign.”

Her fingers find the lacings of his riding leathers.

They have succumbed to a heavy sort of silence. It stretches and grows; haunts their days and nights with equal intensity. She allows this quietude to exist with a trace of vindictiveness inside her bones. If one of them ought to break it, it is him.

As always, he prepares to leave with the first mark of sunset. She bites back all protests rising to her lips. She will not speak. Her words do little more than fall upon deaf ears.

She allows herself this much: crumbs of him, all stolen, when she stands close and brushes her fingers against his clothes. She ignores his scent, and his warmth, and the way her skin itches with the want to press closer.

Aemond’s eye scorches the skin of her cheeks.

He hasn’t moved away. She is glad not to have been forced to choke on scarlet shame—to have him flee her touch again would be the end to all the lingering remnants of hope. Aemond stands still and stiff, and she is half-convinced that he’s holding his breath.

She freezes in her tracks when one of his hands grabs both of hers into a gentle embrace.

The tips of his fingers are calloused. He strokes her skin with his thumb, and she clings onto the last of her composure, unwilling to melt before him.

A single touch. That’s how much it takes to shatter her resolve.

“You’re too good,” he says, and the words are little more than a whisper. “Pure. My hands could only ever ruin you.”

Her eyes find his, and she wishes she could decipher what remains unspoken by looking at him alone. She wants to know his heart and his mind. She wants to know all his thoughts.

Her greedy fingertips trace the lines of his palm. His hand trembles.

“How could something so gentle ruin?”

He has only ever held her with meticulous cautiousness. She knows his touch as tender and attentive. Warm. Doesn’t he see the shivers he evokes? Doesn’t he know that they come from fondness and devotion and the deep affection that she drowns in? He cannot ruin her. His hands are not capable of it.

Aemond doesn’t believe her. His vulnerability shows through the cracks of his usual composure. He tries to enshroud himself in indifference, but she has long since learned his mannerisms. The mask of blankness will not deceive her.

He attempts to tear his hand away, but she tightens her hold.

“Look at me, husband.”

It is a demand. Aemond must recognise it as such, because the lowered eye flickers and gives in.

Because she is a woman of weakness, she lets herself put a hand on his cheek. Her fingers hook under the strap of the eyepatch. She hears him gasp for air, and the sound reverberates in her ears like a prayer.

Her heartbeat is wild and strong, and she whispers, “Don’t you see? There is no fear in my eyes.”

The memory of his gaze induces odd tremors long after he departs.

The mattress dips behind her.

There is an onslaught of heat that spreads over her bare skin, though she has yet to discern what it stems from. The air goes still. Heavy.

It begins with a fingertip tracing the length of her forearm. The touch is featherlike—no more than a gentle stroke that lacks any pressure. So light. So light, barely even there, and yet at once she is consumed by flames.

“Husband,” she breathes into the night.

A rush of hot air hits her ear when he whispers an answering, “Wife.”

Aemond’s fingers traverse the expanse of the skin that isn’t covered by blankets. He moves from the side of her palm, through the nook of her elbow, higher, higher. His hand reaches her shoulders; fingers spread towards the outline of her collarbone, dipping into the crevices and searing a string of goosebumps into her skin. She holds her breath. Her heart pounds against her chest in violent patterns.

He smells of smoke. She wishes to inhale his fragrance until she chokes on it; until it fills her lungs and replaces all oxygen. Aemond presses closer to her, and she holds back a whimper when he moves his hand to her neck.

“I have neglected you,” Aemond murmurs.

“You have.”

“And now I must beg your forgiveness.”

Aemond’s hand closes around her throat, and she holds back a gasp.

Their bodies are pressed together. She exhales in surprise when she finds his forearms as bare as hers. He must have abandoned his shirt before crawling into bed.

Their bed. The bed that is supposed to be shared.

“I rather thought your constant neglect was deliberate practice,” she says, forcing her voice not to crack. “Why would you beg forgiveness for something you feel no remorse about?”

A gasp tears out of her throat when Aemond seizes her arm and flips her onto her back.

Their faces are close; closer than she thought they’d ever come again. In the pale moonlight, his features become soft and veiled. She wishes she could see him in sharp lights; wishes to trace every blemish and mark on his skin. This subdued version of him is not sufficient. She must imprint every part of him in her mind.

When he hums, her own skin vibrates with the sound.

She clamps her legs together.

“Yes,” he muses. “You have voiced your displeasure with astonishing fervour.”

Her lips part when one of his legs sneaks in between hers. He is quick to push her knees apart.

“As was my right,” she replies, and the words come out as breathless.

Aemond’s thigh is solid. She feels the flexing of his muscles against her own skin. Her nightgown rides up from the friction, and soon her calves are left exposed.

“You said you were chained to me.”

“And it was the truth.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when you pretend that you’re not chained to me as well.”

Slightly, slowly, she pushes her head up. His breath hits her cheek; her lips come so close to his chin that she could press them against it without straining.

Aemond’s fingers tighten their hold on her neck.

Their eyes meet, and it is fire clashing with fire. The purple gives way to a deranged darkness; Aemond’s face is unmasked. She looks at him and holds her breath. Looks at him until everything in the background blurs. Her trembling fingers reach to cup his jaw, and when they connect with the soft skin, he lets out a quiet gasp.

“I do it for your own sake,” he breathes out. “You know nothing about the depravities living in my mind.”

She trembles when his thumb comes up to caress her lips.

“So good. So pure.” Aemond trails the outline of her mouth, voice dropping with each word. “And yet you’ve instilled a madness in me that I can no longer quench.”

She wants to grab him by the neck and pull him closer. She wants their lips to press together; to meld into one, and turn to ashes from the force of flames. Does he know that she dreams of the shape of his lips? Does he know that her eyes trace it when he’s reading—that she now knows it by heart? His taste haunts her. Sometimes, she puts her warm fingers onto her mouth and imagines that the heat is him. Sometimes, she touches herself and imagines his lips nibbling on a different spot.

Keeping her scorching desire leashed, she remains still.

It is he who must cross the remaining distance. It is he who must light up the flames.

His hand comes up to her face. Her cheek tickles from his fingertips; lashes flutter when he brushes his thumb against them. She opens her mouth—to taunt him, or curse him, or beg. She only knows that she must say something. Anything. She cannot let this fire die. Her head spins and her skin tingles—

And then his mouth is on hers.

It is a hungry kiss. He aims to devour her. She moans into his lips when he bites down; he shifts his weight, and her skin burns underneath his body. Aemond holds her chin; tilts it to his liking, claiming her mouth with greed and lust and depravity. She forgets to breathe. There is no need for air when he’s this close.

Out of fear that he’ll try to move away, she wraps her arms around his broad shoulders. His skin is scalding-hot, and she cherishes the way it burns.

She licks his bottom lip, demanding entrance, and he is quick to oblige. Their teeth clink, and she pulls him closer, and soon their tongues swirl around one another, none willing to yield. He tastes like fire. She wants to swallow him whole.

They break apart when his fingers grab the fabric of her nightgown.

“I want this off,” he says, already hiking it up, impatient to leave her naked.

“Do you?” she teases.

Aemond is not in a mood for her games.

She gasps in surprise when something rips apart, and then she sees two pieces of white cloth hanging from his hands. He has ruined her gown, and seems to be awfully pleased with himself. She should make her displeasure clear—

He traces the outline of her lips with his tongue, and she forgets all about the robe.

“You’re so sweet,” he pants. “My sweet wife.”

His words push her to the brink of madness. Wife. Wife.

His eye trails from her lips to her throat, and lower towards her breasts. He looks at her peaked nipples, red and aching like her mouth.

One of his fingers brush against the pebble, and she stifles a moan.

“Look at you,” Aemond breathes, and his chest rises and falls with increasing intensity. “I barely touched you, and you’re already trembling.”

He must not realise the extent of his influence on her traitorous body.

She opens her mouth to tell him as much, but then his mouth travels down her throat and her breastbone, and soon replaces his fingers. He peppers her sensitive skin with kisses; nibbles at the flesh in the hollow of her bust. She quivers under his attention, hands finding the strands of his hair. When Aemond’s lips wrap around her hard nipple, she cries out.

His hand traverses up her thigh. Wantonly, she spreads her legs so that his hips can fit in the middle. He is quick to push against her—push until there’s barely any space left between them—and when she feels his rock-hard length, she forgets all about swallowing the desperate sounds. Her back arches, and Aemond keeps sucking at her breast, alternating between soft brushes of his lips and harsh bites of his teeth, and she is burning. Flames consume her whole.

She pulsates against him. Her walls clench around nothing—they’re empty, they’re empty, and she must be filled or else she’ll go mad.

“I want you inside,” she demands, nails sinking into his skin, too lost in her desire to veil herself with feigned innocence.

Aemond breathes out a laugh in response, and the warmth mingles with the cold saliva that he’s left on her nipple. She makes a strangled noise.

He raises his head, and there is a sudden sobriety in his expression. She knows its roots. Aemond insists on holding onto self-deprecation, and it is clear that he still doesn’t think himself worthy of touching her.

She will rip this doubt out, even if its thorns draw blood.

Her hands come up to cup his face.

With intensified ardour, she repeats, “I want you inside.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he rids himself of his resolve.

Her breathing turns rugged when Aemond grabs both her thighs, pulling them further apart. It’s dark, but he must see the way she glistens under the moonlight. Her cunt is dripping wet. She restrains herself from rocking her hips forward in search for friction.

“You do want me.”

She does. She does. She needs him, and she must be touched, and if he doesn’t bury himself inside her—

Her body jerks when Aemond’s fingers descend to her clit.

His touch is a firestorm. She shudders when he circles around the nub; all her rational thoughts die in flames. Aemond flicks his thumb back and forth across her clit with a firmness that has her panting. His digit is already slicked with the wetness pooling out of her entrance; his fingers gather the moisture and spread it over her pulsating lips. Her face and chest must be red with want. She wants him so much that it hurts.

A shaky moan tears out of her mouth when the pressure of his touch increases. Aemond speeds up his movements; it burns, it burns. She buckles her hips, and the muscles of his thigh tense, and he is watching her with raw wonder.

Aemond kisses her sloppily. The way their tongues brush against each other is filthy. She takes his bottom lip in between her teeth, and he grunts into her mouth, and his fingers don’t stop moving against her. The friction is euphoric. Before she knows it, it brings her over the edge.

She spasms beneath him, and he doesn’t let their lips part.

It is like reaching the stars. Like drowning. Like water given to someone dying of thirst. She’s suspended in a place without time; without faces that aren’t his. There’s just Aemond. His lips. His fingers.

He doesn’t slow until she cries out from overstimulation, and even then, he strokes her bundle of nerves in a featherlike caress.

“Touch me,” Aemond breathes against her shoulder.

Still reeling from her high, she is quick to oblige.

“Here?” she asks, hands trailing down his spine, and his answer comes in teeth biting her neck.

He’s softer than she ever imagined.

The way Aemond shudders underneath her palms makes it clear that he’s unaccustomed to tender touch. It breaks her heart into pieces to think of the boy he once was—the one so starved for love but unable to accept it, always, always thinking himself undeserving of it. It hurts even more to know that even now—even when they’re chest to chest, bodies bared and mouths connected—he believes himself unworthy.

He’s so soft. Hard. He is made of harsh lines and smooth dips, and her hands greedily traverse the expanse of his exposed flesh, hoping to prove that her desire for him has no bounds. She wants him as he is. She wants every part of him.

Aemond looks into her eyes, and the purples become blurry. “Your touch heals the rot inside me.”

She claims his mouth because she can. Because he is hers.

When he enters her, she is finally whole.

It hurts because it must. He pushes until the barrier inside her relents; he is slow enough to let her adjust to his length. Pain doesn’t take away the overwhelming sensation of being full. Her breath hitches, and Aemond is quick to steal another kiss before the sound dies on her lips. He kisses her once, twice—kisses her for so long that she forgets who she is.

His next thrust renders her dazed.

Aemond’s neck is slick with sweat. Emboldened—crazed—she gathers the dampness on her tongue. There’s a sound of skin hitting skin; he ruts into her with increasing force. She is not herself anymore; no longer recalls who she was before this. Before him. No one, she thinks. Empty, empty no one.

Her vision swims when his fingers find the spot where she aches most. Aemond sears the smallest of circles into her clit; one of his hands remains on her breast, and her eyes roll back from the onslaught of sensations. His cock thrusts inside her at an agonising pace. The stretch burns.

She begins to toe the line between lucidity and delirium, and he is there to carry her through the threshold.

Her fingers tug at his silver hair. Legs wrap around his waist with a crushing force. She holds him close, and he presses against her, and the sinful sounds that fall from their lips are surely loud enough to awaken the entirety of the Red Keep.

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care. Now that Aemond is inside her, she never wants him to leave.

Aemond’s grunts become desperate. His movements are stripped of control, and she feels him sink his fingers deep into her hips. He holds her like he wants to leave bruises; pulls her closer with each thrust.

“Is this duty?” he whispers into her skin.

“No,” she is quick to answer. “It’s not. It’s not.”

This is something else. Something more. This is wildfire engulfing her heart; flames bursting through her bones. This is her body moulding into his in a perfect shape; lines blurring.

When his teeth sink into her shoulder, she knows that he is close. She rocks her hips against him, meeting each of his thrusts. She’s somewhere high above ground. She is flying.

“Inside me,” she rasps with the last of her breath. “I want your seed inside me.”

“Fuck.”

It sends him over the edge.

Her toes curl. Aemond’s movements turn wild, bordering on violent, and when he shudders and cries out and collapses, he takes her right with him.

There are stars inside her, and all erupt at once. She can do nothing but thrash beneath Aemond’s solid body; hold onto him so she doesn’t fall. She thrums with pleasure and pain and something else—something she cannot name—that has her gasping his name into the darkness. Aemond. Aemond.

He smothers the words with his lips on hers.

She cannot breathe. Air isn’t sufficient for her lungs. Aemond’s hands trail up her body, slow and exhausted, and soon he is cupping her face.

Their foreheads are pressed together.

All she knows is the colour of his eye.

Husband and wife. He holds her close, and their heartbeats match, and they are one.

[theremustbeabear]

a lot of monster media has a hard time with balancing making their monster incredibly dangerous but also keeping the most important characters alive without it seeming like obvious plot armour

but i think the terror does a really great job--not just because they do allow it to kill a number of important characters, but because of the composition of the two scenes where tuunbaq is beaten

the first, in ep 5, is when tuunbaq chases blanky up the foremast, which, on the surface, seems like a very obvious case of plot armour. tuunbaq kills several other crewmen with incredible ease in that very same scene, but then blanky is spared long enough to escape from it, simply because he's an important character.

but that's not what's going on there. all of the easy deaths, so far, prior to this, have occurred on tuunbaq's territory. on flat ground, on the ice, and now tuunbaq is staking its claim on terror. but terror is still occupied, and blanky, especially, is a man who is more at home on a ship than land. tuunbaq is beaten, here, because blanky is playing with a home turf advantage. blanky does have armour, but it's not because he's an important character--it's because tuunbaq has invaded the space where he's most comfortable, and so he goes up, to where he knows a bear can still follow him, but it'll be exposed, and too heavy to follow him all the way.

and this show has done a great job of setting the stakes, already, by this point--the first time i watched this scene, even though blanky was so far surviving the confrontation, i was incredibly sure that he wasn't going to make it out. i thought for certain that he was going to have to sacrifice himself in order for them to hit tuunbaq with the cannon, and so it was deeply satisfying when he actually survived. i was so fucking happy, because i was already starting to get sad about him being dead, even though he wasn't dead yet, lol. it feels earned, when he makes it out, and fair enough that he loses a leg in the process, too.

the second, in the final episode, is i think a bit more obvious, and considering how many other major characters get torn apart, it doesn't feel quite so much like crozier has plot armour. but tuunbaq is once again beaten by using the things that are not native to its land, that tuunbaq isn't designed to deal with. the sick and poisoned flesh of the seamen it's already consumed, for one, and then the boat chain.

and, for the second time, in order to beat tuunbaq, a limb must be sacrificed--crozier's hand, i think, counts, even though he loses it after the confrontation is long over, because blanky only loses his leg properly after the fact as well. and i think this can be brought around to how tuunbaq's shaman must remove their own tongue to communicate with it--if one wishes to have any sort of dominance over tuunbaq, a part of their body must be given in exchange. silna and her father give their tongues, blanky gives his leg, and crozier gives his hand.

and it is emphasized through hickey's failure that tuunbaq cannot be controlled by the expeditioners. the colonizers. it can be beaten back, and suppressed, and killed, through sacrifice, but it cannot be harnessed. it belongs to silna's people, to the inuit, and cannot truly be taken away. the only way to beat it is by invading its home with foreign powers and losing something of yourself in the process.

tl;dr thomas blanky doesn't need plot armour because he's just that good /silly and also this show is just. awesome.

[gay-jesus-probably]

I like the general fandom trend to just take the plot of Hyrule Warriors as a loose guideline at best and just use the whole concept as a good excuse to get blorbos to interact across timelines, BUT I'm very disappointed that everyone is missing the comedic potential of a very specific squad of characters:

Young Link (aka Mask), who walks out of the nightmare of Majora's Mask and immediately gets portal kidnapped into a temporal war, takes one look at the whole mess and decides that you could not fucking pay him to admit to being the resident expert on Time Shenanigans. He introduces himself with the title of Hero of Termina, and definitely doesn't have any other ones, that would be crazy. Hero of Time? Never heard of him.

Tetra, who is a kickass pirate captain with zero patience for people trying to shove her into the Designated Princess role, and realizes immediately that Oh Fuck, this Hyrule has a lot of Ideas about how the Hero and the Princess are supposed to properly play their parts, the second they realize she's technically a Zelda they're gonna shove her in a goddamn dress and damsel her again, that's not happening. So she's definitely just a really cool pirate captain, nothing else going on here at all, definitely not the heir of the Hylian royal family in her time, that'd be crazy.

Ravio, who is literally just a palette swapped Link, meaning that the second his hood comes off, things are gonna get Awkward. There's no way in hell he's dealing with all that Hero baggage, that's Link work, so that giant bunny hood/mask is practically superglued to his head, and he's not taking it off for love or money.

Spirit Tracks Zelda, who is just in the Phantom Armour the whole time, and passing herself off as just a friendly ghost posessing a suit of armour to help the Hero of Spirits. Of course she isn't Princess Zelda, that's ridiculous, if she were a Zelda then people would start getting really weird about her technically being dead, and boy does that ever sound like a whole Thing she doesn't want to deal with, so she can't possibly be Zelda, she's just a nice ghost knight. Also, her teenage grandma is here, and that's kinda weird, so it's easier to just not admit to being royalty and avoid that awkward conversation.

Finally there's Sheik, who is not the Princess Zelda of the era straight up abandoning her war torn country for months at a time so she can risk her life in extreme cosplay for no clear reason, but is instead the actual Sheik from Ocarina of Time, who just beat Ganondorf like a month ago and is still trying to process what the fuck to do now. Also, he's been pretending to be a boy since he was ten, and is realizing there's a pretty good chance that he isn't pretending anymore, so that's a whole other can of worms. But for the last seven years of his life, being Princess Zelda meant certain death, so he's not really inclined to introduce himself like when in a new and stressful situation (not to mention he might actually just not be a girl named Zelda anymore), so he automatically introduces himself as just Sheik the spooky ninja man, and fuck he's in too deep to back out now, looks like he's committing to the bit. If you think you sense the Triforce of Wisdom on him, no you don't.

Cue shenanigans as the five of them attempt to hide that they're all actually kind of A Big Deal. The group motto is "Nobody says shit", which is usually delivered as a frantic hiss whenever someone slips up. Just the reunion between Sheik and Mask alone would be absolutely buckwild given how they parted, and how they're both frantically pretending to Not be involved with each other. For added hilarity and/or drama, Sheik gives his semi-bullshit cover story of having just been a friend of the Hero of Time, then runs into said Hero of Time and they both have to desperately pretend not to know each other, because if anyone picks up on the mountain of baggage between them then Mask is busted, and he won't hesitate to drag Sheik down with him out of sheer spite. Not to mention the weird balance of Sheik being used to this Link being a teenager that's actually a small child, and now has to adjust to Link who is a small child that's actually a teenager.

Also, i really feel like we're all missing out on the comedy potential of Ganondorf recognizing Young Link on sight and the two of them immediately launching into a grudge match with some extremely personal and specific insults on both sides. Meanwhile literally everybody else is just standing there watching, trying to process the fact that out of every single person that's been pulled out of time, Ganondorf only has personal beef with a literal nine year old.

I just feel like we're all really sleeping on the potential for Shenanigans here. The whole thing is an absurd mess, why not have some fun with it?

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Megathread: All Clues concerning “Elrond = Sauron” in “Adar meeting/Kiss scene” (2x07) - Part I

Fellow fans and I have discussed this theory several times, and in many posts, but I think it’s time to create the ultimate megathread, with all the clues, about it. 

And brace yourselves: this is a long read. The amount of evidence is mindblowing and so extensive I had to make two posts about it: Part II.

I) Visual clues:

1) The Touch ™

Let’s start with the obvious one:

This might parallel Sauron’s proposal to Galadriel in 1x08 (and even Galadriel’s reaction is somewhat similar in both scenes):

In 2x08, there’s also a callback to his previous offer (in Season 1 finale): I would have placed a crown upon your head. I would never have rested until all Middle-earth had been brought to its knees, to worship the light of its Queen.

In 2x07, there is an actual callback to Sauron’s offer in 1x08; when Galadriel reveals to Celebrimbor that she did wanted to accept Sauron’s offer (to be his queen):

2) Elrond's Inexplicable Glow Up

When Elrond arrives at Eregion, leading the Elven army, his face is soiled with dirt and mud. However, in the tent with Adar, he’s all cleaned up, with a fresh face, and pristine clean and polished armour and cloak, and flowing hair.

You have the beauty of your foremother, Melian of the Valar. If even a fragment of her wisdom is in your veins, you must know you cannot defeat me in battle. Adar can't see a pretty boy without gushing over him, 2x07

Why is this mention of Melian odd in this context? Melian was the Maia who fell in love with an Elf, Thingol, and birthed Lúthien, the Half-Maia, Half-Elf lady who married Beren, a human (and these two are Elrond’s ancestors). Maiar falling in love with Elves? Does this ring any bells?

Adar compares Elrond’s looks to one of the Maiar, angelic beauty (that Elrond, in spite of having Half-Half-Half-Maia blood, cannot truly have, no matter how attractive he is). And this isn't the first time in Season 2, that Adar talks about Maiar beauty, either:

And after what seemed endless thirst and hunger... I saw it. His servant's face. Sauron's face. And it was beautiful. Adar talks to Halbrand/Sauron, 2x01

There is also a lot of fire (red) on this scene; especially over Elrond himself: the ones who read my post about Sauron's color code in "Rings of Power" already know that red is the color used to signal Sauron's deceptions.

3) The Mystery of the Two Pins 

Hercule Poirot has entered the chat because the pin Elrond usually wears isn’t (1) the same as the one he has on in the scene with Adar, nor (2) the one he gives Galadriel: these are two different pins.  

Elrond’s pin is square-shaped and fits the circle; and the metal is mate. The one he used on the tent scene with Adar is diamond-shape and shiny (like Galadriel’s), and it’s placed on top of the circle (and not inside). 

3) Passing plot-device objects in an intimate manner is kind of their thing

4) The Two Saurons in Prince Durin’s speech

This is actually my favorite clue, and it’s used in mystery/thriller genre.

When Prince Durin is giving a speech to the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm to get them to fight for Eregion alongside the Elves, he mentions Sauron on two occasions. And what’s the footage on screen?

Sauron with Celebrimbor at Eregion (predictable):

But then, we have this: Elrond leaving the Orc camp after his meeting with Adar. Odd...

After we see him leave Orc camp, Elrond's next scene in 2x07 is him in full battle. Which might indicate that the battle didn't stop for Adar's meeting with Elrond... for some reason. 

4) Bear McCreary (OST)

“Elrond’s theme” is not present in the “Kiss OST”, which is strange, because when two characters kiss, usually their themes are mixed together. Yet, in 2x07, we only hear “Galadriel’s theme”.  

"Battle for Eregion": 4:27 - 5:20 (Kiss OST)

"Last Temptation": 6:27 - 6:55 (Rendition of Kiss OST with Sauron's theme on the background | this bit was edited and cut from 2x08, for some reason)

II) Autopsy of a Scene 

In this scene, we, the audience, see Elrond acting completely out of character. “Rings of Power” has established him as diplomatic character, a politician, and even Adar himself tells us this: "You are a courtier. More suited to wielding a scroll than a sword."

We do see (the real) Elrond growing into his “warrior” role in this episode, however, we still witness a certain vulnerability and unsureness to him during his scenes at the Battle of Eregion, because he’s starting his warrior arc, and we see him suffering with the loss of his kin, and his anguish and heartbreak over Durin not coming to help.  

We don’t see this in this scene, at all. It’s a completely different vibe. Here, his body language and attitude it’s like he owns the room. Even when Adar is a bit uncertain, "Elrond” is commanding and bold. Sure, he knows that Durin will come to help, but Adar’s legions are still massive (and the Dwarves only manage to control the situation in 2x08 because the Orc army is shattered and their leader is having a religious experience at the top of the hill).

Let's dig in:

"Your kin"!?

"Not before you have painted the sands of the Glanduin black with the blood of your kin."

Nevermind the threat, Elrond calls the Orcs Adar’s “kin”. Why is this odd? Perhaps we should recall Galadriel’s chat with Adar back in Season 1, to understand how the Elves truly see the Orcs:  

Adar: My children have no master. Galadriel: They are not children, they are slaves. Adar: But each one has a name. A heart. A heart. Galadriel: A heart created by Morgoth. Adar: We are creations of The One, Master of the Secret Fire, the same as you. As worthy of the breath of life, and just as worthy of a home. Soon... This land will be ours. Then, you will understand. Galadriel: No. Your kind was a mistake. Made in mockery. Adar reveals to Galadriel that he killed Sauron, 1x06

Galadriel calls the Orcs "slaves" and "your kind" because their existence is a mockery to the Elves themselves. Morgoth breed them as a corruption to Eru (Ilúvatar)’s creation (the Elves are called the “Children of Ilúvatar”). Meaning: no Elf alive would ever acknowledge the Orcs as “children” out of nowhere (let alone Elrond who’s meeting Adar for the first time, but apparently can read him so well like he has known him for ages).

The previous scene to Elrond’s arrival at Eregion, there's a lot of weight on Sauron’s blood being black, too: If you do not believe me, cut him open. Look at his hand, look at his blood. Black as pitch" as Celebrimbor describes it. We also see Sauron perform an illusion for his blood to appear red.  

Adar: My children have endured cruelties your bravest couldn't bear to hear spoken aloud. Elrond: "Are you prepared to spend their lives so freely, Adar? Are they?"

Why does Elrond keeps acknowledging the Orcs as "Adar's “children" or “kin”? He’s the enemy, and there is no agreement or diplomacy happening in this scene, because Elrond has been antagonizing Adar even since he set foot on that tent. There is no reason for Elrond to talk like this... unless he’s not Elrond, at all.

Because, in 2x01, we saw another character speaking in such a way: 

There is one. Since Galadriel's defeat, she sought out a new ally. An ancient sorcerer, to instruct the Elves in forging a new weapon. One you first told her about. A power over flesh. Do you remember those words? A power that will allow him to use your children as slaves in his army once more. Sauron/Halbrand "plants the seeds" of the Battle of Eregion in Adar's mind, 2x01

And this is the moment when Adar realizes that Halbrand is, in fact, Sauron, and later has Galadriel confirm his suspicion. It’s the mention of “his children” (Orcs) that triggers the recognition between them. Maybe, because: "Do you want to know what he [Sauron] offered me? [...] Children." He tells Galadriel, in 2x06.

The “idea” of the Orcs came from Morgoth, and Sauron was the one who used Dark magic to see it through. And, perhaps, that "magical imprint" creates a recognition between them, because, like Charlie Vickers said, Adar and Sauron share a deep and mystical connection.

Why is all of this relevant? Because after “Elrond” calls him “Adar” (“Father of the Orcs”), there is a switch on Adar’s whole demeanor, and we can even see him looking deeper into Elrond’s eyes, as if he was suspecting him not to be actually be Elrond. And we can see this in Adar’s body language:

Vorohil: The enemy outnumber us ten to one. So why the confidence? Elrond: Because I know something the Father of the Orcs does not. Vorohil: And what is that? Elrond: Even now Prince Durin is rallying a legion of Dwarves to our aid. And at the first rays of sunlight... you will guide them straight into Adar's flank [...] Ride to them now. Meantime, I will ensure that Eregion's walls hold for one more night.

Elrond continues to call Adar the “father of the Orcs” after he leaves the tent for some reason (force of habit?).

But it has to be noticed that Vorohil himself is puzzled by Elrond’s confidence and boldness. And why is Elrond sending him away, exactly? It’s not like Durin and the Dwarves need an escort to get to Eregion, we know they have been there before, in 2x03. Or is he sending him away for him not to tell anyone about this meeting with Adar? 

It's also worth mentioning that another character is also "ensuring that Eregion's walls hold for one more night":

Sauron: Lord Celebrimbor refuses to permit a counter-attack. He says the river will protect us [...] And that is why we're not going to obey him. Gather your finest troops. I am taking command of our defenses.

And how would Sauron know that the Dwarves are coming to help Eregion? Because King Durin III has one of the Seven rings of power, connected to Sauron himself. Which means that Sauron has a direct streaming service into Khazad-dûm, and is aware of everything that happens there. More; King Durin (by the power of his ring) doesn’t allow the Dwarves to help Eregion. Which means, the Elven army will be defeated (just like Sauron wants).

Planting the seeds of discord 

The diplomacy isn’t in the room with us, because we, the audience, don’t see Elrond trying to reason or deal with Adar in any way, shape of form. Instead, Elrond taunts him with doing Sauron’s biding and sacrificing the Orcs’ lives, while going full warmongering on Adar. 

Adar: Sauron is my enemy as much as yours. Give me what I need to defeat him and let us all be rid of him. Elrond: Is it not you that has done his bidding by laying siege to Eregion? Adar: Eregion has fallen into shadow. It belongs to the Deceiver now, as does every Elf within its walls.

What an odd thing for Elrond to say... How does he knows that Adar is doing “Sauron’s biding”? Has he earned his “gift of foresight” already? Without his ring of power? 

Elrond: Are you prepared to spend their [Orcs] lives so freely, Adar? Are they? Adar: The Ring for Galadriel's life. What is it to be? Elrond: Ask me on the field, when the neck with a blade against it is yours.

In this scene, "Elrond” is taking advantage of the Orcs’ dissatisfaction with Adar to create even more conflict between the “father” and his “children”. And the camera lingers on Glûg after “Elrond” says this: who was the first to betray Adar for Sauron, and stroke the first blow to kill him, in 2x08?  

Why is Elrond using tactics from Sauron’s playbook of manipulation and deception in this scene, exactly? Because, here, he’s “planting the seeds” of everything Sauron wants: the Battle of Eregion proceeding (as planned), the Orcs betraying Adar, and giving Galadriel a means to escape (which appears to be the only reason why Elrond is there, in the first place).

Houdini Elrond 

Elrond removes the pin in front of the Orcs and not one sees or says a thing about it. Glûg might have seen it (as I’ve read some fans saying), but Galadriel breaking free wasn’t going to stop the battle, so there was no point in him allowing it; and Galadriel killed several Orcs during her escape, so it kinds of contradicts the theory that Glûg  “let it slide” because he was upset with Adar. 

However, the Orcs being blind it’s one thing, but Elrond boldly faces Adar without his pin. Are you telling me that this corrupted Elf, with thousands of years old (older than Galadriel herself), doesn’t notice that Elrond’s pin is missing and that he took it off? 

What kind of sorcery is this!? Is almost like... magic.

"Forgive me"??

Why is Elrond asking for Galadriel’s forgiveness in this scene, exactly? It can’t be because he’s allowing her to stay as Adar’s prisoner, because he’s giving her a means to escape. And he looks very emotional for it to just be a trick to fool Adar. 

Also, Elrond being there in the first place is a contradiction to the promise he made Galadriel, in 2x04: 

Galadriel: Promise me, Elrond, you will put opposing Sauron above all other considerations. Even my life.   Elrond: I will make no promise whose asking is borne of that Ring. But I swear to you... defeating Sauron will come first. Even before you.

Is he apologizing because he broke his promise? Or because he’s about to kiss her (as I’ve read some saying)? All of these justifications seem kind of weak.

There’s another character who has a lot to apologize for, and who already had a similar to parallel this one, back in 1x05:

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

I’m just going to throw down my thoughts now real quick. Someone is obviously going to get taken over by Fyodor. This takeover seems to require blood to activate. Here are the potential options, rated lowest to highest by my own personal interest.

Random character we’ve never met - the easy and boring answer. Fyodor will body snatch one of the vampire guards he was communicating with. Fair amount of likelihood since he could easily have made the transfer of blood at any point, though I’m not sure yet if it needs to be an instantaneous thing or if his blood can lie dormant. Either way I think it’s a bit of an ass-pull with no stakes on our cast so I’m hoping this isn’t the case.

A named character outside Meursault - Probably someone he’s had a lot of contact with, so Fukuchi. This depends on the blood having a latency period and is also insanely contrived. I actually hate it more than the random guard.

The Catgirl thief - I’m assuming this is extremely unlikely since the host needs to be alive. But anyways. Women lovers here’s how we lose even worse.

Having said this now, I think it’s fairly obvious it has to be one of the other Meursault four. This is appropriately thematic and tragic, given that all of them place a lot of value on free will and self-determination, which a takeover by Fyodor would rob them of.

Chuuya - He spent a lot of time around Chuuya to be sure but there’s no blood on him. If there’s a latency period though, it is possible. I’m not feeling this one though, to be honest. I don’t see what narrative purpose it serves - Chuuya hasn’t had enough of a role in the manga for this to mean much, other than royally pissing Dazai off (which to be fair is definitely in character for Fyodor). I think it far more likely that Chuuya is going to be a witness for whatever comes next.

Sigma - High likelihood. He did get stabbed and had the memory transfer. I can’t remember whether Fyodor touched him with his wounded hand. It would be brutal for this to happen to him after he’d just broken free from his manipulation. But honestly I don’t know that Sigma getting taken over is all that interesting. For one, they’re going to need his knowledge (though that may be a reason for Fyodor to off him truthfully), and for another, I just don’t think Sigma’s… done enough as a character. I feel it would kind of render his arc in Meursault pointless to end his story here.

Nikolai - The most likely possibility to me. He is holding Fyodor’s severed hand, which he touched to his face. Fyodor’s ability probably kickstarts after his death, and Nikolai was the first to get his blood on him. Sadly, I suspect that if this is the case, this will be the end for Nikolai. If he gets taken over, I can’t see a reason or method to restore him to himself. What a horribly tragic end this would be to our favourite clown, his freedom snatched away for good by the one person he couldn’t help but get attached to.

Dazai - I dismissed this off-hand at first. Of course I did, Dazai is immune to abilities. I also want to be clear that I seriously doubt Asagiri will off his favourite boy like this. But oh man. What if Fyodor’s ability isn’t an ability, much like in the first skk manga team up? What if them both being there is a call-back to Rimbaud who snatched corpses, and Lovecraft who could hurt Dazai? What if Fyodor really has become no longer human - and this is the proof? I was kind of hoping the Meursault arc would end with Dazai (temporarily!) out of the picture, and this would be a way to do it - Atsushi and Akutagawa would have to step up, Chuuya could be more relevant. We could even have more Kyouka if what I’m starting to wonder is true - that Fyodor was involved in the death of her parents. At the same time, Dazai’s special boy plot armour nullification and mysteriousness gives us a plausible reason to bring him back. And all the while maybe they could continue their mind games, with Dazai being an annoying little pest in the back of Fyodor’s mind.

[achaotichuman]

Recently I delved into the depths of my docs to find the first fanfiction I wrote for ACOTAR that never saw the light of day.

Obviously it's horrible writing, but I like the premise and since I am addicted to piling more projects on top of my scheldule I rewrote the first chapter and redid the plot for it.

Originally these events take place a year or two after the war with Hybern, and everything is the exact same EXCEPT for somethin Tamlin is doing.

I changed it so that this is a fic of what would have happened if Tamlin didn't give over that drop of power to bring Rhysand back.

Anyway, here's there rewritten chapter. Tell me if you guys like it!

“Be happy Feyre.”

The words nearly tumbled out of his mouth. The carefully loving words that wrapped like ivy around his throat, choking him, those last cords of love that had twisted into something else. That had made him soft for her. He had offered his heart like ripe fruit on a silver platter for her to take and now look at where he stood. 

Bloodied, gore and guts clinging to his armour like a second layer of skin, mud caked on his legs and arms. Hair a mess, dirty and disgusting. His people, his armies, whom he had gone to his knees to earn the trust of them back, after she twisted their minds, undid their memories, stared in every personal thought to create a new story for all of them. One that fit her narrative. 

The damage she had caused, the things she had taken. What she had done, what she had cost not just them but all of Pryhtian. Destroying the Courts she had saved not even a year ago. 

Now, on her knees, holding the man who had assaulted her night after night after night whilst she vomited, cried and danced and laughed, and been drugged. She screamed his name whilst she cling to his lifeless form. 

The good for nothing bastard Lord was finally dead. Tamlin should have breathed a sigh of relief. 

Instead every High Lord stood around awkwardly, as one after the other they had willingly handed over their magic despite what this man had done to them. Despite how much they all hated him. They did it for his grief-stricken mate who screamed for them to help. To bring him back the same way she had come back. 

But he was dead for what he had done. Giving over power to remake the Cauldron, the mother had taken his very soul with the magic, the price paid to put the world back together. 

Truly, who were they to defy her?

Tamlin stood up straight, when Feyre stared up at him, eyes filled with tears as she saw his stone-cold face. 

“Please,” She screamed, “Please I’ll do anything!”

Green eyes cut from her to the other Lords. None made eye-contact with him. All looking elsewhere, anywhere, the grey-red clouds above, the torn battlefield layered with bodies on decaying bodies, the rivers running red with blood. Some of them, no doubt reminded of Amarantha’s reign of terror by the bloodshed, looked to the muddy ground. 

But none dared look in his eye, all knew what she had done to him. Her reasons for doing so. They also all knew what he had done to her. 

But staring down at her now, thinking back on all of it. 

Thinking back on the slander of Court, the destruction of his people. The lying, the scheming, the pure hatred. 

Then there was one final thought that struck true. 

What would they have all done if it had been him dead on the floor and not Rhysand?

The image of his bloodied mother, his dead brothers, even as cruel as they were, flashed before his eyes. 

“No.” He said. Standing tall and true, “I will not hand over my magic.”

“You fucking monster!” A girl with gold streaked blonde hair lunged at him from out of nowhere. Morrigan. 

She didn’t get far, from where she was knees deep in the mud. A flash of gold and a short-sudden scream from her. She was pinned to the floor with golden threads. Not painful, but certainly startling, and no doubt humiliating. 

Tamlin couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

Feyre stared up at him. Her wet blue eyes boring into his own with a deep-cut grief that would have broken him just a few weeks ago. 

Now. 

Now all he felt was mild pity, and a distant sadness, for the girl who had been killed under the mountain and never brought back. 

“Who's to say the real Rhysand would even return?” Tamlin said, voice mockingly kind, “When the first time we brought a human back, she was not the same at all?”

Feyre’s saddened eyes turned wrathful, her beautiful face twisting into a deadly scowl. All that hatred, focused solely on him. 

“You were what led me to my death! And now you refuse to even help him!” She screamed, the pain and grief tearing through her, along with the emptiness of where her mating bond used to be no doubt fueling her rage. 

“You led yourself to your death as did he.” Tamlin said, perfectly calm and stoic. She wouldn’t get a rise out of him. Not anymore. 

Tamlin looked to the others, “Think about all that male has done to us. Think of what his mate has brought down upon our lands. And maybe rethink tossing your magic carelessly at whatever dead corpse lays before you.”

“He is not a corpse!” Feyre shrieked. Her cries and screams becoming distant. Vague. As weariness bore heavy on him. For the mortal, the living, unfortunately exhaustion was a natural occurrence. 

Tamlin’s eyes went down to Rhysand. Least he’ll never be exhausted again. 

The thought was cruel, and maybe he was a horrible man for feeling relief. Staring into that lifeless face, knowing he was dead forever. Gone. Bound to never bring him misfortune again. 

“You are a heartless male.” A seething voice said somewhere near him. Tamlin looked towards where a limping Illyrian with blue siphons hissed, looking like he wanted to tear the High Lord to shreds but his own limitations and injuries prevented it. 

A cold, humourless smile broke out on his face. The Spring Lord looked down upon Feyre. 

“Give him your own magic.” He said, tilting his head, “Why don’t you hand over those drops of power you claim to make yourself so, so powerful?”

She was silent, as tears continued to stream down her face, he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Oh right, you can’t.”

He would leave after this and never see her face again, he hoped, but he didn’t bite his tongue to prevent the final blow, “Our magic is the only thing holding you together. You claim yourself so powerful. Above the rest of us entirely. The self-proclaimed High Lady of the Night Court, equal to the most powerful in all the Earth. But you really aren’t. You need our magic to survive.”

Tamlin looked back at Rhysand, and didn’t hide the relief on his face, “You can’t bring him back without us.”

The Nightmare was gone. Now all that was left was the cleanup. 

Feyre screamed, whether it was an insult, her hatred or simply incoherent, he didn’t know. He winnowed away. Back to Spring. 

It was time for a cleanup. 

And he had plans to make things right in his Court. In Prythian in its entirety. 

***

I probably will not continue this fic since I have so much I need to write already, but I think its fun to go back and reflect on my old ideas and rewrite to compare to how my form was before and how it is now.

[reneesghostinthelivingroom]

Hi, can you do a poly!plastics x fem!reader where the reader pulls multiple all nighters to study for a test and her girlfriends notice this so they scold her and make her take the day off to rest with them?

Sorry, I Can't Tonight

part 2 ||

|| poly!plastics x fem!reader

|| Warnings; swearing, Regina being Regina, exhausted reader, reader neglecting her girlfriends, short drabble

|| Summary; Gretchen asks reader to come hang out after reader's been bailing on them all week, Regina doesn't give her the chance to bail again.

Requests open!

Started; october 15th

Finished; october 15th

~~~

Test weeks had to be your biggest nightmare. You often spent full nights studying just to hope to even have a chance at passing. Tests have never been a strong suit for you, but you always tried your hardest and gave it your all. Usually on normal nights, you would be over at one of your girlfriends houses having a sleepover and movie night. More often than not it would be Regina's house; her having the comfiest bed.

This week... you flunked out on them four different times. All your focus was going into your tests, they were more than a little worried and definitely annoyed. Regina was the most annoyed with you. She didn't like the phrase "sorry, I can't tonight". And she was getting sick of hearing it.

The three of them had another night planned at Regina's and Gretchen had asked if you wanted to come. When Regina noticed you were about to turn it down- she didn't even let the words out of your mouth.

"No, absolutely not. You don't get to bail on us for a fifth fucking time, Y/N. This is getting insane." Regina said, her eyes sharp as she looked into yours. You felt timid, wanting to defend yourself.

"Regina, I have tests this week." You protested, she simply rolled her eyes at you and scoffed.

"So do we." She shot back at you. They all had their own tests in different classes than you, which made you feel a little guilty. How could they manage to put that much time aside for each other but you couldn't even be bothered to spend a night? "Y/N, you can't keep pulling all nighters. When was the last time you actually got sleep?" Regina asked.

You thought about it. Thinking back to all your nights this week... you didn't sleep. Honestly the fact that you even had to think on it should have been a bad sign. You should have just been able to say that it was last night. But you couldn't and Regina knew that.

"Y/N." She demanded. Not letting you get out of this one so easily.

"Last Friday..." It was Tuesday. How you were even a functioning human being you didn't know, probably something to do with plot armour or something. You sighed. Feeling the exhaustion finally hit you like a bus at your realization. Your muscles ached, your eyes tried to close as you started to slump forwards. You felt arms wrap around you and you could just tell that it was Gretchen. Her perfume gave it away when the smell reached your nose. You glanced at her and she kissed your forehead, shushing you before you could say anything.

"Let's get you to Regina's, baby." She murmured, you simply nodded and that was that.

Your girls took care of you the rest of the night.

[wizardprime]

the batfamily play minecraft

alfred: i don’t believe he can physically interact with computers

barbara: there’s always one person in the group who can do redstone and here it’s her. builds all the farms everyone loves having at the beginning of the game like the ender ender and a villager trading hall. as usual everyone would fucking die without her. servers she doesn’t join never really get off the ground for the most part because everyone is so used to having her farms on hand and gets lazy to play without them. would probably really enjoy elaborate progression mods like feed the beast

bruce: doesn’t get it. “what are you supposed to do?” “just whatever i want? that sounds silly.” if he gave it a chance i think it could be great for his mental health. i mean mining is basically meditation let’s be real. but let’s also be real he would try it for 5 minutes 30 if his kids really did the puppy eyes and then he would wander away and get killed by a zombie

cass: hard to say, honestly. depends on from what angle the game would be presented to her. she would probably enjoy the hanging out and the cozy atmosphere but she doesn’t strike me as the type to enjoy very grindy games beyond mindless resource gathering. she’d like hopping on the batfam server while everyone else is online and dicking around but alone i think she would just wander the landscapes aimlessly without progressing the game much.

damian: he’s collecting all the animals. 2.000 dogs and no sign of stopping. at least just as many cats. has wrangled half the passive mobs into his house, which is a wooden cube with a roof. it should be ugly but mostly it’s just really charming. i think he would enjoy the foxes

dick: also doesn’t get it. i think he’d prefer story based games or just straight up board games. he would enjoy the communal aspect and if someone introduced him to hypixel or something he would like that but i can’t see him enjoying casual minecraft unless it was a story based adventure map of some kind. he might like blightfall

duke: stacked. plays the game and plays it well. he has netherite armour while everyone else is just getting iron. he just strikes me as a minecraft kid. only other person who’s halfway decent at redstone, but only uses it to make cursed contraptions that give everyone else a headache.

jason: not the most impressive builds or the best with pvp but he likes to explore and creates really elaborate beautiful storylines into all his builds and the environments he cultivates that end up dragging half of the others into the plot. the kid who built fences around villages to protect the citizens from monsters. would enjoy mods that expand the minecraft world like better end.

stephanie: would play with incredibly silly mods that are all only working together with glue and hope. finding incredibly niche categories of speedrunning to complete just for fun; she actually gets briefly famous for setting a decent world record in something and would probably have many twitch followers if she didn’t already have med school and vigilante work to manage. maybe in another life

tim: doesn’t understand the term sandbox game and refuses to learn. he logs on and starts playing achievement hunter. not necessarily in a speedrunning way, but he does play the game like it has a tasklist. perpetual dirt hut tenant. either that or his unsupervised internet access as a child has lead to minecraft youtuber trauma

[2kverrr]

MATT TAYLOR - Dating Headcanons

UNTIL DAWN || Matt Taylor x Reader

like every other year, the washington family open up their lodge to their teenagers for the winter. everybody had been waiting for this time of year, booze all week long, no rules, only friends, snowfights, blasting music in the middle of nowhere - to put it shortly, it's haven.

big movie nights on the big projector with hot chocolates and lots and lots of booze

you and matt had been plotting activities since summer, dodgeball in the main living area - come on, it's massive. what else are you meant to do in a room that big?

sledding - even if it meant falling off the edge of a cliff, its all apart of the fun.

matt loved making plans with you, you've never been too sure why, because you're not very punctual, you're an extremely dangerous driver and quite forgetful.

he's an attractive guy, sporty and in shape, really kind; it was a mystery to you why he was still single. it's not like girls actually go for brains anymore - you don't think so anyway.

secretly the group were rooting for the two of you, you oblivious of course, but matt had planned this all out, all fun and games but then you 'accidentally' trip or 'accidentally' fall and in desperate need of a knight in shining armour, then that's where he comes in, heroic and masculine, you are immediately in love with him, you get married, move to fiji and have 4 kids (the first of the bunch HAD to be called matt. jr). it's pretty specific.

it's the day of the winter break we'd all been waiting for, mike had already prepped matt for this big breakthrough. mike slaps his hand onto his face and slowly drags it drown with a grown, "bro, stop being such a pussy - worst she can say is no. no?" the two continue to stroll towards the lodge, slightly unsure where they were headed in the snowy atmosphere. “yeah, i get that,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, “but what if she laughs at me?” the thought made his stomach twist uneasily, and he shot mike a frantic glance. you knew matt's used to being the object of jealousy, he's much like mike in that sense, he doesn't have to do much to be adored by people. “dude, she’s not some goddess in a tower,” mike said, rolling his eyes. “she's just a girl! think about it. you’ve spent half your life being friends, spilling deepest and darkest secrets, spending the majority of your time together - hell even your distant family have nicknames for him. "god damn it man! you know her better than anyone, so you should be first to know how she'd react.” matt shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to portray an air of confidence he didn’t truly feel. “just be yourself. you’ve got this.” he whispers, spotting you exiting from the ski lift, patting matt on the shoulder and leaving him with you.

the walk up was oddly awkward, in fact the first 3 days were uncomfortable with the curly-headed boy.

of course, that did not stop you from getting black out drunk every night. day drinking faded into beer pong, then faded into shot competitions, then another cheeky drink when you woke up to prevent any hangover.

matt tried his hardest to get you to lay off the drink, but automatically josh would interrupt and tempt you even more.

it had to be past midnight at this rate, ashley fell asleep on the couch with chris, beth gently placing a blanket over the two of them. sam was attempting to defuse a row between mike and emily as hannah observed hopefully, while josh was falling asleep mid-conversation with jess - embarrassing. all while you were basically fighting matt to grab the bottle out of his hands. “give!” you reach out, but just like every other time, matts long arms push at your shoulder to keep your distance. you huff, stumbling back with half closed eyes, “cocksucker. i’ll find something else. hell - i’d eat crack if josh had any.” you remark with flailing arms. you had promised yourself a good time, a good time that didn’t involve battling your best friend for a taste of liquor. "come on, how about we go find the biggest bed for you to sleep in, i'm sure emily won't notice." his eyebrows raise, awaiting your drunken response. your mouth drops in a shocked manor and your eyebrows furrow as though your offended, "wow - matt, nice going." you try to cross your arms but you end up stumbling into the counter, the boy's hands immediately reach out to stabilise you. "it'd take a lot more than that to take me to bed, thank you very much, mr taylor." you scold, trying to inject a sense of indignation into your slurred words. the room felt like it was swaying gently; perhaps it was the alcohol or maybe just your overwhelming desire to keep your balance. you glared at matt, half-heartedly trying to regain your composure, but the corners of your mouth couldn't help but twitch into a smirk.

you couldn't remember much after that, besides the blinding light bursting through the curtains beaming into your eyes, only a single silhouette there to block it.

you're quite used to getting black out drunk, in fact you've got a casual routine, wake up, hole into your head until you stumble towards the cabinet wherever you are, managing to grab some sort of pill. lie in the bath - this is a crucial step. no water besides from when you awkwardly attempt to drink some from the tap. eventually you throw up the pills you'd taken, so you take a few more. at this point you should be okay to get up and carry on with your day.

you tell yourself this is how it’s meant to be; the routine is as much a part of your identity as the lingering pallor in your cheeks. you’ll put on a brave face, mask the chaos with a smile, and carry on with your day, ever-so-slightly hopeful that today might be different.

though you're not so used to going on a three day bender, every drink you consume having at least a drop of some form of alcohol. so your routine didn't exactly apply.

"hey," a voice whispers, slowly placing a cold cloth on your head, “you okay?” it’s light and gentle, a contrast to the erratic thrum inside your skull.

you squint against the light and the silhouette shifts, revealing matt, but this time with a softer expression, worry etched into the corners of his eyes. “you were insane last night,” he says, half-smiling, half-concerned. matt takes a deep breath, the worry still lingering in his eyes, and leans back in his chair, allowing you some space.

“seriously, what were you thinking?” he asks, his tone shifting to something more serious.

“you can’t just push yourself like that, especially when you know you haven’t slept in days.” the warmth of his concern wraps around you, thick and palpable, grounding you even as the room spins slightly.

"shit, " you roll over, while trying to sit yourself up, "i'm really sorry" your hands slowly and deeply massage your face, "can't remember a thing."

matt softly chuckles, placing his hands onto the arm rests, “well, where to begin? you were fighting me for a drink. scolded me for tying to sleep with you, which was the opposite of what i was doing. you searched the house for cigarettes and eventually gave up and tried to uber 3 bricks of coke to the lodge. erm… you threw up in the hot tub, on the counter, on emily, on me and i think a bit of miles show when you threw up on emily for the second time.”

you suppress a groan, sinking back into the chair as matt’s words cascade over you, each one accompanied by an embarrassing flashback that jolts through your mind like electric shocks.

"what?" it was all you could say. frozen and still in your own embarrassment.

“oh! and let’s not forget the part where you tried to convince jessica that she was actually a mystical mermaid forced on earth to enchant her way into human hearts."

you open your mouth to speak but the curly-haired boy continues.

“-not quite done yet, darling. you couldn’t let go of this ‘mermaid theory’, convinced you could see jess’s scales. so you flung your drink at her and then yelled ‘be free, my aquatic queen’ right in her face.”

you wince, burying your head in your hands. “for fuck's sake, please tell me you're lying,” you let out a muffled groan. matt's infectious laughter rings in your ears, despite your mortification and god awful pain you're in.

matt leans forward, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “and after your mermaid debacle, you decided to perform a dramatic interpretation of 'under the Sea' from The Little Mermaid for the whole living room."

you immediately butt in, "liar!" you rarely ever laugh in front of your friends, never mind whatever this is.

"i swear I’ve never seen sam laugh and cry at the same time.” he shakes his head, barely able to contain his amusement as he gestures broadly, “you were flapping your arms like a fish out of water, and the way you-“

you roll your eyes, “enough!” you raise your voice, a slight anger in your tone as your embarrassment begins to ebb. you immediately feel bad for the once giddy boy, "sorry, i don't usually tend to have hangovers this bad…" you say, a hand attempting to tame the pounding in you heard, you put the boy at ease with a smile, "…did i at least have a good audience?"

"an audience of friends who might never look at you the same way again,” he teases, but his smile is warm and understanding. “but hey, that’s what makes us family, right? You do something outrageous, and we love you for it. maybe not jess… or emily. but the rest of us do. i love you.” his words hang in the air, unsure of their stance, good bad? neither of you knew.

“you love me?” you manage to say, half teasing and half genuinely astonished, heart fluttering uncomfortably in your chest.

he briefly fixes his posture, shuffling in his seat, “maybe. even thought you can be a bitch and you have a slight alcohol issue, you’re still lovable.”

you take a moment to take a note of reality, the mess on the floor, presumably caused by you. your hair was unspeakable, makeup smudged, deep and heavy eye bags, one of your lashes hanging off your cheek while your other was probably exploring the outside, it’s definitely… a look.

“even after all this?” you wave down your body and across the room

he leans forward, fiddling with his thumbs, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. “that’s exactly it,” he says gently, “you’re unpredictable, messy and unapologetically you, and i think it’s fucking awesome. you’re so… so, so, so real.”

his sincerity makes the room feel smaller, as it the weight of his words could encircle you both in an element of quiet intimacy. you can throw but smile, your heart swelling. “so, what does this mean for us?” you query hopefully.

“maybe it’s the start of something new.”

you made the bold decision to lay off of the drink for your own sake (also because it took you the rest of the week to recover) - instead you’d accompany matt in whatever he was up to.

mike felt a bit disappointed that his pep talk was wasted on a sappy conversation rather than a manly knight in shining armour act.

jess eventually forgave you, insuring you tell her everything about the two of you. emily would occasionally listen in nonchalantly as she clearly hadn’t forgave you for the sick-tuation (get it? i’m so sorry)

matt takes pride in waking you up with a drink or some food, it’s a bit difficult when your only options are out of the washingtons’ sparse cabinets.

you had to make a slight change in your ‘how you got together’ story when meeting his parents, either way they loved you, and thought you were a great reason for matt to take his laser focus off of football.

speaking of football, you’re at every game wearing some old spare shirt he had laying around.

when he first met your parents, god it was something you should’ve prevented. matt sides with your mum’s every word, dishes, staying out too late, waking up too early. honestly everything and anything.

he’s easily the most caring, you’re always on his mind, your wants, your needs, what you’re doing, how you’re doing.

in return you help him study, you’re not much smarter, but with matt, you find fun in the coursework.

[thefrogdalorian]

The Best of Both Worlds

Din Djarin x Female Reader Modern!AU

Summary: When a new Star Wars TV show called The Mandalorian premiered, you found yourself completely enamoured with the titular character. Enjoyment of watching the lone bounty hunter travel through the galaxy quickly turned to obsession. There was just something about the show that captured your imagination. Now, you spend much of your free time — when you're not working a fast-paced, minimum wage and incredibly stressful job at a prestigious London Museum— speaking to your online friends about your love for the show. There's just one thing... Despite how much you love The Mandalorian, no one knows the identity of the man behind the helmet... either in the show, or in real life. You only know him as Mando. No one has ever seen his face, no one knows his name.  Even after the countless hours of speculation from fans online, which even you have occasionally participated in, no one is any the wiser to the identity of the mysterious man who wears the shiny armour.  Surely, given the depth of your love for the show, you'd recognise if the man who you spend so much time obsessing over online was to ever cross paths with you. Right?

Content Warnings: Reader is AFAB, uses she/her pronouns and in her mid 20s. Age gap between her and Din is noted but not really central to the story. Grogu is human, hints of past trauma/child abuse before Din adopted him are mentioned but not described in detail. Some mature scenes later on in the fic but not explicit smut... because I just cannot write x reader smut! Author's Note: SO very excited to finally share this fic! Thank you to the lovely @suresnips for being my beta. I really appreciate you ♡ This baby was originally my NaNoWriMo 2023 project and was inspired by this post from @toxic-seduction that I saw one evening and couldn't stop thinking about! POVs will alternate chapter to chapter from Din to reader. It was fun to write that way! Set in London for a few reasons: partly because I love the movie Notting Hill and it has some of those vibes (if you squint), also, the village where Din lives is based on Elstree Studios just outside London, where the OT was filmed and ultimately because NO WAY was I writing a modern!AU set in the states, it would've been painfully obvious a Brit wrote it. While there are lots of references to places in London, I don't live there so it might not be truly accurate (Londoners don't come for me). Also, to be political for a sec, reader works at the British Museum and I hate that institution. This was actually the line of work I was interested in when I was at Uni but for many different reasons I did not pursue it. However, it works for the plot of this story and as you'll see, she doesn't exactly love it either and goes on a few rants. Just wanted to make that clear that her job there is not an endorsement of it or anything. I can't stand them or their historical apologist bs and I wish we would give back all the things we stole (including the Parthenon Marbles)! Finally, it was incredibly important to me that the actor behind Mando in this fic clearly be the fictional character of Din Djarin rather than the real person Pedro Pascal, because rpf is not my jam! I hope I did that pretty well but just wanted to warn that if you're expecting me to use Din as some kind of way to write a Pedro fic, this won't be for you! Okay, I'll shut up now! This fic is fully written, just needs editing so hopefully I'll get a couple of chapters up each week, but life happens. I'm very proud of this one and I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Also if you would like to be added to my taglist for this fic, please let me know! Happy reading ♡

❁ My Masterlist ❁ Read on AO3 ❁

Why Does It Always Rain On Me? [Reader POV]: After a dreadful day which saw you drenched by a rainstorm after leaving a hectic day at work, you reflect on your love for Mando and upcoming excitement for the sci-fi convention you will soon be attending with your internet best friend.

He Is My Only Priority [Din's Pov]: The character of The Mandalorian is known and loved by millions. But there is another, much softer side to the man who portrays him that Din Djarin is determined to keep hidden from the world, despite the challenges that presents for him and his beloved son, Grogu.

This Is Why (I Don't Leave The House) [Reader's POV]: Your internet bestie arrives in preparation for the Star Wars convention you will attend together. Everything is set for the greatest weekend of your life! Until you arrive at the con and find yourself overwhelmed by all the crowds and noise. At least you have numerous incredibly realistic Mando cosplays to distract you from how stressed you feel, and there's one in particular which is uncannily accurate...

Curiosity Killed The Cat [Din's POV]: Despite his reservations and against his better instincts, Din heads to a Star Wars convention that he was invited to. Although he fears that his cover will be blown, curiosity gets the best of Din and he can't resist attending a panel. But Din doesn't exactly find the answers he was looking for. Instead, he finds something far more precious. Something that he would never have expected...

He's So Tall (And Handsome As Hell) [Reader's POV]: Being back in the real world and returning to work after an incredible weekend at the convention where you had so many fun experiences is taking its toll on you. The thought of collapsing on your couch in front of The Mandalorian is the only thing keeping you going. However, the universe has other plans for you. News of an out-of-hours tour for a private client that you are asked to lead almost sends you over the edge, but when you finally meet the man, he is the opposite of what you were expecting. Weirdly, he seems familiar...

With A Little Help From My Friends [Din's POV]: Din returns to the set of The Mandalorian to begin filming a new season. Despite his experience and capability, he finds that he struggles to focus as his thoughts remain firmly fixed on a certain someone...

You're The Sunflower [Reader's POV]: Despite feeling certain that you'll never see the ridiculously handsome man you gave a tour of the museum to, a special delivery is about to change everything...

Your Face Hung Up High In The Gallery [Din's POV]: After a difficult few days of filming The Mandalorian, Din is excited to spend time with you as he finally takes you on your first proper date...

Have I Known You Twenty Seconds or Twenty Years? - (Reader's POV):  Despite a messy evening which led to you waking up in an opulent hotel which you have no memory of falling asleep in, memories of kind brown eyes and breathless kisses soon come flooding back to soothe your soul. Your relationship deepens as the two of you spending time together whenever your busy schedules allow. But one night, a turn of events causes you - despite Din's reassurances - to wonder if everything you have been working so hard to build together has just come crashing down around you...

There's A War Inside Of Me - [Din's POV]: The realities of the secret he is keeping from you begin to weigh heavily on Din's mind and he seeks advice from a certain curly haired co-star on what his next move should be. Things don't go exactly according to plan, not least because of the typically awful English weather...

It Could Be Love, We Could Be The Way Forward - [Reader's POV]: With your respective busy jobs keeping you and Din apart, a mystery date after a hectic day at work is exactly what you needed.

The Calm - [Din's POV]: When filming overruns and conspires to keep Din from the fun weekend he planned for you, he agonises over his decision. Fortunately, he manages to salvage the weekend, even after a calamity involving a rowboat...

The Storm - [Reader's POV]: The happiness you feel in response to a question Din posed to you is somewhat clouded by lingering doubts. Yet your affection for each other helps you to push those emotions down, until a weekend spent at his cottage changes everything...

P.S. - I tried to be inclusive for all body types and skin tones in this fic, but if I missed something, I do apologise. If you do spot something that takes you out of the fic, I am more than happy for constructive criticism as I wouldn't want anyone to be excluded on those grounds. I am always trying to do better and would love to know where I went wrong so I can improve and be more aware of these things going forward, so I would appreciate it if you could let me know if you do spot anything. Thank you so much! ♡

[ryuryuryuyurboat]

"guess you fell for me, huh?"

synopsis: you accidentally catch a (cute) stranger who fell off a hill. what do you do?

genre: fluff, crack(??)

characters: lyney x gn! reader, adventurer! reader

warnings: usage of french (feminine) terms of endearment (translation at bottom), first meeting, reader is referred to in second person, i think i made lyney a bit ooc, not proofread

a/n: inspired by my darling housemate tripping over her own foot and going "i think i fell for you" without missing a beat to the other housemate that caught her. idk how the physics works for falling off a hill into someone's arms (the impact should be enough to at least give you some bruises i think) but we shall assume plot armour LMAO likes, reblogs and comments highly appreciated!!

©2023 ryuryuryuyurboat. do not repost, translate, plagiarise, or modify in any way, shape or form.

masterlist

it was supposed to be a normal day for you. emphasis on “normal”. you had meant to complete your commissions, collect your payment, and spend the rest of the day in your residence. sleeping. and snacking.

you stare down at the ash-blonde (a terribly cute one too, mind you) in your arms bridal-style, who is currently grinning up at you. archons, that grin…

“are you alright?” you ask, checking him for injuries. anyone would be equally concerned if someone dropped into their arms from the sky.

“i’m alright now that i’ve met you, ma belle*.” the absolute gall this man has, sending you a wink like that. you feel your cheeks warm. low standards, sure, but the way he said it was just too charismatic! 

“a-anyway, i’m glad you’re not hurt. what even happened?” you place him down, making sure he was standing properly before letting go.

“ah, well, it’s a little embarrassing…” he rubs his neck, looking away. “i was, uh, trying to collect marcottes, and as you know, it just rained not long ago, and, uh, i may or may not have slipped. and fell.” he gestures vaguely at the hill behind you. 

“ah.” is the only thing you say in reply.

“i have to say, if not for you, ma chère*, today would have ended very differently for me,” that silly little grin is back on his face. “please, allow me, the greatest magician lyney, to treat you to dinner tonight as sincere thanks for being my saviour.” he takes your hand in his, kisses its back, his eyes trained on yours all the while.

you finally can’t resist the urge. “i guess you really fell for me, huh?” 

lyney stalls, a shine in his periwinkle eyes, and you take the time to admire his features even more. he may have fallen into your arms, but it seemed as though you were the one who fell hard.

*translations: ma belle = "my beauty"; ma chère = "my dear". both terms can be taken as the equivalent of "sweetheart" or "darling" in english!

tags: @diorlumx, @i23kazu (send ask if you want to be tagged in future works!)

if you liked this, do consider dropping me a follow for more :>

[mylittlepond]

Outfits I think book Irulan would wear:

When she goes to Ix while plotting. Lots of furs, with pearls as embellishments, beautiful, asture yet good enough to conceal a tiny hidden weapon maybe?

A few headpieces for when the occasion demands:

Something like this at court to appear more imposing

And something like this for a state function

She'd stick to layering like we saw her in the movie, in order to project her importance as Empress and also because the layers act as her own armour against the world.

I think she'd also go with a lot of monochrome fits, white and silver in particular not only because they enhance her features but also give the feeling of innocence, a mask of sorts but also a power move combined with the head piece, something very dichotomous.

She would include jackets and coats in her wardrobe with intricate detailing, a bene gesserit hidden pattern to send a message

Or something subtly showing allegiance to her father and parent house while also establishing her own role.

For something more relaxed she'd combine the colours of corrino and atreides, an orangeish blue, her own take perhaps and borrow some symbolism from arrakis, a looser style with yellow for the desert.

Lastly, I think her robes and casual attire though, would reflect her inner feelings the most. Gold for royalty along with symbolising the lions of her house, flowy silhouettes for comfort with some structure to show the routine and duty she holds dear.

[pruneunfair]

What I would change about these manhwas

Matthias is the antagonist as he should be

Instead of a toxic romance story, it would be a story of survival in an abusive relationship

Would tackle the darkest parts of being a mistress to a rich man as a commoner

Claudine wouldn't be a villain and instead another victim of Matthias who becomes Laylas ally

Kyle is the new love interest

The ending would still be very tragic but Layla will at least escape her toxic relationship with Matthias

Obviously Javier isn't going to be the love interest anymore, that will go to Lucas

Javier also won't be a slave bought by Reilynn, they will meet normally and develop a found family like relationship

Iris will be more competent as a villainess

The empire would currently under the ire of the populace and on the brink of a revolution, meaning that Reilynn can't throw money everywhere to solve her problems while acting like a smug asshole about it without consequences thereby making room for character development

Her reputation will be lowered not just for the og villainesses past but also because of her latest behavior.

Reilynns new goal to avoid being sent to the guillotine by future revolutionaries would to try and become a better person with other allys like Javier to help her become more mindful of others

Honestly not much

Just have it be more faithful to the novel

Meaning Keira doesn't need a love interest

Ragibach learns Keiras game and starts to scheme with more strategy, making her an ever growing threat that gets stronger with each defeat she learns from

Zeke gets more attention

Ariande will still have the mentality that she's not wrong but it will actually be acknowledged as a flae

Isabella keeps her high intelligence and cunning behavior in the 2nd life

Ippolotio and Lucrezia are less cartoony villains and more disturbing as people

Larriesa is more then just a yandere fiancé, she'd have a backstory explaing her desire for love and her behavior will be toned down

Arabella would live longer then she did originally

Pretty much almost everyone will be an awful person with consequences

The golden rule will actually matter and give Ariande consequences when she does something evil

Ariande will try to understand her newfound powers instead of forgetting about them until the plot needs it

The first life will be referenced more

Hestia would be called out for her behavior

Cael would no longer be a cardboard cutout

Diana isn't the villainess anymore

The story would focus less on petty revenge but on all of the characters growing as people

The idea is how our biases for our favorite characters can cause us to literally distort the truth

As such instead of constantly blaming Diana until the very end, Hestia would focus on what SHE likes instead to get her mind off of it and discovers how thrilling life is again when she let's her revenge plot go

Cael's suicide would be treated less as a plot device to prove why Diana and Helios are evil but as an actual arc that brings up the real struggles of depression and suicidal thoughts

Helga would eventually stop taking everything out on Hilianne when she realizes it's not her fault the Duchess abused her

Of course this also means Hilianne won't be the punching bag

not all of the male characters will fall in love with Helga

lower Helgas plot armour SIGNIFICANTLY

let the other side characters actually use common sense and call Helga out on some of her bullshit

The running away plot would be handled better

Include some more flashbacks on Alisas family in Edenverre and drop more lore on the siblings we knew less about

Marianne will have more screen time to properly explain how her powers work

Luminas will either not be the love interest at all and instead be a mentor fot Aishas later abilities or he could be MENTALLY Aisha age so theres no maturity gap (think of Luminas still being 2000 but he's physically and mentally a early teen like Aisha)

Aisha would actually feel guilty about the innocent people killed by her father just for being related to her assassin

Ysis and Aisha would have more realistic sibling moments (Ex: Ysis doesn't immediately believe that Aisha is a reincarnated princess of the enemy empire)

Aria will still be descended from commoners

The war between Aria and Mielle will be more equal, basically a battle of traditional villainess vs white lotus

Asher would have a life and personality outside of Aria

The maids would also be their own characters and have some dignity

Isis is actually utilized properly

[evanhereonearth]

Banal Nadas

I wrote this literally years ago, but it actually became canon, so beware spoilers for Veilguard. (I feel powerful, lmao.)

Ilaana Lavellan meets a spirit in the Fade in a moment of anguish--a spirit with a lesson to help her save her beloved.

***

“It was not supposed to happen this way,” the spirit breathes, and it sounds so like him that I am rooted to this patch of the Fade.

“His words,” I say softly, looking around as if I will see his eyes upon me, as I so often have.

“Yes,” the spirit says. “You are here now, and it has happened this way.”

“This is also correct.”

I am in a vast forest, the Brecilian Forest, I think, though I have never seen it in life.

“To find interesting parts of the Fade, one must be interesting.”

“Also his words.” I look at the spirit curiously. It hovers between two enormous ironbarks, titans in their presence, the two trees so close they should never have grown to such size.

The metaphor sinks in a moment too late. I wince.

“Ar lath, ma vhenan.”

Curiosity will quickly become annoyance. I move onward, trying to hold tight to my purpose tonight. I’m running out of time. I’m running out of time.

“Var lath vir suledin!” The spirit is anguished, as I was anguished when I said the words.

I stop. “My words. Why?”

“In another world.” Something of this spirit clearly relates to me and Solas so strongly it seems to want to regurgitate much of our most painful conversations.

“I’ll bite,” I tell it. “Why not this one?”

“You are asking better questions,” the spirit says.

It turns away, in a different direction than I planned to go, but I have made friends with Acceptance, Compassion, Wisdom, Hope. I have even soothed Despair into Resolve. Apathy into Purpose. I am a Dreamer, now, in full. If I am not so skilled as Solas, well. Empires and nations rose and fell while he learnt what I have tried to cobble together in a handful of years with a ticking clock ready to explode the world. Demons come to me to find themselves. Sometimes they try to kill me. Usually I reach for them, and they change. Sometimes they change me, bit by bit.

If this spirit wants me to follow, I will follow.

It moves down a path between trees, and it gains form as I watch, but it holds nothing for long. It looks like him for a moment, then it looks like me. I see him as I saw him in Redcliffe, in Haven, in the ruins, over the broken fragments of his orb. I see myself with my vallaslin, without it. I see myself and Cullen, eyes full of love, under an arch at Halamshiral with Mother Giselle there to marry us. I am wearing a white dress, such a human dress, such a human thing, but with my long-gone vallaslin clear on my face. I am dressed as a sentinel, a Sha-Brytol, a Keeper, a scout. I am resplendent in robes of gold and silver, my hair sparkling with diamonds like stars. He stands proud, Fen’Harel, a rebel god who loves me. My freckles are gone. My freckles are darker, my skin tanned and weathered by the sun. Scars cut through my face. I am missing part of an ear. Solas is scarred with red lyrium that clouds his eyes.

I want to ask, but not yet.

Instead, I simply follow.

The trees give way to the Arbor Wilds, miles and miles away. I know this place. This is where I met Mythal.

“You should not have given your orb to Corypheus, Dread Wolf.”

The spirit looks like her for a moment, and then she is him, as I last saw him before the Qunari plot. He must have traveled by eluvian from Skyhold immediately after we vanquished Corypheus.

He is a broken man, for a moment. He still wears the jawbone I now carry around my neck.

“I wish it could, vhenan.”

This spirit seems to want to speak with our words, so I will let it. With a thought I am crosslegged in the grass, my fingers feeling the blades. They are so green here, as green as they are in life. The Black City is beyond, over the tree line, waiting.

“Tell me you don’t love me!”

“I cannot do that, vhenan.”

I thought I was somewhat prepared, armoured. But that—

Solas stands in front of me in Crestwood, his hands twitching between looking as though he wants to simultaneously crush me to him and fend me off. He is frightened, flighty, two things Solas seldom is.

The spirit reflects that moment, showing me again the precise moment my heart broke, when Solas decided to be Fen’Harel and not tell me himself.

“You do not have to destroy this world! I will prove it to you!”

My voice, thrown by the spirit, echoes through this bower.

“I will treasure the chance to be wrong once again,” it says sadly.

“Foolish wolf,” I mutter myself.

“There is a place where you can build, grow.”

I am growing weary of whatever games this spirit is playing. I relive these words in my mind every day, every grain of sand that ticks through the hourglass counting down to the moment I will have to face…I have no words for what Solas is to me. Some days I trace the lines of magic that remain in my severed arm, feeling out for the Anchor. Those days I hear him ask if it has changed me, my…spirit, as he hesitated to say with the sun setting behind me on my Skyhold balcony.

What if it did? What if the Anchor is the only reason I love him?

“You are you, old blood older than old. Like calls to like even without a cord to bind them.”

The spirit has resumed its state of formlessness, floated closer while I sat in my pool of constant grief.

“Very well,” I tell it. “Why have you brought me here?”

“Banal nadas,” it says, hovering directly in front of my face like a challenge. It is not Solas’s voice I hear, but mine, gentle. I have never said those words, not like that.

“Banal nadas!” The spirit bellows it at me with my own voice again.

My skin tingles like I am in the waking world in a place where the Veil is thin. I have never felt such a thing whilst walking the Fade, not as such.

“I want to help him,” I tell the spirit fiercely. “Our people have suffered enough.”

“Who are your people, Ilaana?”

“That is the question, is it not?” This time it is I who bring Solas’s words to life, another sentence from a Crestwood heartbreak under the watchful gaze of Ghilan’nain. My lips quirk with a cynical smile. “Solas is my people. Cullen is my people. Cassandra and Cole are my people. My friends on this side of the Veil are my people. You, as well. Dorian, my beloved friend. Varric. The Iron Bull. Sera and Vivienne and Thom. Krem and Maryden, Dalish and Grim. Svarah Sun-Hair and Skywatcher. They are my people, spirit. All of them. Abelas is my people. Mythal is my people. Clan Lavellan is my people. Briala. Charter. Samson. Leliana and Neria and Merrill and Hawke. Alistair is my people. The Wardens I exiled are my people. The templars I condemned are my people. Ser Barris. Belle. Gaspard. Mihris. That bloody piece of self-loathing nugshit Michel is my people. Felix and Alexius. Gatt and the Viddisala. Elera and Dagna and Valta and her titan friend. Rage and Despair and Pride and Wisdom and Acceptance and Justice and Vengeance. They are all my people. All.”

I am angry now, angry enough that I feel the energies blazing off me like a pyre. If Solas is walking the Fade just now, he will certainly see me, feel me. We never have had to try hard to find one another here, and I am screaming in an echoing hall loud enough to wake Elgar’nan himself. That stupid prideful Evanuris who likely started all of this, he is my people too, for all he’d scrape me off the bottom of his gilded fucking boot.

“Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Dread Wolf? Dirth ma, harellan, vhen’an’ara—ane emma!” I yell the words into the Arbor Wilds, at the Black City, at any spirit who will listen. “You are all my people, and I am trying to save your foolish, thoughtless chunks of Fade-stuff and meat from yourselves!”

The spirit in front of me looks suddenly pleased.

“An answer a long time in coming, Inquisitor,” the spirit says, almost preening.

“Who are you?” I ask it bluntly. “I am tired of trying to help those who are determined to cut off their own feet because they don’t like the shape of their toenails.”

“Vivid, as always.”

“I asked you a question.”

“You asked a good question. I brought you here to hear, to listen, to scream. Has it helped?”

“A bit,” I admit. I feel lighter. Apparently my quiet footsteps through the Fade were possible because I’ve been bottling up every part of me for so long.

“Good,” says the spirit. “You asked my name, and I will give it. But first, you need to understand the most important thing I have said to you.”

“Which is?”

“Banal nadas,” the spirit says again.

“That one isn’t leaving my memory any time soon,” I say. “Your name, if you please.”

“You carry a heavy weight, as you have for so long, Ilaana. Your name, Ilaana. In the place of sacrifice. How much have you sacrificed?”

“Enough,” I say. My arm twinges. That is the least of it. I am no less than I was for a foot or so of missing flesh. The words I said to Ameridan. It takes everything from you.

“You look ahead with purpose, and you look ahead with grief, because the weight pressing upon your shoulders does not let you breathe.” The spirit looks like me, now. My face, without my vallaslin, with my freckles, the new scar on my nose from some Qunari Sten or another. My dimple. “You cannot see a way out.”

We are back in the forest, a different forest, and the trees are oppressive. They crowd around us, leaning over my shoulder, draping their leaves over my neck. I can almost feel their breath.

“You are telling me everything I already know.”

“You may remember the words, but you need to know, truly know. Eolasas, da’len.”

It changes to Solas’s face in Redcliffe, his eyes pulsing with red lyrium. Its voice repeats his words.

“You would think that such understanding would prevent me from making such terrible mistakes. You would be wrong.”

Anger flares again. I am surprised that this place has not been swarmed with spirits. The trees could very well be rage demons, every one.

“I couldn’t stop him,” I tell the spirit, and with those words, my anger cracks in half. In its core is only sorrow. “He left. He left again. He left again, and he called me vhenan.”

“Yes,” the spirit says. “He has done these things. Over and over, he has done these things. He is as trapped as you are. But the trap is of your own making. Time is no flat circle, da’len. You are thinking in too few dimensions.”

I sit in silence for a time, feeling at the edges of my hurt. I long for Cole’s comforting presence. He is somewhere in the Fade. I suspect he is with Solas. He told me he had to go where he was most needed. Or perhaps Cole is simply with the other spirits, sharing himself with them, preparing them. Where he is most needed. That would be a very Cole thing to do.

Everything that has happened has happened. I could not stop it.

“Banal nadas,” the spirit says again, insistently. “You make a tragic mistake, Inquisitor. Ilaana, da’len, da’lath’in. You must listen. You must see. What are all of these voices, save one?”

The one the spirit is speaking of must be my own, yelling its words. The rest are—

“Memories,” I say flatly. “Reminders of my own failures. I should have told him in Crestwood that I knew—”

“He would have fled. Likely, anyway. Banal nadas,” the spirit says, this time almost as if a joke. “Your instinct held your tongue because you knew him to be afraid. You yourself were afraid, thought you could keep him near a while longer, that it would give you time you had no way of knowing was running out.”

“Yes,” I say. “And then he was gone.”

The weight of the jawbone against my chest is usually a comfort, even in the Fade. Not now, not really.

“What is a memory?” The spirit asks me this as if it is speaking to a very dense rock instead of a person.

“A fragment of perception rooted in a moment in time that has passed,” I say.

“Time that has—” the spirit leads.

“Passed.” I stop, looking at it. It looks like me again, hopeful. It looks like I looked when he asked me to dance at Halamshiral, that horrible night, that wonderful night, that night that gutted me from the inside and built me anew all at once.

The night I learned my lover's true names.

“Before the band stops playing, vhenan, dance with me.”

His hand outstretched to me, his smile full of love. Moments before, the easy pressure of his hand against my shoulder, a comfort, knowing I needed his touch more than anything else.

“The past,” I say slowly. “Banal nadas.”

“Yes,” the spirit says, and the trees pull back from their crowding, letting through a burst  of air, cool air, memory of a spring breeze. “You carry the weight of it, and you let it lead you, but you are letting it press you into the ground, da’len. You are like him. Like calls to like. His past weighs him as well, and it will crush you both, the past, if you let it.”

“You make it sound like…” I trail off.

I’m being obtuse, now. Of course I’m being obtuse.

It is easier to believe I cannot prevent whatever happens. It is easier believing, accepting, resigning myself to fatalism. Whatever will be will be. I remember what Acceptance said to me so long ago, that it could see many paths for itself without becoming any one of them. I have forgotten that wisdom. I have let myself become the one thing I cannot bear because some part of me thinks it is easier than believing I could build it better instead.

“I am frightened,” I say. “He said he walks the din’an shiral. He chose for me, and I am furious at him. He said he could not do this to me, but he will do it to himself. He says he will, and he condemns me to accept it. But what he accepts, I do not have to.”

“Yes, da’len, continue.”

“I am afraid.” Afraid does not even come close to what I feel. I am half a breath from shaking to pieces.

“I know, da’len.” The spirit looks like Keeper Deshanna now. It sits in front of me wearing June’s vallaslin.

“I have said I will save him, that I will prove to him, but I haven’t believed it. I haven’t been able to believe it.”

“Your love for him is so deep that it reached me in the farthest depths of the Fade,” the spirit says softly. “You are on the shore watching a hundred-foot wave threaten to crush you, and you believe if you run, if you fight, if you try and do something, it will wash you away no matter what. It is easier for you to believe that what is past will dictate what is future.”

“Yes,” I say. “You are correct.”

“But that is not how anything works, da’len. It may seem it sometimes, but do you know what it took for him to see you at all? How many ages he lay sleeping in sorrow, walking paths with friends but seeing nothing of himself wherever he looked?”

I shake my head.

The grove around us is quiet, peaceful now. It is the grove in the Dales, the one where we once moved together with our magic, our mana, our staves. It is the grove where he gave me his glyph-chilled water and I wiped a droplet of it away from my cheek and he told me that he had yet to see my indomitable focus dominated.

I wonder if it has been as fascinating as he expected, watching me crumble under our combined pasts.

“A thousand thousand variables, a weave of time and circumstance more delicate than the Veil itself,” the spirit says. “You are real, and it changes everything, but it can’t. Do you not hear the contradiction in his own words?”

“Yes,” I say.

“You are real, da’len. You are real, and you change everything.”

His words, and the spirit’s. They mould to something in me that I have not felt in months. I have felt this future bearing down on me like the wave in the spirit’s metaphor, ready to crush the life out of me, out of my people—our people—and the person I love enough to save. I have waited for him enough. Atisha, Ilaana.

I breathe slowly, my mind clearing. His words, to me. In hindsight they feel both inevitable and deeply cracked, waiting to be moved in another direction.

“Yes,” I say, this time because it is the only right word to say. “Thank you. Thank you, hahren.”

“Nuvu lasa su ma enaste, da’len.”

“Why have you done this for me?” I ask. It still has not told me its name.

“You are not the only one who loves him,” the spirit says simply. “I would not watch him suffer more. I would not watch the weight he carries grow. And he is not the only one who loves you, da’len. I would be remiss if I did not try.”

“You are saying—”

“I am saying banal nadas.”

Yes. Yes.

Banal nadas.

Nothing is inevitable.

“Thank you,” I say again. “Ma melava halani.”

“Sathem lasa halani,” the spirit says. “And now you must go. You have a great deal of work to do.”

“Wait,” I say as the spirit rises, once again formless, shifting every time I blink. “You promised me your name.”

I wait for a moment, wondering if it will be Hope. Faith. Even Love, something as simple as that.

The spirit looks like him once more, and it reaches out to touch my cheek the way he so often has. It tugs his favourite curl.

“Possibility,” the spirit says.

I wake.

***

Lavellan: Banal nadas. Ar lath, ma vhenan.