#i want him to remember his grief his rage and how powerless he was in the end to protect anything he held dear

[technicallyfriendly]

So, I really love time travel fics and I love the Lucerys cuts out his own eye trope while Aemond watches in horror. That's why my brain conjured up the following plot idea:

What if after their respective deaths, they both travel back in time to the same moment without knowing the other came back too and it's the exact moment where Aemond demanded Lucerys' eye as paiment for his debt on Stormsend just before the fateful flight.

This time though Lucerys does not run. He processes the situation just a second before Aemond does and fueled by his own fear of death does the only thing that seems logical at this moment. He lungs for the dagger and proceeds just as Aemond demanded. Aemond snaps out of his own stupor just as the screaming starts and tries to stop Lucerys but it's already to late. The eye is lost. A meaningless debt which had been paid tenfold in another life had been paid again. And Lucerys looks up at him through tears and blood, his face twisted in agony and asks: "Will you let me leave now, uncle?"

[paint-it-dead]

I googled the Belladonna of Sadness and: “To take revenge, she makes a pact with the Devil himself who appears as an erotic sprite and transforms her into a black-robed vision of madness and desire.” (Femto, the blessed king of longing) “The spirit visits Jeanne once again and rapes her in exchange for more riches“ (Gennon and Griffith) ”the baron offers to make Jeanne the second-highest noble in the land, but she refuses, saying she wishes to take over the entire world.” (Ok Miura HAD to have seen this, right? Wtf…Griffith…)

omg if you havent watched it check it out, check it out, check it out!!!!!

i think i read somewhere that Miura was inspired by it in writing Berserk? but i cant say that with full confidence...

but the parallels!!! the story goes even deeper than what you said! its been almost a year since ive watched it, so my memory of it is not 100%, but ill talk about what i can remember!

(spoilers ofc)

it contains incredible artwork and its set in pre-revolution France(remind you of another manga berserk was inspired by?) and it talks about a beautiful woman- The Most Beautiful Woman Alive!!!- who has just gotten married to the love of her life! but the marriage can only be made legal by the king/ the baron of the lands(an aristocrat of sorts i dont recall properly) who immediately as he sees her, takes her and rapes her. what should have been the happiest night of her life spent with her lover, is spent being defiled, helpless as she is to fight her fate; a poor powerless woman against the all powerful aristocrat. she becomes someone else; traumatised and desperate and her husband cannot look at her the same anymore. but amid all the grief regarding what was taken from her and how she was changed, arises a new emotion: rage. she wants power. she wants vengance. for every petal of hers that was wilted, she wants to birth a new thorn.

now if you're trying to draw parallels, ig this can be a perfect parallel with griffith getting tortured by the king. the helplessness and the toll of it all. the way how it affects his decision-making in the series.

but now as our beautiful woman is stuck in her bottomless desparate anguish, a new character appears before her: a small evil spectre! he looks her straight in the eyes and says. i am you. and you are me. give everything you have to me and i will grant you what you wish for: a chance to make things even. she is poor, she has nothing to give. so the spectre takes her body. defiles her the same way. and she is granted success. she is granted money. her husband and her reap the benefits of her new powers. now the aristocrat is feeling threatened by her status, tries to appease her-offers her lands and riches beyond a simple commoners imagination. but she, unbothered, responds:"money? lands? im not interested in something as small as that, beacuse im going to take over the world." appalled by her ambition, the aristocrat orders she be exiled as a witch, never to return. this whole time the spectre just grows bigger and bigger. stronger and stronger. the more she hates and gains and succeeds, the louder it roars. the more angry and resentful she becomes, the hungrier it grows. its goal: to break her strong spirit piece by piece, little by little. and when she is exiled and thoroughly broken, it reveals himself: he is actually the devil. he asks: what do you crave? he knows what she wants: power. she asks him to make her into a devil, into a wicked, ugly, wrathful woman who will strike fear into the hearts of anybody who crosses her. she doesnt want to be desirable anymore. her beauty was her cage, her curse. and thats what the specter does. transforms her into an all powerful demon.

but as she aweakens from the transformation, she notices that she has become lovlier, more desirable than she ever was before, an otherworldly, overwhelming type of beauty. she anguishes over this. asks for explanations. she wanted to be terrible, scary and full of rage and anger. to this, the devil responds: "who says that anger and rage cannot be beautiful?"

in berserk, this could be a parallel with the godhand offering griffith his option to sacrifice at his lowest point, and griffith's transformation into a devil -femto- and later into an otherworldly beauty - neo-griffith. there is nothing lovely or lovable left in him anymore, but he is the most lovely and beloved character by everyone in the show after his neo-griffith transformation. his power knows no equal and he strikes fear into the hearts of all who dare cross him. nothing will ever touch him again and nothing will ever be taken from him again, unless he wills it.

so she lives in exile, her otherworldly powers making her a diety of sorts, one people love and worship. one day, her husband, mad at himself and sick with love for her, goes to her to ask for her forgiveness. he couldn't save her when she needed him, and he couldn't protect her when she was taken from him, so all he does is ask for forgiveness. and amid her power-hungry, hatered spinning days of rage, she blooms with love for him, everything else thrown aside or forgotten. he was all she had ever wanted once after all. they fall into each other, one last time before tragedy strikes.

the aristocrat, terrified of her, her power, the support people gave her, orders for her to be burned at the stake. as the flames overwhelm her and she cries out one last time, the people witnessing the scene, cry out in uproar. they kill the king, avenge her and become a lingering flame in the calamitous fire of the french revolution. even though she is no longer there, she achieves exactly what she wanted- vengence against those who wronged her, and world domination, as the uproar from her tragedy, is what kickstarts the world to change.

now the whole parallels with griffith i made clear in italics, but there i dont think that thet is where the parallels with berserk end. there is another character, whose case could be argued, might have been inspired by this movie: casca. the unfortunate fate of the woman, the defilement and heartbreak she experiences because of conditions she cannot control, her story is drowning in them. i believe, if Miura was indeed inspired by this movie, that casca's story takes root in this unfortunate fate this character suffers through, but the only element present in casca's story is the heartbreak and pain, the rage and vengeance part is yet to be seen.

this movie seems to overlap both of these characters journeys, emotions and characterisations. if i have made a post about their alikeness before, this movie would be the main thesis for it. they switch roles and imagery within this "belladonna" character to the point where you cant make a case for one without mentioning the other. he becomes a demon, she becomes a witch. he falls in desperation, she falls into her lover's arms. he takes over the world, she gets burned at the stake. he gets the purpose, she gets the tragedy.

overall, berserk or not, belladonna of sadness is a beautiful story and 100% worth the watch. it contains some of my favourite lines of dialogue and scenes ive ever seen in animated media. its experimental and different, but man, isnt it captivating. WATCH IT!!!

[honeybeefae]

Lucien x Reader SP

Remember how I said that I've been working on the kinktober some? Well one of them was the hatefuck with Lucien and guys...let me tell you...I was flustered writing it. I had to take MULTIPLE breaks because hot damn, why is he so hot?!

Anyways, before I lose my train of thought, I wanna share a little sneaky peek of the beginning for you guys to sip on as I get the rest of the ducks in a row. Let me know if you like it <3 <3

You were the very bane of his existence, he hated how much you got under his skin, but what truly drove him wild was how with every passing day, his desire for you grew and grew.

He tried to blame it on the loneliness, the stress from the events going on in the world, anything other than the fact that he could actually be attracted to you, but it was getting harder to deny.

It was making him slowly lose his sanity. Lucien had had plenty of other lovers before, but for whatever reason, you were the one who was causing him the most grief. He wouldn’t compare it to what he had with Jesminda, nothing would ever come around like that for him again nor did he want it to. But there was something there that created an itch that he couldn’t get rid of.

And on the other side of the coin, you were no better. At the beginning of your “relationship,” it was easy to nitpick everything he did. The way his voice sounded, his mean comments whenever you spoke or even looked in his direction, and even the way he walked. It was almost too easy how much you hated him, you could have written entire novels about it. 

But that loathing turned into something deeper and scarier over time. Where you used to sneer at him at dinner you now found yourself admiring how he licked his lips after tasting a new wine, or how large his hands were compared to the silverware. It had your mind and heart scrambling for dominance as you suddenly tried to get close enough to smell his scent or make a sarcastic remark just so he would look at you. 

Whatever had shifted between the two of you was growing every day and you were powerless to stop it. Even Jurian and Vassa had noticed it, both of them making bets on who would strike first though you had no idea. 

However, as the clock continued to tick and you began to innocently tap your nails on the spine of your book, the tension grew to a crescendo. Lucien’s fingers gripped the pen tighter and tighter, his jaw clenching in a mixture of rage and lust before he finally slammed the pen down and sent his papers scattering across the floor below.

[mccncreatures]

Asher stood in the shadow of the towering mausoleums, the stillness of the cemetery pressing down on him like a heavy blanket. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a fitting backdrop for the turmoil churning inside him. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he approached the familiar gravestone marked "Jules Lockwood." His mother's grave was simple, understated, just as she had been in life. Asher knelt down, tracing the etched letters with his fingertips, feeling the cold stone beneath his skin.

He closed his eyes, letting the memories of his mother wash over him. Her laughter, her kindness, the way she always knew how to make him feel safe. But beneath that warmth, there was a sadness—a sadness he had never fully understood until he was older. Jules had loved him with everything she had, but she had been powerless to protect him from the harshness of his father's expectations. Asher swallowed hard, trying to push down the knot of grief that threatened to choke him.

After a few moments, he stood, his gaze drifting over to another grave a short distance away. The headstone was larger, more imposing, and bore the name "Tyler Lockwood." Asher's steps were slow, hesitant, as he made his way to his father's final resting place. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing with a mixture of anger, confusion, and a longing for answers that would never come.

He stopped in front of the grave, staring down at the polished granite. For a long time, he said nothing, just stood there with his hands in his pockets, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Finally, the words began to spill out, unbidden and raw.

"You know, I used to come here hoping to find some sort of peace, some way to understand why you were the way you were," Asher began, his voice low and rough. "But every time I stand here, all I can think about is how much of my life I wasted trying to be the man I thought you were."

The wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it the faint scent of flowers from a nearby grave. Asher's fists tightened at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.

"I tried, Dad. I tried so damn hard to live up to your expectations, to be that golden boy you wanted…. But no matter what I did, it was never enough for you, was it?" His voice cracked, the words trembling on the edge of a sob. "You pushed me so hard—harder than I ever should have been pushed. And for what? To make me strong? To make me tough? You thought breaking me down would build me up, but all it did was leave me open to hurt, to doubt, to this...this emptiness inside that I can never seem to fill. Great friends, great job. Kaya, Ingrid, all the family I’ve got left and I still feel so fucking empty."

Asher could feel the anger rising within him, a hot, burning rage that had simmered for years. "Do you remember high school? Do you remember how you used to yell at me when I didn’t hit some impossible standard you set? Team didn’t win, all me. My fault. B on a test? I was lazy. Or stupid. You thought that if you just pushed me a little harder, I'd finally be the son you were supposed to be. But all you did was make me hate myself. I’d lie awake at night, replaying every word you said, every time you called me weak or pathetic."

The anger surged, blinding him to everything but the fury boiling over. His chest heaved with the force of his emotions, and before he knew it, he was moving—his fist connecting with the headstone in a single, furious punch. The stone cracked, a jagged line splitting through the name "Tyler Lockwood."

"You think this makes you proud?" he shouted, his voice breaking with the intensity of his emotions. "You think I should be thankful for the way you treated me? All those nights when you’d get so angry, when you’d—” Asher's voice faltered, the memories of those nights flooding back. The times when Tyler's anger had crossed a line, when the arguments had turned physical. Holes in walls, bruises on his skin. Asher had always tried to block it out, to tell himself it was just his father’s way of trying to make him stronger. But now, standing in front of his grave, all those justifications felt hollow.

"You didn’t just push me, Dad—you broke me. And the worst part is, I let you. I let you shape me into someone who’s always doubting, always questioning if I'm good enough. And you know what? I’m tired. I’m tired of carrying this weight, of trying to live up to a memory that doesn’t even deserve it."

The anger drained out of him as quickly as it had come, leaving Asher feeling hollow, like a shell of himself. He stood there, staring at the broken headstone, his chest heaving with the effort of holding back the tears that threatened to spill.

"I don’t even know why I’m telling you this," he muttered, more to himself than to the grave. "You’re not here. You can’t hear me. But I needed to say it...I needed to let it out."

Asher’s shoulders slumped, the fight leaving his body as he dropped to his knees in front of the broken headstone. The anger had burned out, leaving only a deep, aching sadness in its wake. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cold stone, the crack running like a scar between them.

"I’m lost, Dad," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I spent so long trying to be what you thought I should be, and now...I don’t even know who I am. I just...I just wanted you to be proud of me. And I’m trying, but it’s so damn hard."

For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees, the cemetery eerily silent around him. Asher stayed there, letting the silence wash over him, grounding him in the present.

Finally, he stood, feeling lighter, though no less sorrowful. He looked down at the shattered headstone, a deep breath calming the storm inside him. The break in the stone felt symbolic, a crack in the foundation of the man who had tried to shape him through pain and anger.

[l4xu0riipng]

A scene in one of my Rise au’s between the disaster twins.

(Cw/Tw: mentions of and descriptions of blood, injury, and death.)

⚠️ALL INTERACTIONS IN THIS FIC ARE ENTIRLY PLATONIC, I DO NOT SUPPORT TCEST, I DO NOT WRITE TCEST. TCEST/PROSHIPS DNI!!!⚠️

~~~~~~~

Donnie looked down at Leo in his arms, tears filling his eyes at the state of his twin. A hole through his chest, out his back and shell gushing with blood, the injury was terrible and sure to be fatal, Donnie however, couldn’t accept it.

“Leo…” He mumbled, his breath hitched as Leo looked up at him, the life already gone from his eyes, he took in a strong inhale before anything else dared to come out, Donnie continued. “Leo, keep your eyes open.”

Leos eye’s widened at the request, he figured that Donnie would be the first out of his brothers to accept he’s dying, Leo teared up as well as he choked out a response.

“Donnie-“ He was interrupted by coughs, blood trickling down his chin.

“Donnie please, I’m not gonna make it…” He finally spat out, Donnies demeanor was suddenly filled with rage and he began shouting.

“That’s what you said last time and you were fine, just keep your eye’s open.” Donnie rushed the response, trying to keep himself from breaking down as he started to tremble.

“Donnie, please you have to-“ Leo tried to speak again Donnie cut him off with another seemingly angry response, but this time, his voice was filled with desperation.

“No! I’m gonna get Raph to carry you, we’ll go home and get you patched up, and you’re gonna be fine just stay awake, please!” Tears slowly began to run down Donnies face, grief enveloped his soul seeing Leo fail to respond.

Donnie couldn’t accept it, nothing was going to take his twin away if he KNEW how to fix it, he just needed to get him back home.

Donnie stared at Leo still in denial, Leo’s face shifted from shock, to a sort of soft acceptance. He knew he was going to die and he was accepting it. That was the only thing that could ever make Donnie break down.

Donnie pulled Leo into a tight hug and began to sob into his shoulder, mumbling, pleading, until a full sentence finally shot out of his mouth.

“Leo no matter how much I may joke about these things, I don’t mean it, I still need you… I’ll do whatever you want when you recover, you can bug me for as long as you want everyday, I’ll let you beat me when we play games as many times as you want to, you can even call me your twin and I’ll go along with it just please, keep your eyes open PLEASE.” Donnie wailed as the bargaining and begs escaped his mouth, his brother, his twin was dying, and at this rate he was to powerless to fix any of it

Leo brought up one of his hands and cupped Donnies cheek, Donnie let out a small gasp at the gesture. He looked down at Leo, soft sniffles escaping him while tears began to flow heavily, and yet? A smile, Leo had a small smile plastered on his mouth, he captured a small breath before talking.

“Donnie, remember… anatawa hitorijanai. You are not alone, you never are. I would never leave you guys.” Leo sighed, wiping away some of Donnies tears.

He began to shake lightly, more life was getting sucked out of him and felt so exhausted, he felt like there was something crushing him, a weight urging him to accept the darkness, and eventually he couldn’t fight it anymore, ears ringing and vision slowly fading out, he said his final words.

“Do me a f-favor and let everyone know I love them, don’t tell them this but… you were always kind of my favorite Dee… I love you Don. I’m sorry… for everything.”

His hand slowly dropped from Donnies cheek, going limp as his breathing slowed. Donnie began to panic and tried to jolt him awake by shaking him, but to no avail.

Leo’s eyes slowly fell shut, the last thing he ever heard was the desperate shouting of his twin, as he slowly sunk into the darkness. Never to wake up again.

Donnie was still crying for Leo to wake up as Leo’s body slowly began to fade away, just like how Karai’s had. When Donnie realized, it was already to late, he tried to pull Leo into one last embrace, hoping that maybe he could keep him from fading, but that final wish was left unfulfilled. Donnie wrapped his arms around himself just as Leo fully faded, it felt like a glass platform had just broken underneath him and he was frozen, he couldn’t speak, he could barely even breath, he just stared off into disassociation.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there, how long it had been since Leo died and he was left alone, by himself. He estimated about five minutes before suddenly hearing Mikeys voice and Raph’s foot steps.

“DONNIE! LEO! WHERE ARE YO-“ Mikey had called out before turning to see Donnie, relief filled his eyes as he began to run to his brother.

That was the moment Donnie snapped out of it and was brought back to reality, he turned to see Mikey running towards him before jumping on Donnies battle shell and hugging him from behind, clinging onto his brother for dear life, that was until he heard Raph.

“Donnie! We were so worried- wait… where’s Leo?” He asked innocently, concern filling his eyes not realizing the full weight of what just happened. Donnie stayed silent for a moment as his eyes widened again.

“I…” He began, his mind was racing, how did he break the news to them? COULD he even break the news to them? What would their reactions be like? Would they blame him?? Would they HATE him??? To much was going on all at once, one thought moving into the next, his heart was pounding, oh god what was he going to do.

“Donnie?…” Mikey said worriedly, moving to look Donnie in the face, his grip tightened. Raph moved to hold him as well.

“Nngh…” He groaned choking back a tear, a sigh escaped his mouth as he looked at them, it’s now or never.

“H-He… I…” He spoke slowly, a tear escaped his eye as his body shook which initiated Mikey and Raph to just cling on tighter, Donnie looked down, taking in one last breath before it all came crumbling down, the words seeping out like molasses and one final hesitation before he finally dropped the ball on them.

“Leo he’s… he’s 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦.”

~~~~~~~~

Yes I know I’m evil :) <3

[devilfic]

Would you ever consider writing a symbiote!MCU Spidey? I’d love to see your take on a darker Peter Parker!

OH BOY WOULD I

you don't understand the DEPTHS of my euphoria when I saw peter go apeshit on the green goblin during no way home. like??

the way he's visibly shaking from rage, the unrestrained violence, the line "no, I just wanna kill you myself". there's something so delicious about a character who is usually dedicated to being a good person in the face of grief and sadness only to give into their wrath when they get pushed just a little too far. peter's a great character for that because to me, you can tell he is consciously making the choice to be a good person everyday. it's not because it comes easy to him, it's because he wants to, which makes it all the more compelling when he decides to stop

but now you've got me thinking about. post-nwh symbiote!peter dealing with the loss of his loved ones and you, his partner who's completely forgotten him. how before the symbiote, he was so good at staying away from you, letting you live your life even if it meant that you were dating someone new. even if it meant that he couldn't swing by your place anymore because someone else was living there, someone else was kissing you good morning, someone else was the love of your life

and he's so good at pretending because he loves you and you don't remember him, he's no one, so it's only right that he leaves you alone. starts a new life even though he never really could say goodbye to the last one

but then he finds the symbiote and. well. he starts thinking that maybe it's not right. he's given so much to this city and what? he's just supposed to be okay with losing everything he loves for it? he doesn't ask for much. barely anything. he's living out of a shitty apartment, barely making ends meet, getting bruised and bloody night and day and watching all his friends and family and you slip through his fingers. why is someone else taking his place? it's not fair, is it?

he was powerless when he lost you. that won't happen again

[laeorinel]

FFXIV Write 2022 - Day 21

Prompt - Solution

Major Endwalker spoilers for this one. Brain is a bit broke today so this was a tricky one to get done. Itty bit of ThancredxWol.

This was it. It had been a long and difficult path that nearly broke Samara on more than one occasion, but finally, they were at the end. All of them stood defiant before the grotesque form the Metia had taken. But as she throws the literal dead husks of worlds they have sundered at them, a feeling of dread runs through her. 

Can they do this? Can they win? 

She knows they can, but it will not be without a cost. As she watches Estinien and Thancred charge ahead, she makes her decision. Nothing would take them from her again. She'll die first. As she watches them buckle under the Endsinger's power, she tries to think of a way to get them out of here. 

The teleporter for the Ragnarok. The failsafe they had in the event fighting Metion failed, and they needed to run. 

They would hate her for it, curse her for it, but this was the only solution she could think of where they would be safe. At that moment, that was all she wanted. To know they were safe. That he was safe. He had asked her to beat some sense into him if he refused to run after all...

Alisaie knew what she was planning, screaming across the billowing winds, begging her to stop. 

She wants to say more, to ask Alisaie to take care of them all. To tell G'raha she had wanted more adventures with him, that she had wanted to delve into the universe's secrets with Y'shtola. 

That she had wanted to show Urianger the lands and places mentioned in his books and prove to Estinien that he had finally found a home amongst friends, ones that wanted him not because of his skill at arms but because of who he was. 

To say that she was so proud of Alisaie and Alphinaud and who they have become and that she knows they will continue changing the world for the better.

And lastly, to ask her to make it clear to Thancred that this was her decision and she only had one regret, that they didn't have more time together, and that she wanted him to live, not just survive. If he would not do that for himself, then for Ryne and for her. She did not want him to blame himself for her loss and become consumed by grief again. 

But there is no time. There is never any time. So she takes the device in hand, taking one last look at Alisaie and remembering the words of an old friend. 

"A smile better suits a hero..."

That is what they saw her as; as much as she despised it, so that is how she sends them off, with a smile and a simple goodbye as she presses the button.

And then she was alone in this all-consuming void, the enemy of all life behind her.  

The Endsinger looks down at her, cruelty seeping into her every word. "You gifted them escape. And rendered yourself powerless. Bereft of the synergy you claim is your strength. Unless you mean to call upon the dead once more."

Samara unsheathes her axe and focuses on the beast within her, that wellspring of rage and anger unending. One that Alphinaud so many moons ago said was so pure in its intent. Righteous anger born out of love and the desire to protect. "No. Not anymore. I don't need to." 

"Because you picked a fight with the one person too fucking angry and stubborn to die. You want my world? You want my friends and family? Too bad, you need to get through me first." Dynamis swirled around her as she snarled, but her form remained unchanged. She was not giving in to this anger; she had learned how to control it long ago. Now she knew why. Her rage would be her strength and shield in this fight, as the Elder Gods had spoken. 

"Before such fury, even the darkest of shadows will burn away. Forging a path ahead into the unknown. My unbroken, unyielding blade."

Her axe burned hot in her hands; red energy swirled around her, the form twisting and shifting like a wildfire. "So come on then! Let's see which runs out first, your despair or my rage!" 

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

I decided to do a notes app with all my commentary so lots of texts incoming and because of that signing here. -Rotten Anon

He had gone from a gangly, boyish man to a full blown man.

Cue me scrolling up to remember and really absorb the difference. Also the four years makes me think of Seb and how he’s changed and grown. Kids grow up fast sometimes.

This chased out that tiny splash of lust and brought on a whole new wave of confusing emotions. 

Oh here we go.

“JJ!” You cried out her name happily, your entire demeanor changing when you saw her.

I don’t know her that well but she’s in top 5 for me in terms of favorite characters from CM.

Spencer felt a pang of jealousy that he wasn’t being greeted with as much affection.

I don’t know what happened but Spencer, I don’t know what you expected.

“You know that you didn’t have to make up some excuse just to come and see me, right?” 

Oh, this is going to be so bad. Here we go with the (soulmates) trying to avoid the inevitable!

His expression went from tight-knit anger and annoyance to ‘shit-your-pants’ worry. The danger went from being theoretical to being very real in that moment. 

Ohhhhh. Oh Spencer.

Naturally, he remembered your favorite flowers. 

Naturally. With that eidetic memory of his. Those are nice flowers though.

JJ hated the look in Spencer’s eyes. That deep, bitter fear.

Spencer. JJ. Oh.

but she did truly think this highly of Penelope’s skills. 

We love Penelope in this household.

But she definitely couldn’t understand your rage toward Spencer. 

No idea what happened but it’s whatever! Staying mad.

“You knew what kind of person I was back then. I wasn’t good to her. I wasn’t good to anybody.” 

Oh fuck. I probably need to go re-read that wiki.

He wanted to be that person for you. He wanted to be your Superman. (But he feared that he couldn’t live up to that. That he would fail you when the time came.) 

Oh Spencer, baby.

“You know… Henry wants a puppy.” JJ’s voice shook, her throat clenching up around these words. 

I would hug her if I could.

“How I lost you,”

I love them.

“I never told her what happened to me. What happened with Hankel.” 

Communication is key. It’s fine to not talk about if you aren’t ready, but fuck, Spencer, you have to say something at least.

“I didn’t want things to change between us. Even though they did anyway.” 

That’s the way it usually goes, isn’t it?

“Do you still wanna be with her?” JJ asked. 

Fantastic question JJ.

“I fell in love with Will because he looked at me like I was Superwoman, but I stayed in love because he takes care of me when I’m powerless.”

I also love them.

“I know Y/N pretty well.” He replied. “At least I hope I still do.”

Ugh. Fucking. That’s real as shit.

Spencer’s chest jumped at the way she said ‘your son’ - so casually. 

That is your kid.

He could really have a child in his life. This could really be his future. If he played his cards right, this could be his future with you. 

Presented without comment, just an aching feeling, akin to longing, grief and fear.

he could whisper epic romantic ballads in your ear before kissing you with such intense passion that it left your head spinning.

And what a dream that is.

speaking lowly to you as though his words were precious and only meant to be yours. 

God, I love him.

Subby Spencer is so good. He’s trying (and at the moment succeeding) to be Romantic Spencer though. But I do just want to make him melt.

He yanked up the blinds in front of the space where he had set up a very expensive, advanced, gorgeous telescope - one that had been there the last few times you had visited.

Oh baby, what are you doing, you romantic nerd?

You loved that Spencer was someone so gifted who loved to share his knowledge, rather than gatekeeping it or being snide toward others who weren’t as privileged as him.

He’s autistic like that.

When he noticed your shoe half-hanging off your foot, he stepped over to you and softly grabbed your ankle, sliding your shoe off the entire way before gently rubbing the sole of your foot. “Let me help you with that, Princess.” He said quietly, before moving to take the shoe off your other foot. 

I love him. I’ve already said it several times but god this one made me soft.

“I got you a star.” He said proudly, grinning even wider now. 

I just realized how much I would personally love that and I would probably have to marry that person on the spot, or at least kiss them senseless. Thank you for that.

He had literally changed the night sky for you. 

My exact, verbal reaction was an “Oh my god.” and a gasp, precisely like the next fic sentence.

“No, it’s not.” He said firmly, reaching out and putting a hand on your jaw, tilting your face up from looking at the certificate to look at him. 

I don’t really know him, but this makes me so soft and I love him.

It bloomed nothing but those same feelings in return from you.

Well now I’m just thinking of how this also probably works in the opposite, negative way with anger and such.

You could put it next to your marriage certificate; eventually, put next to wedding photos when the two of you eventually got married.

Oh, honey.

Standing proudly because this was just the beginning of it.

And when is the beginning of the end?

Oh, this necklace speech. This fucking star necklace speech. Spencer Reid, I adore you.

You could easily imagine yourself feeling so proud to answer whenever random strangers or your co-workers asked where it was from. 

Knowing what’s to come, and also not knowing, really is something.

“So…” He whispered against your neck. “What else does the birthday girl want?” “I can think of a few things.”

Fuck yeah. Also that kiss against the chain was incredible. I loved it, peak romance.

Subby Spencer, which is just Spencer, I fucking adore you.

After the break-up, Spencer often looked up to the sky and thought about you. 

Oh fuck.

He spent many nights staring out his telescope, wondering if you were happy, blanketed under that inky sky. 

His apartment is probably all wrong but I can picture this so well in my head.

You thought it was a lot like your relationship with Spencer. Placing all of your hopes and dreams onto something already dead - something where the light had died out long ago.

Fucking — ugh.

Anyways, incredible as always. Love Sebastian, brilliant baby boy. I cannot wait to actually see him and his interactions with everything and everyone. I love JJ and Spencer, a special mention to Subby Spencer. This chapter made me a little soft at parts. A little. Is it cause I don’t really know this character so I can only feel so much for this? Or is it because I know this ends horribly at some point and stays that way for 4+ years? Maybe both? And will I come off of anon just to be able to reblog and put a damn read more on my comments? Also a maybe.

You have to know that I was screaming and wiggling in my bed like a worm and smiling SO HARD while reading this for the first time omg.

Even simple comments on fics make me so happy, but these kind of comments make me feel like - superpowered. Like this gives me the energy to go off and write like 10 more fics!!

okay okay

Yeah, Spencer starts out looking very boyish, and he looks even more manly in the later seasons, and I considered setting this in the even later seasons, but I didn't want the time difference to be so vast that their kid would be like 10 years old and Spencer had gone for most of the kid's life without knowing that the kid existed. I thought that four years was the perfect amount of time, because the kid has grown up a bit and can absorb meeting his father for the first time (and he's just starting to ask 'where is my dad? do I have a dad?') but Spencer can still play a role in his childhood and his development

I am glad that you like JJ! A lot of people in the fandom don't like her (because people think that if you like Spencer, you have to hate JJ because they have disagreements, and it's like - you can like both characters and appreciate and understand both sides of those arguments). But anyway - I love JJ. She is one of my all time favs.

"Spencer, I don't know what you expected" - He expected a fucking hug. Because he thought that the reader missed him just as much as he missed her, which might be true on a deeper level, but she's pissed and defensive. So - no hugs!!!

Okay but imagine how haunting it is for him that he remembers everything about her in detail - her favourite flowers, her favourite movie, her favourite foods, her favourite songs - and whenever he interacts with those things, even by coincidence, he is reminded of her long after she left him.

WE LOVE PENELOPE IN THIS HOUSEHOLD!!!!

"No idea what happened but it's whatever!" - When you find out what happened, it's gonna be one of those things where you view the entire story with a different lens and you're gonna go oh.

Okay, okay, in terms of 'what kind of person' Spencer was back then, I was largely thinking of this clip of Spencer and Emily. This is very important for the context. Like, this is most of Reid's characterization after the Hankel incident (when he was on drugs) - which is one of the major precipitating factors for the breakup. (He made not-so-subtle cries for help, and then when people tried to get close in order to help him, he snapped at them and made personal attacks toward them. And that is a huge inspiration for this fic.)

"I would hug her if I could." I WOULD TOOOOO

"I love them." We need more JJ/Spencer friendship appreciation in 2024

"Communication is key. It’s fine to not talk about if you aren’t ready, but fuck, Spencer, you have to say something at least." -> again, his characterization back then was being closed off and defensive as hell and it took him a long time to work through that !!!!

"Presented without comment, just an aching feeling, akin to longing, grief and fear." Rubbing my hands together like a cartoon villain knowing that I accomplished this lmao

"He doesn't gatekeep his knowledge -> He's autistic like that." LITERALLY I SNORTED READING THIS. Because it's TRUUUUUUE. He is just so autistic that he can't contain his knowledge and can't keep it to himself

"My exact, verbal reaction was an “Oh my god.” and a gasp, precisely like the next fic sentence." -> AGAIN, rubbing my hands together like a cartoon villain knowing what I have accomplished. Spencer just makes you go omg. it's an instinct

"Well now I’m just thinking of how this also probably works in the opposite, negative way with anger and such." okay but this is SO TRUE. because they have the soulmate connection, the anger brews between them, and so does sadness and pain. (They feel each other's pain so hard.)

"And when is the beginning of the end?" This GOT TO ME. Because I know when the exact moment is in the fic and it's PAINFUL

"Subby Spencer, which is just Spencer, I fucking adore you." - which is just me all the time lmao

I am so glad you liked it!!! and don't feel like you have to come off anon, I am just so happy that you love my fics enough to read something from a fandom that you're not even in lmao

[kujakumai]

Just thinking after you mentioned a Yugioh is about Identity meta. Even after it's pretty clear Atem/Yami is NOT actually a split personality of Yugi's, he still calls him 'other me'. Do you think that means YUGi himself has identity issues, perhaps pertaining to lacking confidence compared to Atem?

Okay so the original ygo-identity meta is here and the most straightforward basis of it is that ygo says that stealing or erasing someone else's identity for your own use is bad. This is most obviously displayed by Yami Bakura, the big bad, and his sinister parasitism; but it's also laid out by Yami Marik, whose intent to inhabit Marik's life in his place is a more direct act of violence, and more subtly by Gozaburo's partially-successful attempt to reshape Kaiba in his own image, and a few other smaller places. It is wrong, says ygo, to put yourself in someone else's place, to replace what is "them" with what is "you," to blur those lines.

This is, of course, what Atem spends the entire series doing, and I've written a thousand posts about how he knows what he's doing and feels horrifically guilty about it; this is why the climax of YGO is Atem getting his own name and learning his own history, because it is when the identity theft stops. When Atem says no, I am a different person, I was never you, and from now on I am going to be only myself. This is when he finally triumphs over evil, and the evil he's triumphing over is very specifically his contrast with Yami Bakura, who has not only spent the entire series identity-thefting Bakura but has had his own original identity as Thief King already erased, used, and discarded by Zork.

The question of "How does Yugi fit into all this?" is like. A chewy one.

Yugi's presence marks the biggest difference between Atem and every other parasite in this story. Yugi consents. Yugi says "You want to use my identity? You can have it, then. I will share. I will let you have everything."

I think there's a reading of ygo that goes "Ah! That's the difference, then. Yugi consents, which is what makes everything fine!" which isn't implausible, really, but it's not one I buy. The ultimate message is still that Atem can't triumph over evil until he knows that he is himself, and that Yugi can't become the king of games until he separates Atem from himself. Atem's "borrowing" of Yugi's identity, even if consensual and pleasant, is condemned by the narrative as unsustainable. Per the last two arcs, while their bond is everything and they may save each other, Atem cannot be Yugi because Atem is Atem, and this saves the world; Atem cannot be Yugi because there cannot be two Yugis, because Yugi has to be strong enough to fight for himself.

Then we get to, okay, but why does Yugi consent? And why does the narrative still insist they be separated, if it looks like a positive relationship for both parties?

On a higher narrative level, I think Yugi's cheerful willingness to have someone else stand in his shoes is just another example of the forms possession takes in this universe. The Mariks want to kill each other, YB takes more of a simmering slow-roll that victimizes Bakura more over time, and Atem and Yugi are apparently happy codependent symbiotes. It helps cover our bases and presents an example where identity theft can be done willingly but still be ultimately unhealthy.

On a character level, it brings us back to the themes and character notes introduced in the very earliest chapters of the manga: Yugi Muto has poor self-esteem and poor self-preservation; he is so lonely he thinks his bullies are his friends; he is bottomlessly kind to others and has a deep-set sense of justice; he feels powerless to fight back against those who harm him or his friends; he has trouble handling his negative emotions--rage, grief, loneliness--almost certainly in part exactly because of how powerless he feels to act on them.

Yugi’s defining introductory character moment is, remember, throwing himself in front of Jou and Honda, two people who have been nothing but cruel to him, in order to protect them from someone even crueler and meaner, and getting the shit kicked out of him. It does not shock me that Yugi would offer Atem everything he has. Yugi is kind, even at his own expense. If he thinks that to share his very personhood is what Atem needs, then he will give it.  

Letting Atem temporarily Be Him appears to solve a lot of his problems. “Other Yugi” can act on his rage; he is cool and powerful and liked; he can dole out justice and protect the people he loves. At the end of the day he can go home content that “Yugi” has accomplished everything he wanted to. Letting someone else do all the hard parts of your life, is, obviously, detrimental, but it’s a very passive, comfortable detrimental. It hits hard against your self-actualization and sense of accomplishment in the long-run, but it feels pretty great at the time. It is burying your issues with yourself the same way he buried all the feelings he didn’t want to deal with for so long that Atem ended up setting a bunch of people on fire with them.

So Yugi’s bottomless kindness combines with Atem’s desperate need to cling to a sense of identity. Yugi throws a band-aid on all his issues and eagerly says okay, you need it, you can have mine. 

I wouldn’t say Yugi has “identity” issues, not in the same way Atem does. Yugi has, and always has had, ignore-his-problems-and-sweep-everything-under-the-rug issues. Yugi knows who he is. I think on some level he understands that Atem is not and never was him. But acknowledging that Atem is not him is admitting everything that got us here in the first place--that Yugi Muto, the one and only, isn’t cool and isn’t powerful. That none of those accomplishments are his. That Yugi Muto is small and weak, that he can’t hurt back all the people who hurt him, that he can’t make friends or get a date on his own. This is terrifying and difficult to think about, so he won’t. Atem is lost and confused and won’t assert himself as separate, so Yugi never has to. 

It suits Yugi’s self-esteem to let everyone think Atem is him, and it suits Atem’s sense of purpose to pretend he is Yugi, and neither of them has to deal with the mortifying ordeal of being themselves. They will continue in this ouroboros of projection, enablement, and self-abjuration until the last two arcs force them to stop. And it will--because YGO is about identity; because Yugi and Atem’s cohabitation prevents either of them from fully asserting an individual identity. Because the narrative of YGO insists, demands, that the only way forward is to be yourself and nobody else.

[dekuskacchan]

Tell Me I’m Dreaming

Rating: T

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of injuries and hospitals, Bakugou Katsuki needs a hug

Summary: Katsuki wakes up in the hospital after the war to find that Deku is still unconscious.

A/N: Hello! SO chapter 298 is out now and it left me Feeling Some Things. i hope you like!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970094

Sequel

-

Pain.

It was the last thing Katsuki remembered before he’d blacked out. He was bleeding, dying, fighting with all his might, and then, as the adrenaline wore off, there was nothing but unbearable pain.

And Deku.

Deku.

Katsuki cracked his eyes open with a groan, taking in his surroundings. Instead of lying on rough, dirty terrain, he was now in a bed, his torn costume replaced by a scratchy, blue gown. An oxygen mask covered his face.

“Shit!” Katsuki hissed at the ache in his side as he lurched forward, ripping off the mask.

“He’s awake!!”

An entourage of classmates was there to greet him, shouting in excitement that he was okay, but Katsuki only had one thought on his mind.

Where was Deku?

--------------------------

“ARE YOU TRYING TO DIE?!" The little purple runt was gripping Katsuki by the back of his gown, trying to hold him back as he ran through the hospital.

“Midoriya hasn’t shown any signs of waking up,” they’d said.

“Shut the fuck up! You’re gonna kill me even harder by yanking me,” Katsuki snarled, shrugging off the leech as he marched on.

Deku was the only one who wasn't awake.

Katsuki was littered with wounds, but the sickening anguish he felt upon hearing those words was unlike anything he’d ever felt.

"He’s dead meat if he thinks he can die on me" Katsuki growled as he approached Deku's door, wrenching it open.

Katsuki stopped short, staring in disbelief at the sight before him.

Deku had experienced his fair share of injuries, but Katsuki had never seen him look anything like this.

He was lying supine, body heavily bandaged, with all four of limbs fully casted. His legs were in traction, and braces fit snugly on his shoulders. His breathing was so shallow that Katsuki could barely fucking tell he was even breathing at all. A monitor beeped quietly, tracking the slow, even rhythm of his heart.

Katsuki gritted his teeth, anxiety bubbling in his chest.

“Young Bakugou,” a soft, broken whisper startled Katsuki.

He was so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed All Might sitting at Deku's side. He looked like shit, skin pale as a ghost, eyes more sunken than usual.

Good.

“How-” Katsuki swallowed, “how is he?.”

“He’s…stable,“

“Don’t fucking sugarcoat it,”

All Might sighed and nodded.

“All four of his limbs were shattered, and he has some broken ribs. He’s been comatose for two days,” his voice was grave, “the doctors have no idea when he’ll wake.”

The words felt like daggers, twisting in Katsuki’s chest, gouging out his already bleeding heart and ripping the air from his lungs.

No, no no no, this isn’t real. How is this fucking real?

“--stopped the internal bleeding,” distantly, Katsuki heard All Might speaking, but he wasn’t paying attention.

A coma. He’s in a fucking coma.

Images flashed through his mind. Deku, destroying his body with each desperate punch. Deku’s shocked cry when Katsuki launched himself into All for One’s tendrils to protect him. Deku’s mangled body falling to the ground beside him. Deku, Deku, Deku, Deku was fucking dying-

“--know this is hard for you too, young Bakugou,” All Might was still rambling, and a molten rage rippled through Katsuki’s body.

How is he so fucking calm?

“You...fucking asshole,” Katsuki growled, eyes narrowing, “you FUCKING ASSHOLE.”

All Might’s mouth fell open in alarm as Katsuki all but sprinted across the room, grabbing him by the collar.

“You- this is your fault, Katsuki seethed, “you lied to us, you hid information, you- you could have-”

“I know,” All Might nodded somberly.

“HAAH?!” Katsuki shouted.

“I know,” All Might’s voice was firm now as he looked Katsuki in the eyes, “I should have been more open with both of you. If I had, maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Katsuki was trembling in fury, blind to all but the overwhelming grief he felt, and suddenly his fist was colliding with All Might’s jaw. He reeled back with a groan as a searing blast of pain surged through his injured shoulder and abdomen.

All Might grunted and rubbed his face, but he seemed unsurprised. Like he fucking knew he had this coming. It pissed Katsuki off even more.

“Alright, I deserved that,” he grunted, eyes widening in concern when Katsuki doubled over in pain, “but, young Bakugou, you need to rest-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki spat, “Deku almost fucking died.”

Logically, Katsuki knew that All Might was just as helpless here as he was, and he was suffering too, but for some reason that was making Katsuki even angrier. Angry at All Might and his fucking secrets, angry at Deku, at Shigaraki, everyone in this fucking hospital, at himself-

“So did you,”

Katsuki flinched at the memory, balling his hands into fists.

“That’s- that’s fucking irrelevant.”

“No, it’s not. If it weren’t for your quick thinking, young Midoriya might not be here right now. You’re right to be angry. But please, be angry at me, not-”

“I am angry at you!” Katsuki roared.

“You’re angry at yourself too. You shouldn’t be,”

Katsuki sank to his knees in defeat. White-hot bile rose in his throat, choking him as he tried to speak.

All Might gently rested a hand on his uninjured shoulder.

“Please, rest. You’re going to cause yourself further harm.”

“He...what if he- he can’t-” Katsuki stuttered, pressing the heels of his palms into his bloodshot eyes to prevent tears from falling.

“He won’t,” All Might tried to comfort him, but Katsuki could tell he was scared too, “this is an excellent hospital, the doctor’s are doing everything they can.”

“Well they’re not fucking doing enough,” Katsuki snapped.

“I’m worried, too. But we can’t lose hope, young Bakugou.”

Katsuki felt All Might kneel beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he was on the verge of tears, too.

“Fuck you. You should be,” Katsuki grumbled, but it lacked the venom he’d intended.

A sudden knock startled both of them. Katsuki raised his eyes to see Present Mic’s head peeking through the cracked door. He looked like shit, too.

“Aizawa wants to talk to you,” Mic murmured, “and you should be in bed, Bakugou.”

“Tch. You should go to hell,” Katsuki growled.

All Might nodded solemnly as he stood, offering a hand to Katsuki to help him up, but it was stubbornly batted away.

“At least sit in a chair, then, young Bakugou,” All Might sighed reluctantly, “I will return shortly. Please, be careful," and with that, he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Katuki shifted his gaze to Deku. He watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed quietly, listening to the steady beeping of his heartbeats on the monitor.

I might never get to tell him.

Katsuki clenched his teeth, struggling to maintain his composure as the thought reverberated through his mind.

I’ve been a fucking coward and now I might never get to tell him.

Deku had always watched Katsuki so closely. He was always watching, always reaching out to him, always had a hand open for him- but now that Katsuki was finally reaching back, Deku's hand was gone.

Suddenly, Katsuki had never felt more alone, and the dam broke.

He hunched over, slamming his fists on the ground as broken sobs wracked through him. His injured body screamed in protest, but he didn’t care. All of his wounds fucking paled in comparison to this- this was agony.

“Wake up, you asshole,” he gasped, gripping the side rails of the bed, “you can’t just fucking die on me.”

The tears were flowing freely now, blurring his vision, burning hot against his skin.

“Aren’t- aren’t you supposed to be the fucking chosen one? Don’t you want to win and save everyone? You can’t win if you’re dead,” Katsuki cried.

He was dizzy. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, nothing existed except this overbearing, unwavering hurt.

“You can’t die. Don’t fucking die on me.”

Katsuki was helpless as he spiraled, choking on tears as he pleaded for Deku to just fucking wake up already, until he was finally spent.

He was more exhausted than he’d ever been in his fucking life.

His body slumped, head dropping to the mattress and arms falling limp at his side. There was nothing he could do, and he knew it.

He had never felt so powerless. All he could do was sit here and fucking wait for Deku to wake up.

But what if he never does?

“Please wake up, Deku. I need you,” Katsuki whispered hoarsely, raising a weak hand to hold Deku’s arm.

“Just don’t fucking die.”

Katsuki wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. He was drifting, falling, desperately clinging to Deku as his only anchor to reality, and then suddenly, the heart monitor picked up speed.

His mind raced with fear. Shit, shit shit shit where is the fucking doctor? He’s--

Deku stirred beside him, grimacing as his limbs budged, and Katsuki’s own heart skipped a beat.

“Deku?” he whispered.

There was no reply. Deku’s face slowly relaxed, his body unmoving, and Katsuki hung his head. His mind was playing cruel tricks on him now, not fair--

“Ka-"

Katsuki’s head snapped up once more, and without thinking, he reached up to cradle Deku’s face. He was searching for any tangible proof that this was real, that he wasn’t dreaming, he really just heard his voice--

Tired, green eyes cracked open to meet Katsuki’s, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Kacchan, is that you?” Deku croaked.

“Yeah, Deku, it's me.”

Deku’s eyes welled up with tears as he smiled, and Katsuki’s anxiety instantly melted away.

“Kacchan.”

-

A/N: WHOOPSIE aha I made pain :’)

[almosttenaciousmoon]

By the way, she’s safe with me

AN: So this is my first ever fic / oneshot so it may not be the best but I wrote half of this at 2:00am and than finished it first thing in the morning. It’s unedited so just ignore the mistakes. I hope it’s a ok. 

Also ‘cinta ku’ translates to ‘my love’ in Indonesian.

Summary: Gwyn wakes up from a nightmare but Azriel is there to comfort her.

Tagging @daevastanner for encouraging me to write down my head-cannons

Soft moonlight filters through the floor to ceiling windows illuminating the graphite room. As wisps of shadows adorned the walls rising and falling seemingly in time with every breathe the room’s occupants took.

The shadowsinger lay awake staring down at the strands of silky copper hair threaded through his fingers. Sprawled across his chest, Gwyn’s soft snores breath against his chest as he admired his resting mate. Her steady heartbeat and even breathing were indicators that she was finally resting having recovered from her nightmare not a half-hour ago.

Azriel had awoken from his admittedly light slumber to the raged breading and heavy panting from his valkyrie. Feeling the loss of her weight and hearing the rustle of sheets as she got up, he sat up wings spread against the headboard as he rubbed the sleep away from his eyes. 

“Cinta ku, are you ok?” Azriel asked, voice a little rougher than usual as he recovers from what little sleep he had left. “Yes.” A yawn escaped her. “Just a dream. You can go back to sleep Az. You need rest for the mission tomorrow.” Gwyn argues as she sits at the edge of the bed reaching for a cup of water on the nightstand. 

“ You need rest as much as I do.” He argues because tomorrow he and Gwyn along with Cassian and Nesta would be flying up to Windhaven to meet up with Emerie and assist her in training the Illyrian females. It seams that after the valkyries success in the blood rite, more and more females have taken to training and fighting over the recent years. Some trained as part of the Illyrian army. While others chose to join the increasing number of Valkyrie recruits, helping to build up their ranks.

“Even so, you’d be the one flying us up.” Gwyn countered disposing of the cup and crawling her way up to his lap. Now nestled comfortably on his lap with her head resting on the crook of his neck, Gwyn wrapped her arms around his middle. “Wanna talk about it?” The shadowsinger offers as he tucks the crown of molten copper beneath his chin, content in idly tracing shapes against the silk of her nightgown. His stubborn yet clearly distorted mate shook her head.

While he knew that sometimes it was good to talk about the demons that plague your sleep, he also knew that sometimes you need time to process it all and other times it’s just too much and all you need is to simply be held. To have someone to hold you and anchor you back to reality as your mind becomes a maelstrom of doubt and fears. As streams of insecurities threaten to drown you.

After some minutes Gwyn pulled away tilting her head up in order to look at him. Soft hazel orbs met slightly glazed teal and one look and he could see all to guilt and grief stifled with self-loathing he felt down their mating bond. At that, the shadowsinger’s hold tightened on her waist.

“I-I needed to process what happened first. To figure out what part of the dream was real and what my ever creative mind has contorted for me tonight.” She whispers more light-heartedly towards the end as she tries to lighten the mood. “Tonight I dreamt of Catrin.” She says, tilting her head up, she was meet with pulls dusty brown swirled in with moss and warmed by an inner gold. His hazel gaze shone with quiet encouragement silently willing her to share her dream. 

With that, the valkyrie continued.”The difference tonight being that the dream started off as a happy memory. I sat upon the boulders next to our lake in Sangravah. I lie down, content in enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun as I read about two lovers dancing through a spring shower. Catrin’s swimming in the lake. Her head underwater blowing bubbles to show me where she is. I hear her swimming closer to me. Her laugh so care free, is suddenly cut short by a stifling scream.” Her chest once again starts to heave. The shadowsinger continued his southing stokes on her back the scent of her growing anxiety drenches the room. Dread coils low and deep in his stomach as she looked up at him, eyes dull with resignation.

That look sends him spiralling as he questions what cruel dreams have played in her head tonight? Reaching a hand to cup her face, he pushed away those thoughts, determined to keep that calming presence there for her. A deep breath as she returned her head to rest on his shoulder. “Something must have grabbed at her feet, slowly dragging her down. Drowning her” She murmurs against his skin. “Catrin kept streaming out to me. Hopelessly thrashing against the water. I tried to reach out to her, but it was as if invisible hands held me down. Restraining me.” He feels the silent tears as they slide down his back.” It felt just like Sangravah. I couldn’t save her than and I failed her again. Even in my dreams, I’m always powerless to save her.” Gwyn ads through heaping sobs. 

Two fingers slowly lift her chin. Hazel eyes trained to her face. Shining with reverence. He knew. He knew how it felt to feel powerless in saving someone you loved. He knew how it felt to wake up feeling like your back at square one. With that understanding, swallowing the emotion in his voice. The shadowsinger assured her.

“ You didn’t fail her.”  

You never have, and never cold dear sister. The shadowsinger could have sworn the room’s temperature dropped,if only for a second. He could have sworn there was another presence in the room.

She looked ready to argue but a finger pressed against her lips assuring her he wasn’t finished. “ You said it yourself, you fought against those restraints it order to get to her. You fought, objecting to whatever held you from her. Your love for your sister is shown by that simple thought you had. To get to her. To save her.” He looked at her with an intensity charged by reassurance. Reassurance for her. From his words. 

“I know sometimes that grief and self doubt can threaten to pull you under. That even as everything seams to get better, It claws it’s way into your mind and sneaks up on you when you least expect it to.” He tells her.” But with that, also remember to acknowledge the progress you make. Admittedly, it’s easier said than done but I want you to promise me that every time those insecurities come chasing. That you turn to me and ask of a reminder. A reminder of an achievement. It doesn’t have to be a big one. Even something as mundane as being abel to go back to sleep after a nightmare.” And he’s looking at her again. With that unrelenting love that she’s still working to believe she deserves.

“I know that sometimes, it’s hard to remember something positive when all your mind seems to recall is the failures. That’s when you turn to me. You don’t need to do it all alone. Just because we’re immortal, doesn’t mean we’re invincible. I can only hope that one day you can see a glimpse of the Gwyn I see.” Az tells her.

“And what do you see?” She retorts. A small smile graces her perfect face.

“I see a warrior. A survivor. An unrelenting fighter who even when the world owed her nothing, she demanded something of it anyways.” He smiled, tucking her smaller frame to his chest as he brought them back to the bed.

With Gwyn now resting on his chest. Head tucked under his chin. Wings gently wrapped around her, He looks out the window and at the shining stars. “I hope you know she’s safe with me.” The shadowsinger whispered to his mates sister. Knowing that she was smiling, from wherever she stud. 

She smiles from the reassurance that her sister is once agin safe with a new family to hold her.

I’ll meet you in the next life. She promisees to the mated pair. 

[moonlit-djarin]

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Paring: Din Djarin x Reader

Warnings: Angst, injury (not very graphic but still there), Character Death, loss/grief, mild cursing, Sad Din :(

a/n: Thanks for sticking with me as I worked this one out! The Razor Crest still exists here because I couldn’t take everything from him. 

Word Count: 3.2k

The memories of waking up next to you everyday burns in the back of my head and it was all I could think about when people told me to go to my happy place but now those memories haunt me taking me to my worst place a reality without you

Calloused fingers danced over your shoulders and upper back with tenderness and care. Following the contours of you, as if they held the answers to the universe.  His arms were strong, protective, and comforting. There was no place in the entire galaxy like it, no place where you would rather be. 

Lost in his own thoughts, he draped his arm over your waist. His tumb caressing you hip softly, the other hand tracing circles on your shoulders. Placing kisses on your neck, he relished in the soft skin underneath him. Smiling as his actions earned a drawn out hum from your lips. This was his favorite time of day. The early morning, still innocent and hopefully of the day to come. The sun was sleeping, so was the moon and her stars. A moment of stillness holding his lover, in the suspended time of night and day, forgetting the outside world's existence. 

A treasured, self indulgent moment full of love and admiration in a life full of uncertainties and ever constant danger. 

The Mandalorian loved these moments to no end. Every single one. Relishing the feeling of your skin under his hands. Focusing only on you. Wishing he could capture these moments and stay in them forever, leaving the bounty hunter life behind for good. Reality harshly told him otherwise, but he could still dream. If  stars could grant his wishes, his whispers upon every star, shooting or still, would not be in vain. 

Shifting under the covers, your face turned to meet his. His grip loosened enough to let you shift before he pulled you in close again. Your partner in life. You cupped his cheek, kissing his lips with closed eyes. Exhaling a laugh at the sensation of his scruff tickling your lip. Mumbling a soft good morning, hesitant to let go. Afraid to never hold you again. 

“ Riduur-” you breathed out softly, smiling at the whine that escaped his lips as you tried to leave his grasp. He didn’t respond but cupped your face with his free hand and kissed you again tenderly. Tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth.

“Din….” You whined shoving him away playfully, earning a chuckle from him. 

“Just five more minutes cyar'ika” He breathed into your neck peppering it with more kisses. His voice still raspy, laced with sleep.

Oh how he wished he could live in that moment forever and that you never had left the safety of his arms. 

Waking up with a sharp inhale, his arm reached out to the other side of the small bed. A ritual ingrained into his subconscious over time. There was no longer a warmth next to him. Blinking in confusion, his head turned to the side, expecting to see you when he turned, but you weren’t there. With a heavy sigh the Mandalorian drew back his hand, running it through his outgrown hair. The soft curls tangled and untamed. A silent testament to the time he had spent without you. 

It had gone wrong so fast. Painful memories plaguing his mind, taking over the warm embrace of his most treasured memories of you.

Under the command of Moff Gideon, His improved dark troopers, a seemingly unstoppable force, had taken the child. Without hesitation you joined Din and the others on the journey to recover the foundling. You had grown just as attached to the adorable creature as he had. A hole ripped in your collective hearts as he was taken and you stood powerless on the earth, watching him disappear into the clouds. His found family had been ripped apart, if only that was the end of it. 

Din knew, something was going to go wrong as soon as they arrived on Morak. A gut feeling that he carried with him the entire time on the surface. He should’ve listened to that feeling and turned around immediately. If only he knew the consequences, he would’ve found another way. Anything. 

Finding the location of Moff Gideon would cost him everything. 

With a breathless groan, Din pulled himself out of his tight sleeping quarters. His shoulders heavy with guilt and anxiety. He tugged off his shirt, exposing the bandage haphazardly wrapped around his ribs to the light. He took off the old gauze and grabbed the med kit to replace it. His ribs were once littered with deep purples, outlining nasty bruises and an open wound. Over time his skin began to heal. The bruises now littered with yellow and pale red at points of impact no longer bothered him. The gash was healing nicely, the poorly done stitches seemed to be doing their job. They were never as good as yours. The soreness in ribs was a lingering physical reminder of all he had lost.

The blaster went off before he saw the dark trooper standing in front of you. Crying your name in vain, he watched your knees buckle to the ground. Your hand reached for your blaster, getting one ricochet shot in before it was kicked away out of your grasp. The dark machine took your into its mechanical grip, before discarding you against the wall. Your back took most of the impact as you were thrown against it. Landing with a thud, unmoving. Blind sighted by rage, he ripped through the dark trooper holding him with ease. Letting out a guttural cry as he fought his way over to you. The distance between you was great, but not impossible. With a fight for your survival, he would stop at no lengths until you were safe. He left none alive. Taking the beskar spear in his hands, he deftly sent it through the exposed section of the one in front of you. Watching the machine fall to the side and spudder with sparks, he couldn’t move. Every muscle, bone, nerve in his body screamed at him to kneel to his riduur. Yet he stood there frozen in shock. He had been too late. 

The whimper that fell off your lips, snapped him back to reality. He knelt in front of you, taking one look at you up close, his heart sank. Swallowing his panic, with shaking hands, he peeled away the bottom of your shirt to assess the damage done. Shit. His eyes flicked up to your face and his fear came true. Your eyes were glassy as you looked up at him wide with fear. He had failed to protect you. Cupping your cheek he pressed his helmet to your forehead. His voice was calm, calmer than you had ever heard it. 

“Cyar'ika…” it took every fiber of him not to crack. Not to shatter under the strain. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this. This wasn’t supposed to happen.  Not after all that had been taken from him. You were so close to rescuing your son. He couldn’t let you slip through his fingers. He couldn���t fail you like he failed his son. 

Walking down the hallway with you weak in his arms was something he’d never be able to forget. 

Gripping the doorframe, Din closed his eyes for a moment, biting back raw emotion. Selfishly remembering those mornings. The fleeting touches, gentle kisses and innocent desire of wanting more. The false sense of security, hopeful for a better day. His fingers twitched as he remembered the contours of your shoulder, hips and back under his calloused fingers. This isn’t real. This isn’t the reality he knew. No matter how many times he told himself that when he opened his eyes, he would see you wiping the sweat off his brow, telling him that it was a nightmare. He could never believe it. He knew that it wasn’t true. His eyes crinkled as he squeezed them shut, no longer in a passive innocent memory. His lip quivered as the pit reappeared. How could he have let you go. Anger filled his ever sinking stomach, making him feel sick and weak. His fist met the door frame and he snapped his eyes open. As if he was trying to contain the gravity of his defeat. Din threw the med kit on the bed. Letting it hit the mattress and bounce, the contents spilling out. He would fix that later, not now. Taking deep unsteady breaths, he ran his fingers through his hair. Clenching his jaw he stared at the empty ship, he felt hollow. As if he wasn’t truly present in the moment, still lingering between memories and reality. With heavy and reluctant steps, he made his way to and up the ladder to the cockpit. His eyes lingered too long on the chair that you used to sit next to him at. His fist tightening at its vacancy. He double checked the coordinates he had set with soft clicks of buttons. His fingers brushed the metal ball in its place with his fingers, and let his arm drop to his side with a silent nod. As he turned to leave he gripped the back of your chair with a gentle grip. As if they were your own shoulders. Giving the chair a gentle squeeze before retreating back to the bottom of the ship. 

“Gedet'ye Cyar'ika…” please darling. 

Your eyes fluttered open, when they were clear enough to see, they pricked with tears. You were looking up at the Mandalorian you fell in love with. His hand caressed your cheek and wiped the stray tear away with his thumb. You leaned into his touch, shakily reaching your hand to his and giving it a weak squeeze. You were leaning against the stairs in the observation deck. Your breath was labored and each exhale felt like fire escaping. Your armour lay on the floor, ripped off in a hurry. Makeshift bandages did their best to hold your broken ribs in place. Your head spun and the world seemed to spin at each movement. Entering your view the small green creature you had taken as your own, looked up at you with drooped ears. Tears threatened to spill viciously as his small hand reached out to your injured chest. Shaking your head you took his hand in yours. 

“I know buddy, you just want to help” He cooed and whined at your words, still trying to heal you. Your fingers wrapping around his, as he wrapped his around your index finger. A sob catching in your throat as you felt exhaustion wave over you stronger than any sleep you had longed for before. 

“Please” Din’s voice quivered with emotion none had heard before. One of raw defeat and heartbreak. “Hold on Cyar’ika… we need you” 

The Jedi stood in the doorway with his blue droid. Offering You a glance of sympathy and nodded his head. Confirming there was nothing he could do to save you. Just as the child ,  he could feel how weak you were becoming. Your breath hitched as your husband removed his helmet, the child in his arms. Watching silently as he said goodbye to the child. Tears threatened to roll down the Mandalorians cheek, as the doors closed on the Jedi and his child. Saying goodbye to the child was heartbreaking. The foundling was a part of him, an extension of his love. He had watched a piece of him walk out the door, in the arms of a stranger. He would watch the other piece of him rest in his arms. 

He kneeled in front of you one last time. Setting his helmet down to the side. 

“Hey handsome,” You breathed, chuckling lightly as you met his eyes. Pain limited your joy to be back in your husband's arms. 

He choked, knowing your fate. “Cyar'ika gedet'ye … stay with me” He begged softly as his eyes met yours. His heart hammering in his chest, sending his mind reeling. Panic bubbled in his throat as he felt your weak embrace. Resting his head against yours, foreheads touching as he tried to memorize every inch of your face over and over again, as if he didn’t already know it by memory. His eyes full of sorrow and pain met yours, full of love and admiration. 

“I-m not scared, its okay ” You confessed, your shaking hand smoothed out the curls sticking up on the back of his head. Movement seemed to defy the nerve endings' painful plea to stop. The ache in your heart was enough to keep you afloat for just a minute longer. 

“Please don’t leave me  -” he confessed his fear. Losing you. Failing you. Tears made their way down his cheeks freely. You were in his arms and that is all that mattered in this moment..

“Mhi solus dar'tome, Riduur ” we are one when parted, husband. You whispered, looking into the glassy brown eyes you had fallen so deeply in love with. “I love you Din Djarin” his name on your lips like honey. Sounding so sweet and lovely, just as if you had whispered it to him in the hours between day and night, instead of in the devastating moment.

“I love you” he repeated, choking through tears and breathless declarations. A desperate prayer to the stars, not unheard, they had run out of ink. Caressing your cheek, he placed a kiss on your lips, the feeling of his scruff and mustache making you smile weakly. He pulled you into his chest. Hand grasping at your back and the other cradling your head. Shaking through tearless sobs, he held you. One last time. His arms were a place like no other. Strong, protective, and comforting. They never let you down, even until the end. There was nowhere else in the entire galaxy that you would rather be. 

One last intimate moment between husband and wife

Din repeated out loud, words only shared between the two of you, in the intimacy of becoming each others. “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde - "We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors. “Udesiir Riddur” Rest my beloved. 

The creek of the metal shifting underneath him pulled him back to reality. He blinked the emotion out of his eyes. Turning the squeaky faucet, ice cold water gushed out in rhythmic spurts into the metal basin.The cold water woke him up with a harsh start. Gripping the metal basin with white knuckles, he let his face drip into the basin, staring at the ripping reflection of a broken man. The man staring back at him in the mirror was unrecognizable. How could he be the man you knew when you weren’t even there to witness his decay. 

His harsh breaths echoed through the hull of the ship. Curls of brown landed on the floor with a weightlessness the Mandalorian was jealous of. His heart twisted in his chest, yearning for the release he would never know. The metal scissors felt forgien in his hands as he struggled with shaking hands to grasp his short locks to trim them. 

“Din! Come on! You’ve been asking me to do this for weeks and as soon as I find a good pair of scissors at the market you chicken out! Last time it didn’t turn out THAT bad!” 

A quick side glance and eye contact through the mirror made the tension break. Like music to his ears, your laughter filled the hull of the ship. Your eyes gleamed, making his heart soar. A smile crinkled at the corners of his eye, his upper lip twitching into a steady smile. 

“Okay… maybe it wasn’t THAT bad, but you learn from your mistakes right?”

“I promise you that my skills have gotten better and I won’t give you a bad haircut this time… or try too” 

His hand caught your wrist as you neared him with your scissors. “ I’m warning you once, Cyar'ika, I won’t let you off so easily this time” 

How did you make it look so easy?

A soft, longing smile played at the corner of his lips, not quite reaching his eyes. His heart ached in the memory of your laughter, yet he couldn’t help but feel nothing but love for the image of you that burned in the back of his eyes. Images of you dancing around the ship with Grogu in your arms in nothing but shorts and a tank top. Images of you asleep and snoring in the passenger seat, or you holding a gun to the bounty who tries to escape his bond while in the hull. Images of you in his arms, peacefully asleep as he stared at the ceiling of the small sleeping quarters. The image of you clinging to his beskar, the lingering grasp it left as the exhaustion took you away from him filled the moment. He dropped the scissors, letting them rattle into the metal basin. No longer trusting them to stabilize his world. Breathe. He reminded himself with scolding words. He starred in the mirror. Standing with planted feet and steady hands against the sink. The man staring back at him, was one he hadn't seen since you had left. He looked more like himself, being covered in a bandage was only a common occurrence. One difference was the absence of you behind him. The other was visualized in the bloodshot eyes with dark circles outlining the last of sleep. His mind drifted to the lonely life ahead of him. Knowing you'll meet again. Not soon enough. 

The Mandalorian scoffed and shook his head. He made his way back to the empty mattress. Lazly putting the med kit on the floor, sweeping the fallen contents onto the floor. His head hung heavy in his hands as his elbows supported him as he let go. His throat tightened at the overflow of emotion. He laughed. A short and dry one nevertheless. The weight of the world collapsed around him. All over a pair of scissors. Guilt overtook him as he laughed without you, he hadn't saved you. It would be another sleepless night of his memories of waking up next to you everyday burning into the back of his head. Moments of bliss and weightlessness he would have to be without until he would join you. They would just be selfish moments, lingering in suspended bliss. Stealing time from reality, softening the blow to his aching chest. 

- 

thank you for reading all the way through <3 

Tags: @forever-rogue @magicrowiswritingstuff @callmehopeless @dindja​

[tordenvejr]

Hi Vic! I wanted to ask you for a bit of advice on something. How do you forgive someone who has deeply, intentionally hurt you? How do you forgive the person who has done the most harm to you, and knowingly so? Thank you in advance, you are so kind listening to all of us here 🌸

this is a heavy one, but i'll do my best to answer 💛

i can't say that i've completely forgiven one of the people who has hurt me and my loved ones most, because i'm not sure that i have. but i want to because this is my life and i choose who is welcome in it and who isn't. i believe the wanting to forgive, the willingness to let go for you is part of the process.

the greater the pain, the harder it is to forgive. the more violating it can feel to say i forgive you, i know you were hurting too. because what the hell does it matter what they were experiencing when they acted so cruelly? pain is not a free pass to be violent with other people's lives.

i think other than deep sadness or grief you must walk through rage too. i remember i was so angry in the time that i knew this person and even more so when he was out of my life. i was so furious that i would get flashes of hurting him, and i'm debating on keeping that in here, but that's the truth. that's how angry i was and that's how big the grief was for those i love. i had to walk for hours daily or i would shake with rage. he wasn't only hurting me, he was hurting other people. all the while laughing and boasting about the horror he would inflict on others. all the while digging his claws in in any way that he could to invoke fear or powerlessness.

it is part of it too, to see that in grasping for control, the control of you, the hurting of you, there is a wish deep inside of them to somehow be safe, to somehow stop hurting, to stop being alone. but not knowing how to do it in any way other than spreading their pain like a disease.

it is part of it too to recognize that you have no responsibility in curing them of their disease. and that if you tried the disease would eat your kindness and maybe even you. it is part of it too to know that it was never your fault that they hurt you. you could not have tricked them into being gentle with you, when they have expelled tenderness from their body out of fear of feeling it.

no one who is healthy would have deliberately hurt you. no one who is in touch with their heart, would've wanted to fill yours with anything other than love. no one who is brave would have wished to instill fear in you. no one who feels powerful would have needed to control, belittle or own you.

it is part of the process to feel bad for them for a time. to know that their world is bleak and empty.

to know that they are a soul, who got lost in their pain and forgot their divinity. and who holds off of receiving or showing love in any genuine way because they've come to think that love is painful. when really love is the only thing that can release them from it.

if you cannot love who they are, if you cannot forgive who they are, then forgive their soul. their soul who is remorseful, their soul who wishes all the best for you, their soul who will grieve your pain when this life is over if not sooner.

i wish you and everyone wanting to forgive the best possible journey ☀️

[twobrokenwyngs]

About the black sails ending - please elaborate!! Im genuinely curious! I honestly do not even remember how it ended only that I was disappointed

ohhhhhh boy, anon, you just wanna see me riled up, don't you lol

listen, there was admittedly a lot about s4 as a whole that I didn't care for. a lot of that had to do with pacing - in fact, this whole rant was borne of a discussion with @ultraballantine about how much the show would have benefitted from being 5 seasons, which I won't dive into here, because that's a whole other post in and of itself. but then we got to talking about the series' ending. and, well. yeah, I'm still so resentful and bitter about it.

specifically... the "unburying" of thomas hamilton, aka the most invalidating, shark-jumping load of bullshit ever carried out on tv. i honestly cannot think of a more disrespectful, offensive, shallow ending for one of the most complex and meaningful characters there's ever been.

the fact that flint railed against civilization while also privately longing for a quiet, domestic, civilized life is one of the best, most fascinating conflicts to his characterization. BUT if all he truly wanted in the end was that quiet retirement, he could have just stayed with miranda. it wasn't that easy, because james flint isn't the same person james mcgraw was, by a hundred thousand miles, and he cannot be again. period. life and experience changes people. "flint" wasn't just some gossamer costume that he draped over himself while "mcgraw" lay in wait. flint is who he IS, that's the center of the tragedy of his character. therein lies ALL his depth. being betrayed by the only society he's ever known changed him at a fundamental level. hell, it might even be more accurate to say that his experiences unlocked flint, because there were glimmers of that man in him even before his losses, but at that time he was simply bound by the limitations of civilized society and his position within its class structure. as a pirate, he was reborn, and it's laughable to suggest that the blazing inferno that is james flint could be tamped out, that he could in any way be "undone," by the reappearance of one of the ghosts of his past, romantic or otherwise.

and its not like we didn't all ultimately want flint to find that rest and peace. obviously we did. we didn't want to see him be fueled by blazing rage until he burned himself out. obviously!!! but that peace and rest was meant to be found on HIS. TERMS. not for him to be forced into this horrific funhouse mirror version of "peace," supposedly smoothed over by the fact that he was inexplicably given thomas back. nor can it possibly be anything even remotely resembling true peace, considering it ends with him as an actual prisoner in a labor camp, robbed of every bit of autonomy he's ever had, powerless to continue to pursue his goals nor do justice to his ideals, which he still VERY much has and holds close to himself.

for fuck's sake, how can anyone purport to love or care about this character if ultimately they were just biding their time waiting for him to magically transform into something more palatable?? and from a narrative standpoint, holy shit, has anything ever been more invalidating than, out of nowhere and for no reason, simply... giving him back the one thing he lost, the impetus for every hard choice, every sacrifice, every moral and political turn, every moment of grief and healing, etc etc he has made in the last decade?? imagine watching the show, all the while having "yeah, except thomas is secretly alive out there and they will eventually be reunited and none of this will ultimately matter," at the forefront of your mind. at that point it feels pointless to even watch at all. it takes his entire journey and mockingly shits all over it.

and don't even get me started, tbh, on the fandom reception, the unmitigated glee that washed over parts of the fandom about "unbury your gays" (puke) - god, how supremely, egregiously shallow. as if it was worth it to sacrifice flint's integrity, his values, his life, liberty and personhood, his entire goddamn characterization, so long as A Gay Character wasn't actually dead. just disgraceful. that choice, especially as randomly, clumsily, and senselessly as it was executed, more-or-less destroyed both his character and the narrative beyond recognition, and people celebrated it, because Gay. like... ew, lmao. surely, surely people want more depth and nuance in their stories than that? surely that's why we all loved the show in the first place? I don't know, man. what a mess.

aaanyway. told you I was still pissed off, lol.

[rogue-normandy]

reposting this before I lose my nerve again - three vignettes I’d like to finish after I complete the larger piece I’m working on atm... likely to be integrated into said larger piece at a later date, but the idea is for them to stand alone as well.

The first thing Amaris does after Cerberus hands her the Normandy’s reins is a funeral march to Alchera. While she passed whatever rudimentary evaluation Miranda and Jacob provided to confirm her mental integrity (if you can call shotgunning questions in a shuttle an ‘evaluation’), two years of medically induced comatose after sustained hypoxia isn’t exactly a straight shot recovery—neither is life after death, in a manner of speaking. The memories are more intrusive than they are welcoming, haunted by faces she’s still piecing together in the narrative of her life, but they help her remember what she is. She collects the dogtags of her perished crew like graveyard flowers and wonders what the point of their sacrifice was. The Shepard who asphyxiated in the cold dark over Alchera is dead, buried in the rubble alongside the decaying corpse of her ship; what remains is just a facsimile, cobbled together from the debris of her DNA. She pulls a fragment of the Normandy’s hull to keep, a piece of the old to graft onto the new. The helmet will never be worn again—troubled by dreams of suffocating in the dark—but its presence is a reminder of the grave that could not keep her.

For the first time in a long time, Amaris fails in a spectacular way—Horizon is a car crash in slow motion, a disaster she’s powerless to stop. Reuniting with Kaidan is salt in an open wound. Longing for a familiar buoy in a stormy sea, all he has to offer is dogma. His rejection sets her in a tail-spin compounded by the overwhelm of her situation and the impossible task looming in the near-distance. She doesn’t love him, but part of her wonders if she could have—if only she had the courage to let go of the Alliance protocal she’s armoured her heart with. Defeat holds a mirror to parts of herself she’s never wanted to look at. Who would she be if she laid down her arms, if she let herself be selfish as a commander? What if all she’s capable of is destruction? Zaeed takes her broken knuckles in hand (ceremoniously earned by taking out her frustration on reinforced titanium when she thinks no one’s watching), offers her perspective and a field dressing, sets the bone with a rough but practiced touch. She begins to see him in a different light. Garrus eventually convinces her to put a pin in her pride and go to Chakwas, after many rounds of failing to drink her sorrows away. In that moment, she’d finish what the gunship started if she didn’t rely on him so much… but his hang-over might do the job for her anyway.

Zaeed’s rage for Vido is just grief he hasn’t acknowledged, at the heart of it: I trusted (loved) you and you betrayed me. After the explosive (literally) incident on Zorya, he nurses the emotional hang-over of catharsis denied; imprisoned in the belly of the ship after Amaris benches him, until further notice, for undermining the integrity of her command. That hunger for reckoning was the foundation he rebuilt the ruin of his life’s work on after Vido’s betrayal blew everything else to smithereens. He’s not sure what’s left of him without it. Having arrived at the cliff’s edge a little earlier and more empty-handed than anticipated, he’s left with the choice to gaze into that abyss of his future. He always planned for a Viking (suicide) funeral—to be consumed until all that remained was ash—but after several rounds of punitive labour at the heel of various crew-members, he begins to realize (begrudgingly) the prospect no longer appeals. An old dog learns new tricks—how to be wrong with grace, right after accepting what it means to fall in love at the theoretical end of the world.

[laurore-stormwitch]

Post rule of wolves, about Zoya and Nikolai being soft with each other in one of the many moment of hardship they face. Zoya gets a letter that unsettles her and leans on Nikolai to face more of her demons and move on. I love how Zoya is slowly learning to open up and face her wounds, and how Nikolai is there to catch her. Feedback are always appreciated, so much love to you all 

the blood in our veins - ao3

When the sound of leaves crunching under someone’s steps reached her, Zoya did not startle. She knew Nikolai would appear at some point, as he always did, as if he could sense her despair. Or as if someone played the snitch on my escape, more likely. He was the only one to have the key, beside her, and the only one to know she would take refuge here. For a moment, she lingered on what a strange sight she was making; a steel spined harpy perched amongst the wildflowers, her kefta smeared by dirt and pollen, her eyes trained on the ground and a sprout in her hands. She felt his intense gaze on her, his worry. The scent of his skin; Nikolai always tasted like salt and sunburnt skin, like the sea. 

“Who ratted me out?”, she asked. He lowered himself toward her, brushing a kiss on her head before kneeling beside her on the ground. 

“Tamar”, he answered, “told me you got a letter and dismissed the meeting.” More like run away from it. She would have to thank Tamar for her regard. 

Zoya clicked her tongue. A letter. Her hand went in her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Nikolai. She sensed his concern turn into outrage. Zoya knew it was a matter of time before Sabina reached out to her. After all, her daughter had just become the queen of Ravka. There was no hope left in her heart that her estranged mother would not try to exploit this particular advantage. As long as she was not dead, she supposed. Which, as far as she knew of, could very well be. As it turned out Sabina was not the one Zoya should have been wondering about.

“It’s a long list of arrogant pleading. Get to the end”, she instructed Nikolai. Zoya glanced at him and saw him shook his head with a sigh when he came to the last lines. 

“Zoya – “, he tried, his tone insecure, weary of what was the right thing to say. Was there a right thing to say when you lost a father you had already wiped from your mind? The word lost probably was not even fit for the situation. 

“He’s been dead a couple of years, apparently. She did not even bother to say how.”

There was no grief left inside her to tug at. No sentiment to pull and mourn over. Nothing left for them, for him. There was just a void lurking next to the well inside her, in which so many stones had tumbled. It was not endless anymore; it stopped right beside her, where Nikolai’s light flooded in through the cracks in her walls. Zoya tried to look for something to hold on to, something to guide her over this empty sea of nothingness. No love, no regret, no pain. The sorrow in the well had always been for Lilyiana, for Lada. For David, for the Grisha, maybe even for herself. A monument to her solitude. None of it was dedicated to the two young people who had given her breath. Yet she felt the void, like it had form and claws that pierced at her heart. Its fingers tied around her throat, squeezed the air out of her lungs. 

“I thought maybe I should plant something for him, too. I – I don’t know.” 

She murmured. Her voice came out more frail than she had desired to, more vulnerable. Nikolai moved closer, his shoulder brushing on hers. She grasped at that touch that anchored her on this moment, that prevented her from losing herself. 

“I don’t know what the Suli ritual is.” The defeat in her tone sparked a flicker of injustice. It was supposed to have been over; the child that did not look back on a wretched church was supposed to have grown. Such restless waters she had had to navigate. How does one separate hatred from fear, love from abandonment, rage from regret? 

“We could find out.”

“There’s no time. There’s no time anymore.” To know him. To understand. To take the child in her hand and protect her in an embrace. Faintly, in the distance, Zoya felt Nikolai’s hand on her back, his lips landing again on her cheek. 

“Why did you choose this?”, he asked, bobbing his chin at the sprout she was holding, at his light blue blossoms.

“I’m not sure”, she sighed. “When I was very little, there was always a glass of forget-me-nots on the kitchen table. My father used to bring them from the fields at sundown. He stopped before my sixth birthday.”

Zoya never knew what they meant. Her mother told her they were the colour of their eyes, weaving them in her hair. She had felt like a princess in a fairytale, with a crown of blossoms.

“Inej told me the Suli have a saying about love. Her father says that you would know a boy truly loves you when he brings you your favourite flowers. I figured that is why our house was full of them, at first. Maybe these are for both of them. Maybe I should bury my mother too.”

What a sombre, depressing thought, she half expected Nikolai to say. Instead, he just reached for her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, watching her in silence. So she forced another sentence out, one that stung to admit. “I thought I did that already the moment I set foot in the Little Palace. I thought they could float away like a river in the sea, instead I just built a dam that feels dangerously close to shatter.”

The quiet stretched on. “I don’t know what they are”, Nikolai admitted. “Your favourite flowers. I don’t know them.”

She moved her gaze to him and wondered what he was seeing. If he had already grown tired of her, of her dark moods and brooding tendencies. Those fears clutched her heart on her worst nights. Was he catching the sheer sentiment in her eyes, the fire that burned for him inside her? How she grasped at his voice like it was the thread that tied her to safety, to belonging? Whatever her failings were, Nikolai’s look never wavered. His certainty, affection. He was the one keeping the dam from falling, keeping her from breaking. 

“You told me once I could be branches without blossoms and wait for the summer to come. The way you love…it’s not the fleeting beauty of petals. It’s the strength of roots.”

She spoke before having the chance to think about her words, not sure what she had wanted to convey, pressed by an unfamiliar urge to let him know. Saints, Nikolai was rubbing off on her. His eyes sparkled and he looked taken aback, a fond and surprised smile tugging at his lips. Zoya let his warmth creep into her, before moving back to look at the flowers still resting in her hands. 

“I don’t have a favourite one. I like them all.” 

Nikolai nodded, his fingers lingering in her hair, brushing through them. “Good to know. See? You are not such a difficult person after all.” Zoya heard him move beside her, sensed his fingers draw away. He gently pulled the plant in front of her. “Let me do it for you”, his voice soft, caring. Let me carry this weight for you. Her hands dug into her kefta, clinging into it as if it could make her remember who she was.

Nikolai pulled his gloves away.  She snatched them from him, huffing impatiently. It really was an unnerving habit of his. “Would you stop with these? You do not need them around me. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“Don’t take it out on my gloves”, he grinned at her. Yet, she caught the shadow sweeping through his eyes; the darkness Zoya had never wanted him to hide. He worked in silence, moving the terrain away, placing the sprouts and watering them. Zoya stood still, one hand clung to her kefta, the other tightened around his gloves, watching him as he took care of her garden for her. 

“My mother was loud”, she said abruptly. Water leaking from the cracks. Nikolai’s gaze swept toward her as he kept going. There was no other person she could tell this to. Stories needed to be told, She had learned. “Sabina kicked and screamed her way into our misery. She shouted her wrath; she broke the ceramics on the floors, spewing spite. She weaved sweet lies that stuck like sap into my ears, before wiping my tears as I stood in a ridiculous ruffled dress.” Zoya sighed, seeing her memories flash in her mind. She did not want to feel this. She did not want to know. But Juris’ wisdom was unforgiving. “Her frustration, her selfishness. Everything was like thunder. Maybe that’s where I take it from.” A dry laugh escaped her lips, as she forced herself to say what she knew had been the truth this whole time. “My mother was loud. Yet, it was my father’s silence that broke me. That was what carved the hole inside of me. The way he let everything happen, his head slumped on his shoulders, his mouth shut. The emptiness of his affection. It gave me the guilt of not being enough, of not being worthy.”

Zoya kept going, averting Nikolai’s eyes. “Yelling is easy to counter. It enrages you, fires you up, picks at your pride. Silence is different; it cuts you slowly, drains your blood drop by drop, renders you powerless. How do you fight a wall made of nothing?”

His gentle touch moved to her jaw, tracing the lines of her face, grounding her to earth. 

“I feel it. I can see it.” Every word she got out seemed to force a split into the void. Warmth flood in, rage went out, passing through her like a blade. The dragon's eyes had opened, whether she had wanted it or not. She felt like drowning. “How unprepared they were. How powerless. The hatred that grew around their souls like thorn wood. It’s the same they have set upon me. I do not want that. I do not want this to be their legacy for me.”

Legacy. What was hers, in this life, and what was theirs? Zoya had Sabina’s eyes, Suhm’s wavy black hair. It gave her comfort to think her pride and her strength came from Lilyiana. Her wind and lightning was born from the making at the heart of the world. What, then? What had they been like, when they were just a boy and a girl in love, dancing under the moonlight? She had shrugged her name as if she could be born anew. Tossed the memories of them as if she could build a new life. That she supposed she had done, at least. Even with this new name, this new life, something of them still remained. The poisoned blood in her veins if nothing else. She could not cut them open and change it, and she had spent her life feeling it flow like a curse through her. 

“I cannot go on hating them.” The words were spoken as a shameful confession, as a defeat. As a realization too, however. Nikolai laced their fingers together, making her relent the hold on the kefta.

“Perhaps we should not hate them”, he said, careful and gentle. “Maybe the secret is that we need not pass judgment over them. Maybe the secret is to forgive them.” 

Zoya shook her head at Nikolai’s relentless goodwill and optimism. He had forgiven his mother that day in Os Kervo. He had forgiven the one who was not his father, he had delivered his punishment and moved on. And Zoya? She did not have any forgiveness left in her. The hatred, though. Whatever remained of it, she guessed she could try and leave it here, with the blue blossoms thriving from the earth like forgotten hope. 

Their legacy might have been just thorns, storms, and thunders. It might have been just the spite that had threatened to rot her insides. Still, it was an inheritance she could find the strength to relent. She could keep their eyes, their blood, Sabina combing her hair and Suhm telling her a goodnight story in his arms, even if she did not miss it, even if she did not remember what that felt like. Zoya was not Nikolai, she was not golden nor kind. She could not justify their weakness; she could not pardon both the screams and the silence. Maybe you could let go, though. She wasn’t sure if it was Juris’ voice or her own to cut through the mist of thoughts. Zoya bleeding in the snow. Zoya crying on her own. Let go.

The dam had broken, but the dragon queen did not drown. Hours could have passed, or minutes. Nikolai had put his jacket on her shoulders, the fabric thick and warm. He had not spoken anymore, just sat with her in the quiet as the sun disappeared. At some point, when the chill had started creeping in her bones, he had tugged her up and walked her to her chambers, dismissing the Heartrender twins who stood guard on her door with a wave of his hand. Zoya had let him handle her, leaning in his touch. Only when the lock clicked, she had let herself release her breath, slumping in her favourite velvet sofa. The crackle of the fire was comforting. Nikolai had called for tea, murmured something in her ear she did not remember. He had sat on her desk next to her, working through some documents while she got back to herself. The familiar rhythm of their quiet caught on, enveloping the room, soothing as a cold cloth on an open wound.

Time did not matter anymore. Zoya had the cup in her hands, the fire in front of her, and Nikolai’s jacket still curled around her. His scent was tight on the fabric. It lulled her into a silent calm, along with the rhythmic pounding of her heart, the sound of Nikolai’s pen scraping the paper, of his hands scribbling, the muffled huff of his breath. Peace washed over her in a tide. 

“What is it like?” 

Zoya suddenly spoke, after what felt like an eternity. The tea had turned cold. She kept her look trained on the fire. Nikolai stilled, relenting whatever piece of work he was doing, arching a brow at her. The question was vague, at the very best. “Not being an only child”, she added. Now his attention peaked on her. 

He shuffled back the papers on her desk, got up and came to her. Moving her feet away, he eased himself on her sofa, letting Zoya stretch her legs over him, resting his hands on her calves and leaning his head on a cushion. His careful look never left her face, turned thoughtful as her question travelled his mind. 

“I adored my brother”, Nikolai started, slowly, “Worshipped him. Loved him with every fibre of my being. Until I did not anymore. We were not bound, or tight, and well – we all know how that turned out. It was an embarrassment and a weight, more than an anchor like I desired him to be. And I did desire that a lot.”

Zoya looked at him. She left the cup on the nightstand; as soon as her hands were free, Nikolai snatched one of them in his. “And Linnea?”, she asked. An affectionate smile curled his lips. 

“Linnea is…different. I feel the kinship – and not just because we both have a soft heart for ships. I know she is me, for some part, and I am her. She’s more grounded than me, more quiet, more practical.” He brushed a thumb over her palm, tightening the hold. “I guess that’s why she likes you. I am quite scared at how much you two get along, frankly. And she has this creative, restless energy, she is charming in her own silent way, brilliant. Sometimes it’s like I’m looking inside some sort of distorted mirror. In some life I may have had if I took a different path.” 

Yet, the choices they had been forced to make forged a solitary childhood for them. A lonely boy looking for sounds to fill his deafening silence, a vengeful girl screaming her rage over lost love. Had they been choices at all? When had they stopped being their parents’ sins, and had they become their own? How long can you blame a mother’s failings, how long can a daughter or a son be defined by rage and guilt? Zoya could see the same query behind Nikolai’s eyes. He spoke again, tentative, a vulnerable edge to his voice. The lonely boy, looking for hope in the vengeful girl. 

“I want her to know me. I want her to care for me, to be honest. I feel protective of her. I feel like I cannot wait to show her every wonder I know of. The wonder of life, of adventure. The wonder of romance”, he managed to wink at her, “I wish to be for her the brother Vasily never was for me. To make up for lost time. This is idiotic, right?” 

He huffed at the end, as if he could dismiss the intense desire for a family that still haunted him; there was a slight plea in his look, darkened under the dim light of the fire. Zoya felt an ache in her throat, and she knew there were tears in her eyes. She could feel them clouding her sight. They belonged to the little raven-haired child that silently cried alone in a corner, in all her nightmares. It was not a cry for grief, but one of deluded wanting. She leaned in, brushing some golden strands from Nikolai’s face. He was looking at her like she was his light in the storm, even though he had just been the one to pull her back from a devouring pain. 

“We should have her here more often”, she said. Nikolai wiped one of her tears away. “We should have them here more often. Linnea and your father. You deserve to have this family, Nikolai.” 

Nikolai stopped his hand on her neck, grinning wider at her. 

“Zoya, I already have one.” She frowned at him.

“I hardly count as a family. I am just me.”

“Then I’ll have two. So long as you stop referring to yourself as just you.” Zoya rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance. He started fidgeting with a loose silver bead on her kefta’s cuff. Another unnerving habit of his, the way he always snatched those away. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I wasn’t an only child. I would have had someone to shield and someone to shelter in. To give me purpose, I suppose.”

A little brother, a little sister whom she could watch grow up and think how much better than her they were, how much softer, how much worth preserving. Though it had not been like that, for Sabina and Lilyiana. It was best not to linger on what ifs. She huffed and shifted, suddenly nervous; time to face this problem head on. “You think I should help her, right?”, she asked, knowing damn well what the answer was. Needless to say, Sabina’s letter pleaded for Zoya’s support, lamenting her misfortunes, and praising her daughter’s victories. Especially the gifts she could share. Even if she had not stated it, Zoya was sure that a jewel or two would be just fine. Greedy and hollow like she remembered. 

“I think you should do what makes you comfortable.” Zoya shot him a threatening glare, and he chuckled. “Fine”, Nikolai added, “but don’t kill me. I think you’ll keep the weight on your chest as long as you do not help her. I think maybe it would bring you some peace to do it. Still, I support whatever decision you make.” He marked the last words, and she knew he meant it. 

“I don’t want to be the bearer of my mother’s misery.” Zoya despised herself a little while admitting it. An exasperated grunt erupted from her as she threw her hands in the air. “How can I feel responsible for her?”

“I guess that’s the curse of being a daughter. You can’t relent the blood in your veins, not anymore that you can ignore the good heart that thrived inside you behind all of your spite.”

Maybe the secret is that we need not pass judgment over them. Maybe the secret is to forgive them.

How she loathed when Nikolai was right. It made him insufferable. And unfortunately, he was right most of the time. Unbearably reasonable. He smirked, as if he could read her thoughts and sense his victory.

Zoya might have been an angry and unloved little thing, but that was not what she was anymore. She had been a soldier, a general, a loyal friend. She was a queen now. And most certainly not alone, she thought, gazing at the confident ball of sunshine seated next to her. Had this happened before the war, before knowing Nikolai, her crueler and colder heart would have prevailed and she wouldn’t have thought twice on this, burning the letter along with her sentiment. The beaming boy had definitely rubbed off on her.

“I can not forgive her, or them. I do not have it in me. And I cannot forget, not for now”, she said, cautious. That was what Lilyiana had always desired for her: to release the hold on her anger. For her, she could try. “But I can start by letting go. We can find her work in a factory, with a salary and some retirement money. I can provide her with a dignified life. That is all I can do. I will not get a letter from her anymore; I will not grant her audience or listen to her words. Someone will have to deal with this.” 

Juris roared inside her, clearly displeased. Hush, you lizard. How irritating of him. Be a dragon, bide your time and stop harassing me. Enough progress for today. Nikolai, on the contrary, smiled at her with relief, nudging her closer. 

“We will arrange it.” He let her rest her head in the crook of his neck, curling his arms around her. “Do you think you can close your eyes and rest for a while now?”. His voice was already coming from afar, as she inhaled deeply in his skin and her lashes fluttered closed with exhaustion. Zoya wished her days as queen would become less tiring, and she also wished they could always end in Nikolai’s safe hold. Her mind fell silent; the last thing she heard was his whisper hovering around her. “I got you, Zoya.”

Zoya could still be a daughter, could take the raven-haired child in her arms. Daughter of the wind. She could still be whole, worthy, and loved. We see you. She could be at peace. The world went black; yet, it was not dark.