#into a wall of tragedy and despair

[infinitethree]

OOC::

I've had this done for about a week and have struggled to do a writeup (or even choose) the top ten most Day songs, so...fuck it, here's the link for just the playlist.

As of the writing of this, Day and Daz's full playlists are both at 811 songs. This is of course fucking insane to put onto youtube one by one, hence why this is a heavily culled selection.

Daz's playlist went down to 284. Day's went down to 321.

You might notice one of those is significantly bigger than the other! That's partly because some of the songs I cut from Daz's playlist were cut specifically for being a lil weird-- usually in the context of those songs being about sex or romance. They weren't used that way for him, but it still made me uneasy to throw those into the mix.

Day, by contrast, has a lot less of that kind of thing. There's definitely significant overlap between him and Daz (both musically and as characters), but much less of the sorta angry break up song type deals.

These two are hands down the biggest playlists I have. I have full branch AUs, with multiple characters, that have a fraction as many songs. Inn/Creepypasta has 378 unique songs, for instance!

I think the next playlist I do might be Perce, because he's rapidly grown on me. Lil nerdy menace has a lot of competition-y songs that are fun. His full playlist is 344 songs. Aster is 544 and Theo is 384, though I do want to do them eventually.

(Vio is 192, Lee is 61-- too many depressing/emo songs that vibe not at ALL with the sunshine boi.)

Oh right and I also threw this together. It might seem a little familiar, and there's a reason for that. :)

[marisakage]

Natsuko Hirose & Luke Braveheart Dynamic Analysis

Few episodes ago, Luke Braveheart monologued about how despair had him all cornered to the point he lost sight of his purpose and dare I say his will to live all along. He was born and instantly got bestowed with the title of a "Hero" a weight that no child should bear. He spent 18 years of his life mastering the arts of the sword, discarding everything that made him /him/ His aspirations, his hobbies, his interests, the things he hates, the things he loves and his dreams. None of it mattered. He had to be a hero for everyone. He is a Hero and he'll be nothing but a Hero. For 18 years, all he did and kept doing was slashing and shedding blood. He had to think of nothing but the safety of his people. After all, he is a beacon of Hope to them and not by choice.

But no matter how many foes he executed, there was no end to them. It was a cycle of killing and having to kill some more, with no light at the end of the tunnel in sight. A perpetual vicious cycle of hopelessness and helplessness is what all of this was. But Luke held onto Hope that eventually all things come to an end, good and bad. Surely, there will come a day where these foes will cease to be and that the world will finally know respite and peace. Surely, he'll be able to step down from this daunting title that has been forced on him. That he'll be able to live the rest of his life as plain Luke. Just Luke.

But none of that happened. He kept slitting and slashing and killing endlessly. With each wave, an ally, a dear friend, a family member dies. Luke had to be the witness of so many tragedies. Friends that once used to brim with so much life and vigor reduced into lifeless chunks of meat. He had to bear witness to all of that. In a way, the universe was mocking him and the title that he had to bear.

Deep down, he was aware of the cruel harsh cold reality he was in but decided against admitting it. Until he reached a wall. A realization that all of this isn't worth it anymore. This whole Hero act led them nowhere. The monsters kept coming in tremendous waves. People kept getting annihilated. Friends kept leaving him. He was on his own like he's always been. There was absolutely no hope in sight. What was he fighting for? Who was he protecting exactly? Why even bother when everything's been in a continuous state of stagnation? With each wave, his sanity slowly but steadily slipping away until he was met with nothing but dread. Dread of living and state of existentialism.

What was he there for? What was his purpose? Why was he brought upon this world? To bring it salvation when there was none to begin with? When the world was doomed from the get go, clearly mocking him? Everything is pointless. Protecting the Soul Crystal is pointless. In fact, it is the very thing that brought tragedy and agony upon them. Once represented Hope for the nation, now turned into a symbol of Despair. It is the cause of their woes. His woes. It is the reason he was stripped away from living his youth, from being a normal person. Forcefully put on a pedestal with humongous expectations only to fail them. Luke Braveheart found solace in the act of bringing an end to the source of his suffering, The Soul Crystal, pronouncing the end of the world. Its "salvation". He almost committed the deed. He was impossibly close to achieving it. But the unexpected happened. Natsuko happened, popped up out of nowhere, from nowhere, no amount of fortune telling or prophetic visions could possibly foretell the coming of Natsuko.

She came and brought the "reason" and the "purpose" but more importantly, the "person" of Luke. The phrase may sound awkward but it's intentionally written that way. Luke solely dedicated his entire life defeating abominable beings leaving no room to know anything about himself. His own person.

Through Natsuko, he learned and realized that he has a talent for cooking. He enjoys baking myriad of dishes, traditional meals and even those beyond the scope of his own world. He learned that he has knack for making hairdos and coming up with creative hairstyles for Natsuko. He learned that he enjoys seeing his friends all happy and merry when they taste his food. He learned that he enjoys gardening and looking after all the plants and flowers that color his palace. He learned that he has it in himself to have fun even on the battlefield. He learned that he could slow down and take a deep breather. He realized that he could appreciate the little things that bring him joy and mirth. He realized that he could step down from being a Hero even if it's temporary. That he could finally be himself for a while. That he could learn about who Luke Braveheart is.

But the biggest realization akin to an epiphany hit him so hard and it was that he has learned what being in love is and experienced it. He, who was stripped away from the most basic things an average person could experience, finally was able to learn what First Love was. For he fell in love with the very "reason", the very "purpose" and the very "person" who showed up in front of him seemingly out of nowhere. As if she's a miracle. A blessing. A star illuminating the dark bleak night sky but ultimately fated to fade away.

What was his purpose? Why was the title of "Hero" conferred upon him? What did he fight those atrocious and hideous-looking beings for? What did he live for?

Natsuko. Natsuko is the answer. Natsuko is his "reason" and his "purpose" and thanks to her, he shedded away the blood-stained title and became his own "person". He lives for Natsuko. He fights day in and day out to protect the world that Natsuko lives in. And he will fight till the bitter end just to ensure that Natsuko lives the rest of her life in comfort and serenity. That's what he is here for. That's why he's alive.

The massive burden on him made it so that even in his love declaration, he is self-sacrificial enough to keep the very reason of his being alive at the cost of his very own life. Within that poignant juxtaposition lies the purest form of love. Love. A word that seems to encapsulate Luke and Natsuko's dynamic.

Natsuko, hailing from a foreign land, was thrown into the universe of her favorite childhood movie. A flop of a movie that no one could've fathomed except for Natsuko who was inexplicably drawn to it. Natsuko dedicated her entire life finessing art. That tragic story ignited something in her. A fire to craft her own story. A passion to breathe life into her creations. To breathe life into characters very dear to her heart. She worked, grinded and hyper focused on that goal. Not batting an eye on her surroundings, on those she affected with her contagious zealousness. Unbeknownst to her, several people had experienced their first love because of her but she hadn't. She didn't have the time for that, after all, she had a goal that she was working so hard towards. To no one's surprise, her efforts have paid off and she reached the very pinnacle of her career as an artist and as an animator.

But heavy is the head that wears the crown. With her newfound position as a renowned animation director came taxing expectations and responsibilities. She knows she mustn't disappoint anyone, not her superiors, not the industry she works in and definitely not the fans who are waiting for her next project with bated breath. She mustn't let anyone down cuz she's a prodigy, a virtuoso. And one wrong move could spell the end of her entire career. The pressure weighed on her for years until the crackling sound of fire started to evanish.

What was once unadulterated passion, now morphed into dreadful duty. Natsuko's passion turned into her biggest fear. She couldn't live with herself if that outcome came to be. In fact, she preferred escapism and death over dealing with any of it. She found solace in putting an end to her own life if it meant that she'd run away from the scrutiny of the masses. That's how much of a coward she was.

Art, once a passion, turned into the source of her woes and suffering much like the Soul Crystal was to Luke. Natsuko took it upon herself not to rely on anyone and not to seek any form of help. She was completely submerged in the depths of darkness and despair, especially after being hit with the realization that her creations, her drawings and her art have been the cause of all the chaos and mayhem that befell the nation. Her art became a weapon of destruction rather than a tool of happiness and creativity. That was her state until a certain light has emerged.

Luke Braveheart, a fictional character of a tragic story, was a Hero who had to battle hundreds and thousands of enemies to protect his nation. He lost people who were dear to him but kept persevering until he was met with a fate worse than death. Becoming the Ultimate Void. The very thing he was fighting so hard to prevent from occurring.

Natsuko, back then, was enamored by the tragedy of Luke Braveheart. So much that he pushed her to pursue art. So much that she scribbled his figure million times on her notebook. So much that she could draw him with her eyes closed. So much that all of her allowances and the hard-earned money was spent on buying his merch. So much that her room was filled with nothing but his posters and figurines. So much that she couldn't bat an eye on her surroundings and on the people that she's affected with her passion cuz she was that fixated on Luke Braveheart. So much that she spent all-nighters learning the process of animation just so she could breathe life into Luke, running, walking, fighting and screaming. So much that he is the very "reason", the very "purpose" of which she's an artist. She became the "person" that she is, she reached the pinnacle of her career, she achieved the unthinkable thanks to Luke Braveheart.

Luke Braveheart was her passion, the fire that never ceased to crackle, the very essence of her being. Luke was her first love. Luke was the light that emerged from where she was completely overwhelmed by her own sorrows and woes. Luke Braveheart saved her by giving her a purpose in life. Just like how Natsuko saved Luke by giving him a purpose back.

There's beauty in knowing that Luke and Natsuko share a dynamic where they're both in a perpetual cycle of saving and protecting each other. Granted, Luke is a fictional character and he exists whether Natsuko interferes or not. But indulge me with this when I say that we're talking about Luke Braveheart who is not a fictional character.We're talking about the humble down-to-earth guy who likes cooking and coming up with unique hairdos. The very guy who fell in love with Natsuko. Natsuko saved that guy. But it all circles back to how HE gave her a purpose from the very start, from when she was but a 9-year-old kid. And she treated him in kind by blessing him with one too, without even being aware.

He sought to protect the world she's in yet ended up losing her. So in protest, he cursed the world itself because he lost his very reason of being and living. However, Natsuko is alive, was only temporarily engulfed by the bleak space of her doom and gloom, but she was saved by none other than the reminder that Luke Braveheart is the reason she's alive, the reason she pursued art at all and the source of her passion and joy. So now, it's her turn to emerge like the light he was to her and save him from the brink of self-destruction.

The intricate layer of their bond, the duality of despair and salvation, of burdens and purpose, and how they became each other's reason for being. It is poetry itself. Love as salvation, not just in the romantic sense, but as something deeply transformative and reciprocal. Their dynamic isn’t just about affection; it’s about identity, about rediscovering oneself through another. The way it was framed and told, Luke giving Natsuko a purpose long before she even realized it, and her returning the favor in a way that changed the very fabric of his existence—it is next-level storytelling.

It’s the kind of love that goes beyond the surface, beyond attraction or fleeting emotions. It’s like they were always meant to find each other, even across the barriers of fiction and reality. It is the very definition of soulmatism. Natsuko and Luke's story transcends that of the typical confines of what makes love /love/ and I find that ethereally beautiful and powerful.

[burningcheese-merchant]

I like the fact that the devs agreed and added the parallel that the ancients are all very kind to themselves, even at their worst, how vulnerable they can be. In chapter 10, HB accepts Lily's wrongdoings, and despite the fact that it took her a while to process her trauma, she tries to make peace with her.

Now with the beasts, it's so different because, if you notice, despite having a problem, they don't try to change their ways. That's why most of them don't understand each other; their philosophy clashes greatly. Despite one of them claiming to be very close, in reality, each and every one of them feels so alone. It's undeniable how many people still believe they're close.

It's fascinating to see their parallels. It's good to know they're not close; it's complex and interesting. I want to add about episode 10 i feel outraged by the fact that no one talks about how complex ES's character was the last part of the episode made me cry because i know she only had one purpose when she was created and the fact that HB proposed to her to leave their garden and go with her was the most painful and touched me so much. (seriously my friends asked me if i was okay because i cried a lot LOL) everyone thinks it's an unrequited love, if it wasn't reciprocated HB wouldn't take the time to understand ES and explain to her that the world doesn't have to be perfect like she describes it. it's an episode with a queer tragedy explained in the hardest but sweetest way possible... And the game is from a country that litteraly is a sin to be like this or not good received as well.

All of the BxA r Indeed were pure art but with different narratives as well

Yeah definitely!! I've always loved the parallels between the Beasts and Ancients - not just individually, but as groups. While they both endured equally great suffering, in the end, the Beasts chose the easy way out. They chose darkness and despair. They chose to inflict their suffering onto others instead of properly addressing themselves and their shortcomings. And what's fascinating is that, for a time, the Ancients chose similarly: Golden Cheese succumbed to delusion and hid herself in a fantasy world in order to assuage her grief, Hollyberry abdicated and ran away from her family and her people and her life, drinking and fighting and partying her woes away, Dark Cacao built literal and figurative walls around himself and shut everyone out, Pure Vanilla was an amnesiac for a while, thus technically foregoing truth (albeit not necessarily by choice), then he allowed himself to be a Cookie of Deceit for a while, White Lily... we know what happened to her lol. But they managed to save themselves because they had each other. For each and every one of them, their salvation and enlightenment came when they remembered their bonds with each other and with others they care for. It was that sense of connection and community, which never ever broke despite everything that happened to them. And then opposite to them are the Beasts, who broke apart and descended into villainy because they themselves did not have those connections; not just in reference to them never having had the chance to live as normal people, but in reference to their bonds with each other specifically. I believe now more than ever that they never REALLY cared for each other. That they were never REALLY friends. If they were, why didn't they help each other when they started corrupting? Example, Burning Spice: I believe that what he needed the most was assurance that the cycle of change is not and does not need to be inherently painful or bleak. That there is good and meaning in that endless repetition. What would've helped was him having a constant in his life; someone or something that was always there with him even while everything and everyone else slipped away, as the cycle of change mandates. For all intents and purposes, the other Beasts should have been that constant; they're immortal too. They're gods too. They're his friends. They WERE his friends. Or... were they not? I don't really think so anymore. What the Ancients have together, the Beasts either had a very weak and fragile copy, or never really had at all. IF they were ever friends, they were pretty shitty ones lol. And that's a big part of why they corrupted, and why they're all so bitter and lonely: they each feel as though no one ever understood them or their struggles, not even their supposed "friends". Then these 5 thieves come along and inadvertently give them that lifeline, to which they all react differently (in how they express their attachment, I mean. They're all obsessed but they let it show differently and to different levels), but underneath those differences lies a shared feeling: "oh God, someone finally understands me, someone finally feels what I feel, I can't ever let them go, I need them". It's so horrendously sad and disturbing and darkly fascinating. I love it. I love these pairs, I love talking about them, I can do it forever

And I agree with you that Eternal Sugar is a complex and very interesting character, and I'm disappointed in the people that think otherwise (I hate saying this, but a lot of the complaints kind of sound like they're just butthurt that Eternalberry was canonized and they're looking for any excuse to tear the update down because of it). She seems to be a step above Mystic Flour in that she really, truly thinks she's doing something GOOD (MF behaves this way as well, but ES is legitimately delusional). She actually thinks she's helping people. Deep down, she DOES understand that she's a bad person and she's only hurting those she claims to care for, Hollyberry included, and this dialogue demonstrates such:

She seems to have succumbed to a form of insanity above that of other Beasts; she is still clinging to her old desires to carry out her godly duties and make people happy, but her perception of such has become so warped that she actually thinks things like keeping people in jars forever is making them happy. Furthermore, she purposefully orchestrates situations that "prove" her mindset and ideals correct (allowing people to leave the garden if they wish ("see? I'm not controlling! I'm not desperate! I'm not a dictator! You can leave, it's ok!"), but having them leave while smelling like the perfume that permeates the whole area so Beast-Yeast monsters are drawn to and attack them, thus forcing them back into the garden and further convincing them that it's a safe haven and they belong there). So much confirmation bias with Sugar, it's crazy. SHE is crazy. She is LEGITIMATELY crazy, a sort of crazy that the others aren't, not even Shadow Milk. It is delightfully awful. She is delightfully awful

And oh... Holly... Holly and Sugar... Passion and Sloth... Them...

One begs the other to stay... The other begs them to wake up and leave. Holly is now the second Ancient to fully, directly express understanding and sympathy towards their Beast. She's now the second to fully, directly state that she wants to be with their Beast.

She's HAPPY at the prospect of them being together. Of being two halves of a soul. She would GLADLY complete Sugar and let Sugar complete her... but Sugar has to wake up first. She has to see the error of her ways. She has to leave her garden. And Sugar agrees to this. She probably didn't really mean it, she was probably just swept up in the Yuri Wave and saying what she thought Holly wanted her to say, but even so. I think it's meaningful. Out of all the Beasts, I think Sugar has the best shot of being redeemed. And she has just the right Ancient to help her with such a thing. (Tbh I think they can all be fixed. Not easily, not right away, absolutely not. It would take time and effort and a lot of very painful conversations and realizations on everyone's part. But I think it can be done. Each of them has shown that one little seed of doubt, of regret, of disillusionment. Each one of them has faltered, if only for a moment. Because of that, I think somewhere deep down inside of them is someone worth saving. But that's just me haha) Beast x Ancient is 5 different, delicious flavors of a beautiful and compelling tragedy and they kill and resurrect me several times a day

[romanceyourdemons]

first chapter of the nonexistent novel "the fourteenth prince is sick of heaven's will"

The fourteenth prince never became emperor, to no one’s surprise. Perhaps the historians of the next dynasty might have been a bit surprised, as they reviewed the series of extraordinary events attached to his name: his birth announced fourteen months after his mother fell pregnant, able to read and write by one year of age and fluently recite the classics by three; skilled in horseback riding and archery at five years and a renowned artist by six, with an inborn gift for divination renowned from Nanyang to north of the Great Wall. Looking at these facts, a historian might find themself believing that the fourteenth prince was destined for greatness, but in his lifetime only one person ever seriously supported him for emperor, and that person was not even his own mother.

The reasons for this were manifold, but all were apparent on the day before the Emperor’s birthday twelve years after the fourteenth prince’s celebrated birth. As most of his half-brothers rushed around finalizing preparations on the birthday gifts they had painstakingly organized, the fourteenth prince settled into a bathtub full of steaming water and herbs, trying to get comfortable, since he knew someone was about to die.

Spring arrived in Chang’an like a diva coming onstage: a brief peek to see if the audience missed her, then an absence to make their hearts grow fonder, then sweeping on all at once, powerful and buxom, all cloying perfume and hot breaths. The courtyard the prince’s bathtub overlooked was raucous with birdsong, but he did not care. He hardly even bothered to listen. He tipped his pitch-dark eyes, watering a bit from the scents of the medicinal herbs, up to the ceiling and ran through the vision that was bound to come true today.

The fourteenth prince, who preferred his childhood name Xiaoju, internally categorized his visions into three groups: useful, useless, and unpleasant. Visions of the results of a dog race, the sudden appearance of a renowned restaurant, a beauty’s outdoor performance being rained out--these things were useful to him. More frequent were the useless visions: a pig in the countryside falling sick, a child being sent out to chop firewood, and similar things. The unpleasant visions featured a human death. All suffering brings pain to the heart of a gentleman, but Xiaoju’s aversion to these visions was more specific: every time a death he foretold came to pass, he would spend the rest of the day out of commission with a splitting  migraine. Only by saving the person could he save himself a headache.

But of course such a thing was easier said than done. As Xiaoju sank his head up to the nose in the steaming water, he thought through what he had to work with for today’s tragedy: a young woman carelessly crosses a city street and gets run down by a careening cart. Very tragic, but how could he hope to prevent it? He did not know who this young woman was; as for where she was, it could be a street in Chang’an, but it might also be in any other prosperous city. The only thing this vision gave him to work with was an off-hand comment from one of the people the young woman skipped by: Don’t you know what tomorrow is? It’s the emperor’s birthday! So, today. At least he knew when his suffering would strike.

Xiaoju turned his eyes to the clear sky outside his courtyard and blew despairing bubbles. Why had the heavens seen fit to give him such a useless gift? If nothing else they could have given him a more dignified trigger for his visions, like incense or meditation. It was just embarrassing to get shackled by the future every time he had wine.

A patch of crimson and green interrupted the pure blue of the sky. Xiaoju sat up so suddenly his whole mouth filled with bitter herbal water. Springing out of the tub and making a mess of the floorboards, he scrambled to the doorway and squinted upwards. He knew that kite. He had seen that exact kite in his vision: fallen, broken, and being waved by an angry shopkeeper at a pair of children just before that vast black cart barreled down the street!

Xiaoju had no time to waste. Chances to save a life and spare himself a migraine were few and far between; if he let this one slip through his fingers, he would never forgive himself. A few steps into the courtyard, he backtracked and grabbed a towel for modesty, and then he was off, off, off, like a demon was on his heels.

[centaurianthropology]

'EXU: Divergence' is the Series I Didn't Know I Needed Right Now

I’ve now watched ‘Exandria Unlimited: Divergence’ fully through twice, plus the cooldown multiple times, and from the beginning to the end of the first episode it hit me like a sledgehammer. It's probably the most brutal EXU to date, and it is also somehow the most uplifting.

It's such a departure from the other Calamity-era EXU series in the best possible way, and I wish we could have an entire longform campaign with this cast in this time and place.

Spoilers for episode 1 of EXU: Divergence below the cut.

‘Calamity’ was a tragedy in the most classic sense: powerful people at the height of their strength who damn the world in their hubris. ‘Downfall’ was also a tragedy in a different way, a family of gods coming together briefly to save themselves, but at what cost?

But ‘Divergence’ is a story about ordinary people. As the gods play their family games, and the powerful vie for even more power than they could ever use, and hoard wealth and resources beyond what they would ever need, these are just five people trying to get enough food and water and rest. Trying to survive in a world that acts first as an oppressive prison and then in indifferent chaos as the gods fight above them.

They're not even Level 1 adventurers. These are level 0 nobodies. NPC stat blocks. They don’t have classes; they have jobs. And in each of these people, we see the true heart of what good people can do in desperate and damning times.

I want to talk about all these characters, because I love them so much. I love the story they and their rolls are telling.

Nia isn’t a cleric with magical healing; she’s a nurse with some herbs and bandages and a little knowledge. Hell, in a world where misery is endlessly and pointlessly perpetuated by the games of the powerful, she’s not even a healer. She’s a repairer of bodies. She keeps feeding them back as grist in the mill, because what else can she do?

She can hope. She can believe that change is coming. But more than believing in it, she can act toward it. She can enact tiny acts of rebellion and kindness. Because maybe she is just repairing bodies, but she will desperately overreach and overplay her hand to try to buy them a little more time, a little more comfort, a little more light in the darkness.

She's young and naive, but her hope is still chosen at every terrible moment. Even when she falls into exhaustion, having prayed over her sister's locket and received nothing in return, Nia still chooses to act. She chooses to get up and, if water isn't coming to her, to go looking for it instead. She is doing better than the others, even if she's not doing well. And so she goes. She looks. She sees a friend die, wishing with his dying breath to see the rain.

And it rains. Not, to her mind, because a god walks across the world before her. Even if she sees the god, she's not looking there. She knows that Starmian made the rain. She sees the acts of people good and bad. She sees the power in hope.

Garen isn’t a fighter or a druid; he’s a stonemason with one arm and a hammer. And he’s a man who has spent so long under the boot of oppression, so long being ground down into nothing that he’s learned never to hope except when exhaustion takes him so fully that he forgets not to hope. That's when he can still see the faces of his family, instead of the prison he's lived in for so long he built most of it.

He is a character we meet in complete despair, but he's also the first to move past it. As soon as the opportunity for action arises, as soon as there are people in need, Garen takes his old and tired body and makes it work for people he’s never met, simply because an injustice is being done to them. Because he’s been waiting for longer than he can remember to stand back up after being beaten down. When he brings his hammer down on a guard’s head, when he breaks through a wall to save a bunch of dragonborn he’s never met, when he insists that they will not leave children to die. This is a man remembering what it is to stand up.

He wants to save everyone, well beyond what he's currently capable of, because once hope is rekindled he clings to it. He believes firmly that if people who can help others don’t do so, then what is the point?

Fiedra isn’t a rogue; she’s a gang leader with the ability to talk her way out of trouble. She also isn’t nearly the altruist that Garen and Nia are. She acts out of self-interest because that was how she’s survived as long as she has. She has a roach tattooed on her arm. She is a survivor, someone who can worm her way into a position of slight privilege even in the worst prison imaginable. And when she’s starting to feel the effects of exhaustion from their march north, she sneaks a meal from their dwindling food stocks that no one else gets. Because that is what a survivor does, even if it hurts others.

But she's also not so simple. She only eats the cheese after she checks to make sure her friend isn’t becoming exhausted as well. Because as much as she knows how dangerous it is, Fiedra cares. She shows it again and again in her interactions with Crokas, how she drops everything including her position of privilege and relative comfort in the prison to try to break him free.

Crokas is her family; her gang was her community, and she cared for them fiercely. And now all she has is Crokas (because the dice tell an amazing story, and those terrible rolls were incredible for her character development). So she looks after him. She jumps to his defense when it’s revealed that his breath weapon doesn’t work. She talks him up, tells everyone how great he is, explains things to him when he doesn't understand.

She’s not to the point where she’s capable of expanding that compassion out beyond the two of them (“The best I can do, kid” was a hell of a line). But she’s making steps in that direction. She survived a hellish march with these people. When she and Crokas found Starmian’s body she was the one who immediately asked where Nia and Erro were. Sometimes, when the shit hits the fan, all you can do is care for yourself and those you love. Learning to care for more than that tiny sphere is part of part of reclaiming the best of one’s personhood in the worst of times, and part of finally building a future instead of just surviving now.

Crokas isn’t a barbarian; he’s a massive bodyguard in way over his head. He has no idea what’s going on most of the time. He has an intelligence stat of 6, and he’s stuck in a world that keeps upending itself on him. Maybe he understood how life worked in a city with his gang and with Fiedra guiding him. Even in Rybad Kol, the worst prison imaginable, a man as massive and imposing as Crokas probably did all right, especially with Fiedra talking the Roaches’ way into running the Slop.

And then every dragonborn in the prison was taken to be carted off to die for a goddess he’d never heard of, purely because they were dragonborn. He can barely even understand that he’s part of a singled-out minority group, and certainly can't grasp the machinations of gods.

But he can see that, in the cart with him, there are children. And when they escape he might not understand how this happened. But he understands that this long march toward some hope for a future is currently killing them. They don't have food or water. Their feet are damaged for the rest of their lives by this endless walk north. It is SO BAD.

But he notices when those children start to become exhausted, so he walks like a monitor lizard with them riding on his back.

Because that's what strength is for.

Not to rule. Not to hurt. To lift up those who can’t stand, and carry them. Crokas may not understand what’s going on, but he understands what needs to be done, and what he can do. And the fact that he starts carrying those children, taking penalties against his constitution saving throws at the end of every bad day on the road, right after Fiedra ate that cheese in secret? The look on her face says it all.

Erro is not a ranger or a druid; he's a mapmaker who has survived for far too many years seeing far too many horrors. He is clearly almost as old as Garen, and is far more stubbornly jaded. Their lives have both been destroyed, but all of Erro’s travels, everything he’s done has ground him down to basic survival. He is practical, but still not cruel. Liam said in the cooldown that he’s been on a teeter-totter between simply surviving to live another day, and the thought he could even hope for a better world.

He’s not there yet. He’s more like Fiedra in his fatalism, even if he's not as openly cynical. And yet he still follows Nia when she goes out with Starmian to find water. He still looks after her, just like Fiedra looks after Crokas. And like Fiedra, he sees in Nia the hope he tries to smother in himself. Starmian dies, as Erro knew he would, because he’s seen dozens of Starmians.

But then the rains come. The gods give and take and take and take and give and take. The world is a cruel place, but he still watches a younger, more hopeful person fall to her knees with the rain in her hands as she cries in thanks.

I am immediately and completely enamored with these ordinary people living through extraordinary times. I can’t wait to see what becomes of them, how the world shapes them and breaks them and how they might lift one another and a community up out of the rubble.

I didn’t know how much I needed this right now. Because it’s SO BAD, but the very first word in the very first episode is hope. And more than hope, these people are embodying acting in tiny ways to build a better future. I know that myself and a lot of people have been watching the enshittification of the world around us and feel like ants under the feet of uncaring, cruel tyrants and gods. Like their games always lead to suffering, and they either don’t care or actively enjoy that part of it. And it's so easy to give in to despair, to become convinced that there is absolutely nothing that can be done.

But we are all level 0 ordinary people too. And we can still hope. We can still take acts of defiance and kindness, great and small. We can stand up again when we’re knocked down, even when it hurts. We can help those we love to live day to day, even while we can take what steps we can to build and lift up a larger community. We can live through hell, because even in that hell there will be moments of exquisite beauty and joy.

Because maybe all of us can find the rain.

[helenofsparta2]

I think the most important thing to acknowledge about the character of Luke Castellan is that he had an absolutely shitty childhood,  went through a lot of trauma, had every right to hate the gods and got manipulated by Kronos, while also acknowledging that he became an absolutely shitty person himself, and that no amount of trauma excuses any of his actions.

Luke’s Childhood

No one can deny that Luke had an absolutely traumatizing childhood.

Since he was a newborn, he lived in a house full of mirrors, and monster statues, where the walls were plastered over with hundreds of pictures related to Hermes, and which smelled like burnt cookies and moldy sandwiches. He lived alone with a mother, who was mentally extremely unstable. A mother who talked to statues. A mother, who would sometimes grab his shoulders, while her eyes glowed in a bright green color and freak out about Luke’s fate. A mother, Luke was so afraid of that he hid in his closet from her.

May Castellan obviously loved her son, but growing up with someone like that had to have been absolutely terrifying for a child.

He ran away when he was only nine years old, and lived on the streets from that moment on, surviving completely on his own for five years. (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.9)

He was cold, scared, hungry, and so lonely that he tried to befriend mortals and even told them of his identity in desperate hope for connection, only to be led down by them time and time again. (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.13)

The first good thing that ever happened to him was meeting Thalia. The first person he could trust, the first person who truly understood him and the first person, he truly cared for. Later that year they find Annabeth and immediately decided to protect her.

And up until that moment, up until the end of “The Diary of Luke Castellan”, despite his hardships, and against all odds, Luke remained a good person. He cared for Thalia, he didn’t hesitate to befriend Annabeth, and he even showed kindness to Halcyon Greene.  

But between the end of that story and the beginning of the Lightning Thief things obviously changed. And in my opinion, there are fourmain reasons for that.

The prophecy surrounding his fate

His opinion of the gods (especially his father)

Thalia’s death

Kronos’ manipulation

The Prophecy

Luke’s early childhood was, as I’ve already said, defined by his mother’s knowledge of his fate. For most of his life, he had probably heard her say things like “Not my son,” and had seen her despair over what was to come. But I doubt he truly believed her during the first nine years of his life—Luke probably just thought his mum was crazy.

But then, he meets Halcone Greene, a son of Apollo with the gift of prophecy and got the confirmation, that his future is doomed:

He looked up miserably. He nodded. “There’s more,” I pressed. “What scared you so badly?” He avoided my eyes. Reluctantly, he typed: Hard to be sure. Luke, I also saw a sacrifice in your future. A choice. But also a betrayal. (The diary of Luke Castellan, Page 42)

Hal green immediately backed down. I could swear the old man was terrified of me now, but I didn’t want to know what he saw in his visions. Whatever nightmares were in my future, I had to survive today first. (The diary of Luke Castellan, page 43)

And this prophecy haunted him ever since that moment:

Every time I blinked, I remembered Hal’s words on the computer screen, as if they’d been burned into the back of my eyes: A sacrifice in your future. A choice. But also a betrayal. What did he mean? I was sure he hadn’t tole me everything. But one thing was clear: my future terrified him. (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.47)

Finally, when he was fourteen, he meets Hermes for the very first time in his life, and finds out that his father knows about his future, but doesn’t (or can’t) tell him anything about it, despite the fact, that it ends in tragedy.

"We're doing fine without your help," Luke growled. "Now, what were you saying about my destiny?" (…) I realized Hermes knew what May Castellan's mutterings meant. I wasn't sure how, but looking at his face I was absolutely certain. Hermes understood what would happen to Luke someday, how he would turn evil. "My son," he said, "I'm the god of travelers, the god of loads. If I know anything, I know that you must walk your own path, even though it tears my heart." "You don't love me." "I promise I . . . I do love you. Go to camp. I will see that you get a quest soon. Perhaps you can defeat the Hydra, or steal the apples of Hesperides. You will get a chance to be a great hero before . . ." "Before what?" Luke's voice was trembling now. "What did my mom see that made her like this? What's going to happen to me? If you love me, tell me." Hermes's expression tightened. "I cannot." "Then you don't care!" Luke yelled (The Last Olympian, Chapter 13)

This must have seemed liked the biggest of betrayals, and really reinforced Luke’s opinion, that his dad does not care about him. It was probably one of the major contributing factors in making Luke hate his father.

Luke and the Gods

Even before meeting Halycone Greene, he disliked the gods, and specifically his dad:

Our super powerful parents don’t even talk to us, much less help us. Why? If I tried to explain that, I’d fill up this whole diary, so I’m going to move on. (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.8)

Hermes is the god of merchants… and travellers, which explains why the divine jerk left my mom and never came back. He’s also the god of thieves. He’s stolen things like- oh, Apollo’s cattle, women, good ideas, wallets, my mom’s sanity and my chance at a decent live. Sorry, did that sound bitter? (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.16)

But his experience with Hal made it much worse. He started to see them as cruel, unjust and plain evil.

An angry, coppery taste filled my mouth. I already knew the gods could be cruel. My deadbeat dad had ignored me for fourteen years. But Halycon’s Green’s curse was just plain wrong. It was evil. (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.25)

Part of me felt tempted to knock out the old man with my golf club and feed him to his drapes. Then at least, he couldn’t help the monsters lure any more demigods to their deaths. But I couldn’t make myself do it. He was so frail and pathetic. Besides, his curse wasn’t his fault. He’d been trapped in this room for decades, forced to depend on monsters for his voice and his survival, forced to watch other demigods die, all because he’d saved a girl’s life. What kind of justice was that?  (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.30)

If anybody deserved a gold club across the head, it was Apollo- and all the other deadbeat Olympian gods, for that matter.  (The Diary of Luke Castellan, P.30)

And all of that got even worse after Thalia’s death—a death orchestrated by Hades, because of Zeus’ actions. Ever since then, Luke had lived in Camp Half-Blood in Cabin Eleven, surrounded daily by the unclaimed campers and haunted by the loss of friends—or at least other kids he knew—who died untimely deaths year after year. When he was around seventeen, he received a quest to steal one of the golden apples from the Garden of the Hesperides. After failing, Kronos began to manipulate him.

To just quickly sum it up again, his childhood was defined by a mentally very unstable mother, whom he was scared of, an absent father and, later on, a very lonely, dangerous life on the streets. He lost one of the only two people he ever truly cared about in circumstances which probably made him blame himself and which reinvigorated his already existing hatred of the gods. He was plagued by a prophecy about his own future, he felt like a failure because of his quest, and he got manipulated by Kronos, who probably used the lack of a parental figure in his life and his very justified resentment against the gods to his advantage.

So, yeah, his life very much sucked, and he had every right to be angry and bitter.

However, like I said, none of that excuses what he did in the PJO books. Trauma can never excuse behavior and the way Luke acted in these books, and everything he put the other characters through was absolutely unforgivable.

He did not care about the campers living in camp halfblood or about innocents getting caught in the crossfire.

He wanted to start a war between the Olympians, which would have not only cost the life of millions if not billions of innocent people, but also would have forced demigods to choose sides and fight each other:

(“Imagine the world in chaos. Nature at war with itself. Olympians forced to choose sides between Zeus and Poseidon. Destruction. Carnage. Millions of dead. Western civilization turned into a battleground so big it will make the Trojan War look like a water-balloon fight.” (The Lightning Thief, Chapter 9)

He trained the monsters and demigods in his army specifically to kill the kids at camp half-blood.

(The monsters made a semicircle around a young guy in Greek armor who was hacking on a straw dummy. A lump formed in my throat when I realized the dummy was wearing an orange Camp Half-Blood T-shirt. As we watched, the guy in armor stabbed the dummy through its belly and ripped upward. Straw flew everywhere. The monsters cheered and howled. (The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 9)

He was okay with the kids who didn’t join him getting hunted down to extinction

(“Half-Blood Hill will be overrun by monsters within the month. The heroes who survive will have no choice but to join us or be hunted to extinction.” (The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 9)

He poisoned Thalia’s tree, making it possible for monsters to get into Camp Half-blood

He was okay with Camp Half-blood getting destroyed time and time again

("This is only a taste of what is to come," Luke said. "Soon we will be ready to storm Camp Half-Blood. And after that, Olympus itself. All we need is your help." (Titan’s Curse, Chapter 17)

He let Chris go crazy in the labyrinth and didn’t bother trying to save him (at least as far as we know)

He was okay with watching demigods be killed in Antaeus’ arena (Battle of the labyrinth, Chapter 14)

He manipulated Silena, threatened her and lied to her to get her to spy for him.

("Before . . . before I liked Charlie, Luke was nice to me. He was so . . . charming. Handsome. Later, I wanted to stop helping him, but he threatened to tell. He promised . . . he promised I was saving lives. Fewer people would get hurt. He told me he wouldn't hurt . . . Charlie. He lied to me." (The Last Olympian, Chapter 17)

He actively supported the idea of humanity getting driven back to their caves:

(“I’ve been used?” Luke’s voice turned shrill. “Look at yourself. What has your dad ever done for you? Kronos will rise. You’ve only delayed his plans. He will cast the Olympians into Tartarus and drive humanity back to their caves. All except the strongest-the ones who serve him.” (The Lightning Thief, Chapter 22)

He was absolutely horrible to Annabeth

There is no doubt, that Luke used to care about Annabeth. He felt responsible for her the second he met her. At the end of the last Olympian, she was also the catalyst for Luke gaining the upper hand over Kronos.

But for most of the PJO books, his own need for revenge was more important to him than her life, and he did not hesitate to bully, torture, or kill Annabeth.

He did not try to stop Annabeth from joining Percy’s quest to the underworld, despite the fact, that he was certain the quest would fail

He tried to get Percy to mistrust Annabeth while they were on a quest, a time where trust is very much vital for survival:

(“That’s true,” Luke said, looking troubled. “Still … Hades has the helm of darkness. How could anybody else sneak into the throne room and steal the master bolt? You’d have to be invisible.” (The Lightning Thief, Chapter 15)

He brought up Annabeth’s trauma with the cyclops, mocked her and told her she disrespected Thalia’s memory when she was only 13 years old (and he was 20):

(“Traveling with a Cyclops,” Luke chided. “Talk about dishonoring Thalia’s memory! I’m surprised at you, Annabeth. You of all people-“ “Stop it!” she shouted (…) I didn’t know what Luke was talking about, but Annabeth buried her head in her hands like she was about to cry (The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 9)

He would have been okay, with Annabeth getting her head bashed in by Oreius

(“Percy,” Luke said calmly, “tell your giant to back down or I’ll have Oreius bash your friends’ heads together.” Oreius grinned and raised Annabeth and Grover off the ground, kicking and screaming (The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 17))

In that same book, he told Oreius that he could eat Annabeth alive

(He (Luke) advanced slowly, smiling. The edge of his sword was tinged with red. “One thing I want you to watch before you die, Percy.” He looked at the bear-man Oreius, who was still holding Annabeth and Grover by the necks. “You can eat your dinner now, Oreius. Bon appetit.”( The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 18))

He used her love for him to manipulate her into holding the sky, an action, which was excruciatingly painful and could have very easily killed her

(He rose unsteadily. "I knew I could count on you." He began to walk away as the trembling blackness threatened to crush Annabeth. "HELP ME!" she pleaded, "Oh, don't worry," Luke said. "Your help is on the way. It's all part of the plan. In the meantime, try not to die." The ceiling of darkness began to crumble again, pushing Annabeth against the ground. (Titan’s Curse, Chapter 5)

He cuffed her, gagged her, and held a sword against her throat (Titan’s Curse, chapter 16)

He was prepared to make Annabeth watch Percy, her best friend, and one of the most important people in her life, die in Antaeus’ arena (Battle of the Labyrinth, Chapter 14)

He tried to guilt her, a 14-year-old girl, to leave her entire life behind to run away with him, only because he was scared of dealing with the consequences of his own actions ("He came under a flag of truce. He said he only wanted five minutes to talk. He looked scared, Percy. He told me Kronos was going to use him to take over the world. He said he wanted to run away, like the old days. He wanted me to come with him." (The Last Olympian, Chapter 12)

He was also absolutely horrible to Percy

He set a hellhound on Percy only a few days after Percy had seen his mother “die”

He wanted him, a 12-year-old, to fall into Tartarus and die there

(Luke looked down at the scorpion, which was now sitting on my thigh. “You should have died in Tartarus, Percy. But don’t worry, I’ll leave you with my little friend to set things right.” (The Lightning Thief, Chapter 22)

He lured him into the forest, poisoned him, and left him there to die completely alone, and probably planned for his remains to get eaten by monsters with no remorse whatsoever  

(“I wouldn’t,” Luke cautioned. “Pit scorpions can jump up to fifteen feet. Its stinger can pierce right through your clothes. You’ll be dead in sixty seconds.” “Luke, what-“ Then it hit me. You will be betrayed by one who calls you a friend. “You,” I said. He stood calmly and brushed off his jeans. (The Lightning Thief, Chapter 22)

An event, which traumatized Percy and made him scared of Luke for a time, might I add.

 (I said nothing. Despite the javelins pointed at me, it wasn’t the bear twins who scared me. I’d imagined meeting Luke again many times since he’d tried to kill me last summer. I’d pictured myself boldly standing up to him, challenging him to a duel. But now that we were face-to-face, I could barely stop my hands from shaking. (The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 9)

He wanted to make Percy watch Annabeth and Grover get eaten alive

(He (Luke) advanced slowly, smiling. The edge of his sword was tinged with red. “One thing I want you to watch before you die, Percy.” He looked at the bear-man Oreius, who was still holding Annabeth and Grover by the necks. “You can eat your dinner now, Oreius. Bon appetit.”(The Sea of Monsters, Chapter 18))

So, even though I like Luke as an antagonist and I understand his reasons for hating the gods, these points are the reason why I will never, and I mean never, be a Luke apologist and why I don't think he deserves Elysium

[hisfavegirl]

Can you make a scene when aegon is crying in his room after b&c and the reader is his twins?? like angst but also comforting??

Silent Grief - King!Aegon Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader.

Summary : Jaehaerys—your precious boy—was stolen from you too soon. Taken from the world in a brutal twist of fate that left your family fractured, broken in ways you never thought possible. He was a promise of a future, a new beginning after the turmoil that had once gripped your bloodline. But now, that future is gone, lost in the cruel grasp of tragedy.

Aegon Masterlist.

You pause outside the door to your husband’s chambers, the soft murmur of his voice filtering through the crack in the door. It isn’t just the faint sound of a man grieving—it is the raw, broken sobs of a man whose heart has been shattered. Aegon’s cries hit you like a wave, crashing over the walls you’ve spent so long building to protect yourself from the pain. His sorrow is thick with the weight of a loss you both share, a loss that feels impossible to bear.

Jaehaerys. Your son. The child who had brought so much joy into your life, now gone. His laughter, his tiny hands reaching for you, gone in an instant. And now, it is Aegon’s sorrow that fills the room, the pain that has consumed him for days.

You’ve watched him retreat into himself, isolating himself from you, from the world. He has avoided you—his wife, his twin sister. He doesn’t want you to see him like this. He doesn’t want you to witness the vulnerability and despair that have overtaken him, the weight of grief that he can no longer hide.

But you are his wife. You are his twin sister. The bond between you is too strong, too deep for him to shut you out completely. You know him better than anyone. You know that behind the closed doors and the silence, he is breaking.

With a steady breath, you push the door open.

The room is dim, lit only by the flickering light of a candle that seems as fragile as the moment itself. Aegon sits at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief. You’ve never seen him like this before—not even during the darkest days of their war for the throne. The powerful, often indomitable king, now reduced to a man wracked with sorrow.

He doesn’t look up when you enter. His voice is barely a whisper, lost in the rawness of his emotion.

“Please, don’t… don’t look at me like this,” Aegon’s voice cracks, and his words hang heavy in the air, as if the very act of speaking them causes him more pain. “I couldn’t protect him. I couldn’t save him.”

You feel your heart tighten, the weight of his grief pulling at you. You know this pain all too well—this unbearable ache of loss that consumes you from the inside out. But you refuse to let him suffer alone, even if he tries to push you away.

Slowly, you walk towards him, your presence a silent comfort in the midst of his storm. You sit beside him on the bed, your hands gently resting on his back. He stiffens at first, then gradually relaxes as he feels your touch. Your connection is undeniable, a bond forged from years of shared experiences, of love and loss. You were born together, lived through the chaos of the world together, and now, even in this moment of unbearable grief, you would face it together.

“Aegon,” you whisper, your voice soothing, “I’m here. I’m right here with you. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

He turns to you then, his tear-streaked face contorted with sorrow. His eyes are dark with exhaustion, haunted by the death of their son, and in that moment, he looks so fragile that it nearly breaks you. The strong, proud king you once knew, now just a broken man, clinging to the remains of his shattered heart.

“I couldn’t protect him,” he repeats, his voice barely audible. “I couldn’t save Jaehaerys.”

You take his face in your hands, gently forcing him to meet your gaze. “You didn’t fail him,” you say softly. “There was nothing more you could have done. We both loved him. We both did everything we could, Aegon. But some things… they’re beyond our control.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than any words could express. The weight of the grief, the loss of their son, hangs between you, binding you in shared sorrow. And yet, as you sit there with him, holding him close, you realize that despite the pain, there is still something stronger than it all: your bond. Your love for him.

The sound of Aegon’s sobs pierces through the heavy silence of the room, each cry a reminder of the grief you both carry. The sorrow in his voice is raw, unfiltered, and it cuts through you like a blade. You had lost your son, your beloved Jaehaerys, to a brutal fate, but hearing Aegon, the man you had once looked up to as a rock, crumble before you, makes the ache in your heart swell with a new, unbearable pain.

His cries are not just for Jaehaerys. They are the cries of a father who feels like he failed, a king who couldn’t protect his own flesh and blood. And though you, too, are lost in your own grief, there’s a part of you that can’t help but feel the weight of his sorrow, the burden he’s placed on himself. He has always been your pillar—strong, unyielding. Yet now, in the wake of their son’s brutal death, you see him as you never have before: broken, fragile, and lost.

You want to hold him, comfort him, but you are equally as lost. You, too, are drowning in the loss of your child. Your son, your Jaehaerys, was taken from you in a way so cruel, so violent, it feels like the world itself has torn you apart. You wanted to protect him, to keep him safe in a world that has only ever been ruthless. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

Your heart aching, and without a word, you pull him into your arms. His body is trembling with grief, his face hidden in the crook of your neck, and it feels as if your tears have no end. The dam breaks, and you cry, not just for Jaehaerys, but for the man who has always stood beside you. You mourn for him, too. For the Aegon you once knew—so proud, so certain of everything—and now, reduced to a shell of himself, lost in the same pain you feel.

You both weep together, your cries a mirror of each other. You weep for the child stolen from you, for the cruel brutality that claimed him. You weep for the dreams of a future that will never be. You weep for the man you loved, who now is slipping away from you, consumed by guilt and sorrow.

His arms tighten around you, as though trying to hold onto something—anything—to anchor him in this world that has suddenly become too much to bear. Your fingers run through his hair, your hands trembling as you hold him close, wishing that somehow, in this moment, you could ease his suffering. But you can’t. Neither of you can escape the truth of what has happened.

“Jaehaerys,” you whisper, your voice barely audible through the tears. “Our son… he was taken so brutally. So violently.”

The words choke you, the reality of it too much to speak aloud. But you know Aegon hears it, feels it, because he clutches you tighter, as if your embrace is the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

“He was everything,” Aegon mutters, his voice broken. “He was everything. And I couldn’t protect him. I failed him. I failed you.”

“No,” you say, your voice trembling with the effort to make him understand. “You didn’t fail us. You didn’t fail him. We both did everything we could. The world… the world is just cruel, Aegon. There was nothing we could do to stop it.”

But even as you say the words, you know they don’t bring comfort. Nothing can fix this. Nothing can heal the wound in your heart, nor his. You are both drowning in a grief that feels too heavy to bear, yet somehow, you hold onto each other as if your lives depend on it.

And in the midst of it all, as your bodies shake with sorrow, you both know that, for now, the only thing that can get you through this pain is the shared weight of your loss. Together, you mourn the life stolen from you both, sharing in the quiet understanding that while you have lost your son, you have not lost each other—at least not yet.

The night stretches on, and as the hours pass, the tears begin to subside, leaving behind a quiet, fragile silence. You and Aegon remain locked in each other’s arms, not saying a word, but knowing that the grief will never truly leave. It will live within you both, forever. But in this moment, as you hold him close, you find solace in the shared sorrow, in the unspoken promise that, together, you will face the darkness ahead.

The quiet sorrow in the room is almost suffocating as you and Aegon remain locked in each other’s embrace. Your tears have slowed, but the ache remains—a heavy, unyielding weight that neither of you can escape. In this moment, the world outside seems so distant, so far removed from the grief that binds you both together. It’s just the two of you, sharing in a silence that speaks more than words ever could.

And yet, unbeknownst to you, another presence lingers in the doorway.

Alicent stands there, her figure silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway, watching her children in a way that is both loving and helpless. She stands frozen, unsure of how to act, torn between the instinct to rush to you both and the fear that her comfort will fall flat, that her words will be hollow against the rawness of your pain. She’s always been the Queen, the figure of authority, the protector of the family. But in this moment, all that seems to have failed her. She doesn’t know how to fix what is broken—how to fix you both.

Her heart aches as she watches you and Aegon, the children she has raised, the ones she has tried so hard to hold together. She wants to walk over, to wrap her arms around both of you and tell you everything will be alright. That the pain will fade, and time will heal the wounds. But she knows—deep down—that it isn’t true. Time will not heal this, not this wound, not this loss. The emptiness left by Jaehaerys’s death is something none of you will ever fully escape.

For a long moment, she stands there, unsure whether to enter or retreat. She hesitates, caught between her love for her children and her inability to bridge the growing gap between them. Alicent doesn’t know what to say, or if anything she says will even be heard. She has tried so hard to be the mother you both needed, to mend the fractures that have always been present in your family, but now, more than ever, she feels like a stranger to both of you.

Aegon shifts slightly, his face still buried in your shoulder, and you let out a shaky breath, holding him tighter, as though the very act of holding him could somehow stop the world from crumbling. You don’t notice Alicent’s presence at first. But after a few moments, she realizes that her hesitation has already caused the distance to grow.

With a quiet sigh, Alicent turns away from the door, her footsteps soft as she retreats into the shadows of the hallway. She doesn’t look back, afraid that if she does, it will break something that is already too fragile. The silence between you three is deafening, and though she’s tried for years to hold your family together, in this moment, she feels more distant than ever.

Alicent doesn’t know how to make you feel better. She doesn’t know how to ease the sorrow of losing a child. She doesn’t understand how to fix the bond between her children and herself, a bond that has been fraying for so long, so silently.

As she walks away, her own heart aches, not just for Jaehaerys, but for the two of you—the children she cannot seem to reach, no matter how hard she tries. She doesn’t realize that, in her silence, she has only deepened the divide, pushing you both further away without ever meaning to.

Alicent knows nothing of the quiet, unspoken resentment that has grown in the wake of everything that has happened. She doesn’t understand that, while she watches from the outside, you and Aegon have begun to forge your own bond, one that excludes her. A bond born not from love, but from shared pain and the deep understanding that only you two can truly know the weight of this loss.

And as she disappears down the hall, a quiet, invisible rift stretches between the three of you, one that will not easily be mended.

Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @zaldritzosrose @yazzzmints @giirlinblack

[oceanicfishies]

GHOST OF YOU

PAIRING post-apocalyptic!Caleb x MC

SYNOPSIS Caleb never imagined he'd be carrying the love of his life—half-dead and infected—through a world that’s already crumbling. Caleb refuses to accept that their story could end this way. Desperate and broken, he searches for a cure, but with each passing day, the monsters. And with every step, Caleb is forced to confront the impossible: How do you keep going when the person you love is slowly disappearing before your eyes?

WARNINGS Graphic depictions of war, battle, and post-apocalyptic survival, including physical injuries, death, and destruction. Overall a very angsty fic.

But the game wasn’t over. It couldn’t be over. Because if it was, then what was the point of surviving?

The world had unraveled into a tapestry of despair since the Hunter's Association sealed its doors. Once, their vigilant presence had kept the darkness at bay, but now, shadows stretched unchallenged across the remnants of civilization as wanderers chase the light away. The government, stripped of resources and direction because of the economic concentration within public enterprises, could no longer support the hunters who had been humanity's shield: leading cities like Linkon, once bustling with life, to become hollowed monuments to a forgotten era, their streets overrun by the very monsters the hunters once subdued. Yet, it wasn't just the creatures that posed a threat; men, in their desperation, had become architects of new horrors, exploiting the chaos to forge empires from the ruins. In this desolate landscape, hope flickered like a dying ember, and survival became the only testament to a world that once was.

In an attempt to find an answer to the massive colonization of wanderers, public enterprises began the chase for a cure that would reverse the bite of wanderers. Back to when this was in its beginning steps, society bumbled with anxiety regarding the hopeful idea of going back to what they used to know… Little did they know. At first the vaccine was successful, many of the wanderers could go back to their original form. However as time passed by, side effects emerged rapidly and those who used to be victims to the tragedies of wanderers became even worse than the previous perpetrators. Their bodies shifted into massive monsters that were practically impossible to escape from. With or without the hunters, society was doomed. 

Caleb would not—could not—accept that this was the reality he breathed in. The air, once perfumed with roasted street food and the echo of laughter, now reeked of ash and silence. He turned one last time to face the city crumbling behind him—Linkon, once a mosaic of neon and warmth, now just a monument of ghosts. A standing cemetery, each shattered window and scorched wall whispering names he no longer had the strength to say aloud. Names of friends, comrades, loved ones lost to a world that had no place for the innocent anymore.

He blinked hard, refusing the sting in his eyes, because grief would slow him down. And he couldn’t afford that. Not now.

The weight on his back shifted slightly, a grotesque mimicry of life. He adjusted the twisted shirt and tightened the knot that kept the body close, like some cruel parody of a piggyback ride. As if pretending it was just a sleeping passenger could undo the truth. Could make time rewind. Could let him say "I’m sorry" before it was too late.

But the game wasn’t over. It couldn’t be over.

Because if it was, then what was the point of surviving? For that reason he began his journey in an attempt to find a cure for the love of his life, the sick bag of bones he was now forced to carry as a cruel joke to everything that had occurred in the last few months. It had felt so distant at first, the virus. An urban myth whispered between cigarette breaks and late-night patrols. Something feral and far away. Something that happened to other people. Not you.

You were a hunter, after all. Built for war. Trained to dissect death with your bare hands. You weren’t supposed to be afraid of blood—you were supposed to make others bleed. You weren’t supposed to be soft enough to fall in love. Or stupid enough to think love could survive a world like this.

Then it happened.

You came home one night, staggering. Half your arm looked like something had chewed through it and spat it out. You collapsed against the doorframe, whimpering like a wounded animal.

“Caleb…”

Your voice cracked like old wood. Fragile. Broken.

The words didn’t register at first. They just… hung there. Heavy and shapeless in the air. Caleb remembered the way his hands trembled as he caught you, the way his heart seemed to stop as you collapsed into his arms, a hollowed-out shell of the person he knew. The way you tried to smile through the pain, still trying to protect him, even now.

You knew what it meant. He did too. But neither of you said it. Not out loud.

Instead, he kissed your forehead and whispered, “We’ll fix it. I promise. I’ll find a way.”

And now he walked, checking your pulse every now and then. When the silence became insufferable he began speaking, mostly to you but also to sooth himself. “Pipsqueak, we have survived for so long” he would muffle as flashbacks haunted his memory “what we are living today? That’s nothing for us” He laughed as if trying to convince himself of what he was saying. “Tomorrow will be kinder, to you, to me, and to us. We’ve seen it countless of times” He whispered as he stared at the grass below his feet as he continued launching himself forward with no place to go. Not only he had an unbearable weight to carry, both literally and metaphorically, but he also had a limited amount of time and resources. 

“I wish you loved me less” you would mumble in a whisper that was as loud as the wind “please love me less”. 

Those words would force Caleb to stop.

It was not the first time he heard them. You had said those horrible words the night you were bitten in an attempt to convince him to leave. Every time he heard them—whether they came from memory or the fevered fragments that sometimes slipped from your lips in half-conscious murmurs—they stopped him cold. The road ahead would blur, the trees would fold into shadows, and all he could hear was your voice—so soft, so tired, begging him to let go.

"Please love me less."

How could he? How could he love you less when you were the only part of this godforsaken world that ever made it feel like home? He unstrapped you from his back for a moment, laying you down carefully as if the earth might snap you in half. His fingers traced your cheekbone, hollow now, and cold in a way he couldn't bring himself to name. As time passed you looked less and less like your old self. Yet he stared at you with the same amount of love he always did, as if you were looking your best. 

He leaned down, forehead against yours. “If I loved you any less, I wouldn’t still be walking,” he whispered. “If I loved you any less, I would’ve buried you days ago.”

The wind howled between the dead trees like it was mourning something too.

But Caleb stood again. Gently. Slowly. He tied the knot again.

And then he walked.

Toward nothing.

For everything.

[boomgun]

I wish we met Claude's parents so much. I think about them sometimes and go 'wow.' Like, it is crazy how Claude is- I mean this affectionately- kind of like a fankid. What I mean is, most background Fire Emblem Lord Parents are just there to die tragically, they do not often feel like characters in their own story (okay, Griel and Chrom are the rare exceptions, in that they are fleshed out with lore and stuff, but Died Tragically is still in both of their stories). Which makes sense, they are the parents of the protagonist, this is not their story!

But, like, Claude's parents. What happened between the two of them? Romeo and Juliet if they managed to dodge the tragedy of their narrative, literally that joke about Doomed By The Narrative -> They Escaped The Narrative! They escaped the narrative (this almost feels like a joke about how they LITERALLY DO NOT SHOW UP)! They must have manuevered through so much interpersonal drama and political intrigue. You could- you could write a whole story about Claude's parents, you could! Which is why Claude feels like a fankid in this sense (affectionate, affectionate). Claude feels like the protagonist of a sequel series or a fanfic about their plucky son who wants to go back to Leicester and fix the cycle of violence between their two nations. But this is not a sequel series, this is not fanfiction, this is in fact Claude's story he just happens to have the most well developed parents (THAT WE NEVER SEE).

It is an aspect of Claude that is fun to play with, his legacy! Claude is the son of an adventure, of hope for a better world, of love triumphing over all! Claude is so optimistic because he cannot afford to despair! I wanna meet his mom and dad so badly.

I completely understand why Claude ghosted Fódlan at the end of Verdant Wind. He has not seen his incredibly cool and thematically relevant parents for five years. I would not keep him from them, he deserves to run back home and tell them the good news. You got an A+ on the math finals, and you unified a long-fractured continent under principles of peace and coexistence. Great job, kid, your parents are going to put your copy of Fódlan's new constitution on the wall.

It is rare for a healthy and functional family in fiction to get me this riled up.

[lila-lou]

✨ His second exception - Pt. 3/? ✨

Summary: The moment Ben found out you were pregnant was probably the happiest moment of his life. However, happiness proved fleeting. Now, he is faced with the aftermath of his shattered dreams. Of what is left of you, and what is left of him.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language, Ben being hurt, Reader being hurt, soft Ben, sad Ben

Word Count: 5637

A/N: This is the sequel to “His only exeption” - and Part 3 of "His second exception".

English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

The two of you sat there amidst the shattered furniture, a somber testament to the little life you had lost. The minutes stretched on, time seeming to stand still as neither of you found the words to break the heavy silence that hung over the room like a suffocating shroud.

The only sound was the echo of your shared sobs, a symphony of grief that reverberated off the walls, filling the air with a palpable sense of loss and despair. Each tear that fell was a silent tribute to the innocence that had been stolen away, a reminder of the love that would forever remain etched in your hearts.

But amidst the darkness, there was also a glimmer of hope, a flicker of light that refused to be extinguished. For in each other's arms, you found solace, a beacon of strength guiding you through the storm.

And as you sat together in the aftermath of tragedy, you knew that no matter how broken you felt, you would find a way to heal. For love, you discovered, was not measured in years or even moments, but in the quiet moments of shared sorrow and the unwavering support of those who held you close.

Eventually, with trembling hands, you carefully lifted Ben's face, your touch gentle as you brushed away the tears that still lingered on his cheeks. His eyes met yours, a mixture of pain and longing reflected in their depths, a silent plea for understanding.

With a shaky breath, you leaned in, your lips meeting his in a tender embrace. It was a moment of raw vulnerability, a silent acknowledgment of the pain and sorrow that bound you together, but also of the love that refused to be extinguished.

In that fleeting moment, the weight of your grief seemed to lift, if only for a heartbeat, replaced by the warmth of his touch and the promise of tomorrow.

It wasn't a heated kiss, fueled by passion and desire. Instead, it was a sweet kiss, soft and tender, born from a deep well of love and understanding.

And as you pulled away, your foreheads resting against each other, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. For in each other's arms, you had found solace, a refuge from the storm that raged outside.

With a gentle yet determined touch, Ben carefully got up, pulling you with him as he rose from the wreckage of the room. You wrapped your arms around his neck, finding solace in the strength of his embrace, the warmth of his touch a comforting presence against the cold reality of your shared grief.

Supporting you with one hand under your butt, Ben cradled you against his chest, his touch both tender and protective. With careful steps, he navigated the debris scattered across the floor, his gaze never wavering from yours as he guided you through the chaos.

As you approached the crib, Ben paused, his eyes lingering on the plush toy nestled among the blankets. With a gentle touch, he carefully placed the toy back where it belonged, a silent tribute to the innocence that had been lost but would never be forgotten.

Then, without a word, Ben carried you in his arms, the weight of your sorrow pressing against his chest.

Finally, you reached the sanctuary of the bedroom, the soft glow of the moon casting a gentle light across the room. Gently, Ben laid you down on the bed, tucking the blankets around you with a tender touch.

He settled in beside you, his arms wrapped around you in a protective embrace.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, you stirred from a deep, undisturbed sleep, a rare respite from the nightmares that had haunted you for weeks. With a sense of peace settling over you, you found yourself cradled in Ben's arms, his steady breaths a comforting rhythm against your skin.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there were no shadows lurking in the corners of your mind, no echoes of grief or loss to haunt your dreams. Instead, there was only the warmth of Ben's embrace, a tangible reminder of the love that bound you together.

But as the soft light of morning cast a gentle glow across the room, you felt a familiar pang of guilt tug at your heart. With a quiet sigh, you bit your lip, turning away from Ben and towards the window, the weight of your sorrow pressing down upon you once more.

Feeling you turn away from him again, Ben's heart clenched with a mixture of sadness and fear. His hand instinctively reached out to your hip, pulling you back close against his chest, unwilling to let you slip away.

"Don't shut me out again", he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with the raw vulnerability of a man who had tasted the depths of despair. "I won't survive this".

His words hung heavy in the air, a silent plea for understanding, for reassurance that you would not retreat into the darkness once more. And as his mouth pressed against your shoulder, a tender gesture of longing and love, you felt the weight of his sorrow pressing down upon you like a leaden shroud.

In that moment, you realized the depth of his pain, the anguish of being shut out by the one he loved most in the world. With a soft sigh, you leaned back into his embrace, letting the warmth of his touch chase away the chill of your sorrow.

"I won't", you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your heartbeats intertwining. "I promise".

And as you lay entwined in each other's arms, the weight of your grief seemed just a little lighter, knowing that you had each other to lean on, to hold onto, no matter what the future held.

After a while of lying still, Ben's fingers began to trace a gentle path from your upper arm down to your forearm, his touch sending shivers through your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His breath was warm against your neck, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he gathered the courage to speak.

"I'm so sorry", he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "For destroying the baby's room". The mere mention of those words seemed to twist something deep inside him, and you felt his body tense against yours.

The term "baby's room" hung in the air, a painful reminder of all that had been lost. You could feel his regret and sorrow mingling with your own, the weight of the grief almost too much to bear.

"It's okay", you murmured, your voice barely audible but filled with a quiet strength. "We were both hurting".

Ben's fingers continued their gentle path, tracing the contours of your arm with a tenderness that spoke of his deep love and regret. "I just… I didn't know how to handle it", he admitted, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I was trying to be strong for you, but I couldn't keep it together".

You turned slightly in his embrace, enough to look into his eyes, seeing the pain and guilt reflected there. "We both need to be strong for each other. Not just you", you said softly, reaching up to brush away a tear that had escaped down his cheek. "It's okay to fall apart sometimes. We just have to pick up the pieces together".

Ben nodded, his grip tightening around you as if afraid to let go. "I love you", he whispered, his voice a soft vow. "We'll get through this".

You turned completely in his arms, bringing one hand up to his cheek, your fingers tenderly brushing down his jaw to his neck. Finally, your eyes met his, and you saw the depths of his pain and hurt, but also the unwavering love he held for you.

Your voice was soft, barely more than a whisper as you spoke. "I'm the one who needs to be sorry", you murmured, your eyes searching his for understanding. "I always urged you to show more emotions, to be open with me… and then I shut you out when you needed me the most".

Ben's eyes glistened as he listened. "It's been so hard", you continued, your voice breaking slightly. "I was so consumed by my own grief that I couldn't see how much you were hurting too".

He shook his head slightly, pressing his lips to your palm in a gesture of reassurance.

Before he could say anything, you spoke up again, your words tumbling out in a rush. "I couldn't look at you because I knew how much this baby meant to you", you confessed, your heart aching with every syllable. The word "baby" felt like it might rip your heart out of your chest. "I failed you, Ben. I couldn't protect our baby with my weak human body. I was ashamed and afraid that you might hate me for it".

Tears streamed down your face as you voiced the fears that had haunted you for so long. You felt Ben's grip tighten on your hand, his eyes searching yours with a mix of pain and understanding.

"How could I ever hate you?", he whispered, his voice breaking. "You didn't fail me, and you didn't fail our baby. This was never your fault".

His words were meant to comfort, but the pain in his voice was undeniable. He took a shaky breath, struggling to contain the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "It’s my fault", he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I’m the supe. I’m the one who’s supposed to protect you. I should have never let you out of my sight. I should have stopped Homelander earlier".

As he spoke, his chest began to glow ominously, the light pulsing with the intensity of his emotions, ready to explode. The sight of it filled you with a new kind of fear, a terror that his anguish might consume him entirely.

"No, Ben", you said urgently, your hands moving to cup his face, trying to bring him back to you. "This isn’t your fault either. Please, don't do this to yourself".

But Ben's glow only intensified as the memories and regrets he had tried so hard to suppress began to surface. "I should have been there", he choked out. "I failed to protect you. I failed to protect our baby".

You felt a surge of desperation as you watched the man you loved teetering on the edge of self-destruction. "Ben, look at me", you pleaded, your voice trembling with emotion. "You did everything you could. This wasn’t your fault!”.

With trembling hands, you wrapped your arms around him, pressing your forehead against his. The warmth of his glowing chest radiated between you, a tangible reminder of his immense power and the depth of his anguish.

Slowly, as your words of reassurance and love washed over him, you felt the intensity of Ben's glow begin to wane. His chest, once ablaze with the turmoil of his emotions, gradually dimmed until it returned to its normal state.

With each passing moment, the tension that had gripped him began to ebb away, replaced by a sense of calm that seemed to settle over the room like a gentle breeze. His breathing, once ragged and uneven, steadied as he leaned into your embrace, seeking solace in the warmth of your touch.

You held him close, your arms wrapped around him in a protective cocoon, your heart aching with the depth of your love for him. Despite the darkness that threatened to consume him, you refused to let go, determined to be his anchor in the storm.

With a soft sigh, Ben buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms tightening around you as if afraid to let go. You held him tightly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

With a tender touch, you gently ran your fingers through Ben's hair, feeling the soft strands slip through your grasp. As you held him close, the warmth of his embrace enveloping you both, you whispered the words that echoed in the silence of the room.

"I love you", you murmured, your voice a soft caress against his ear. "I love you more than anything in this world".

The words hung in the air, a testament to the depth of your feelings, the strength of your bond. In that moment, there was no room for doubt or fear, only the simple truth of your love for him, unwavering and unconditional.

As the minutes passed, the two of you remained wrapped in each other's arms, reluctant to break the newfound connection that had brought you both such comfort. The weight of your shared grief seemed to lift with each heartbeat, replaced by a fragile sense of peace that hung between you like a delicate thread.

Neither of you dared to move, afraid that the fragile bond you had rekindled might shatter if you dared to leave the safety of the bed. In the quiet of the room, the only sound was the steady rhythm of your breathing, a comforting reminder of the presence of the other.

But eventually, the silence was shattered by the loud rumble of your stomach, a reminder that even in the midst of grief, life went on. You couldn't help but laugh softly at the unexpected interruption, the sound echoing through the room like a gentle breeze.

Ben's eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked down at you, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I think your stomach is trying to tell us something", he teased, his voice filled with warmth.

You couldn't help but blush at the realization, feeling a surge of embarrassment at the loudness of your hunger. "I guess we should probably get up and eat something", you replied sheepishly, feeling a pang of regret at the thought of leaving the warmth of the bed.

But Ben simply grinned, his hand reaching out to gently stroke your cheek. "I think that's a good idea", he said softly, his eyes shining with affection. "And besides, I'm starving too".

Down in the kitchen, you stood in front of the refrigerator, surveying its contents with a thoughtful expression. The events of the morning weighed heavily on your mind, but the simple task of preparing breakfast provided a welcome distraction from the turmoil of your emotions.

As you scanned the shelves of the refrigerator, your stomach grumbled impatiently, a reminder of your hunger. With a determined nod, you reached for a carton of eggs and a few vegetables, a plan beginning to form in your mind.

Ben glanced over at you with a smile as he poured two steaming cups of coffee, his gaze filled with warmth and affection. "What are you thinking?", he asked, his voice gentle.

You turned to him, a mischievous glint in your eye. "I thought I'd whip up some omelettes", you replied, a hint of excitement in your voice. "With whatever we have on hand. It'll be a surprise".

"Sounds perfect," he said, setting the cups of coffee down on the counter. "I'll leave the cooking to you then".

As the omelettes sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with the mouthwatering aroma of cooking food, you stole a glance at Ben, who was watching you with an expression of quiet contentment.

Feeling Ben step up behind you, you smiled softly as his chin came to rest on the top of your head. His arms wrapped gently around your waist, his touch light and comforting, though he carefully avoided your stomach.

The warmth of his embrace enveloped you, grounding you in the moment and banishing the lingering traces of sadness that had clung to you since morning.

For a moment, you simply savored the warmth of his presence, the steady beat of his heart against your back a soothing rhythm. In that quiet moment, surrounded by the love that bound you together, you felt a sense of peace settle over you like a gentle caress.

And as you turned to face him, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that took your breath away.

After eating, you found yourself sitting at the kitchen table, lost in thought. Unlike the past weeks, your thoughts weren’t dominated by the same overwhelming sadness; instead, they were more reflective. You felt a profound sense of guilt for failing Ben, for not seeing how deeply he was struggling. Even in the face of his own grief, he had been strong for you, supporting you despite being pushed away repeatedly.

Ben watched you quietly from across the table, noticing the subtle changes in your expression. The shadows of sorrow still lingered, but there was a newfound softness, a sense of connection that had been missing for so long.

“Hey”, Ben said softly, drawing your attention back to him. “What are you thinking about?”.

You looked up, meeting his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and regret. “I’m thinking about how much I owe you an apology”, you admitted, your voice heavy with emotion. “You were so strong for me, even when you were hurting just as much. I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I didn’t see how much you were struggling. I’m so sorry for that, Ben”.

Tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision as you looked at Ben. He was ready to brush off your apology, his instinct to protect you and minimize your guilt. But you couldn't let him.

"Ben, please", you said, your voice trembling. "I need you to hear this. I feel terrible for how I've treated you. Even though you’ve never been the most emotionally available person, during the hardest time of our lives, you did everything I asked. You made me your top priority, above your own feelings, above your own pain".

Ben's expression softened, a mix of sadness and understanding. He opened his mouth to speak, but you continued, not wanting to lose your momentum.

"You were so strong for me", you said, your voice breaking. "You put me above everything, even when you were hurting so much. I pushed you away, but you stayed. You tried so hard, and I didn't see it. I was so lost in my own grief that I didn’t realize how much you needed me too".

Ben reached out, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. "You don't need to apologize", he said softly. "I did what I did because I love you. Because I knew you needed me, and I wanted to be there for you. That’s what we do for each other".

You shook your head, more tears spilling down your cheeks. "But I need to, Ben. I need to apologize because I didn’t support you the way you supported me. You were in just as much pain, and I shut you out. I’m so sorry for that. I’m sorry for not being there for you when you needed me most".

Ben's hand cupped your cheek, his touch warm and reassuring. "We were both hurting, and we coped the best we could. But we're here now".

His words were a balm to your wounded heart, and you leaned into his touch, feeling a sense of peace begin to settle over you. "I love you, Ben", you whispered, your voice filled with sincerity. "And I promise, from now on, I’ll be here for you, just like you were there for me".

Ben's eyes softened with love as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. "I love you too", he murmured. "And we'll get through this together, one step at a time".

There was a flicker in Ben’s eyes, a spark of a memory surfacing from the depths of his mind. He remembered the first and last time the two of you had taken a bath together. It was a simple act, but the intimacy of it had left an indelible mark on his heart. For Ben, it was one of the most peaceful moments of his life, a time when he had felt profoundly connected to you.

He stood up, his eyes never leaving yours as he extended his hand. “Come with me”, he mumbled, his voice soft and filled with a mix of vulnerability and hope.

You looked at his outstretched hand, then back up at his face. There was a tenderness in his eyes that made your heart ache. Without hesitation, you placed your hand in his, allowing him to help you up from the table.

He led you upstairs, each step deliberate and filled with silent promise. When you reached the bathroom, he turned on the tap, adjusting the water temperature until it was just right. The sound of running water filled the room, creating a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy that enveloped you both.

Ben glanced at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. Seeing none, he began to undress, his movements slow and deliberate. You followed suit, the act of shedding your clothes a symbolic shedding of the walls that had kept you apart.

Once the tub was filled, Ben stepped in first, holding out his hand to help you in. You settled between his legs, leaning back against his chest, feeling the warmth of the water and the solid strength of his body behind you.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, his chin resting gently on your shoulder. The warmth of the water and the closeness of his body enveloped you, creating a cocoon of comfort and safety.

“Remember the last time we did this?”, he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

You nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. “I remember”, you mumbled, your voice teasing. “I was so sore after that night because of how you fucked me”.

Ben let out a soft chuckle, his breath tickling your ear. He pinched your thigh gently under the water, his touch playful. “Stop with the dirty thoughts”, he murmured, his lips brushing against your shoulder. “I’m trying to have a romantic moment here”.

You giggled, the sound light and free, a stark contrast to the heaviness that had dominated your life recently.

“You know”, you teased, “the word ‘romantic’ and your mouth don’t really match at all”.

Ben raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Is that so?”, he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

You nodded, your smile widening. “Yeah, but I like the effort”.

He chuckled again, but this time it was different. His eyes softened as he looked at you, his heart swelling with the sound of your laughter—a sound he hadn’t heard for weeks.

“Keep laughing”, he said softly, his tone sincere. “I’ve missed that sound”.

Your smile faltered slightly, the weight of the past weeks pressing down on you. “I’ve missed it too”, you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ben’s arms tightened around you, his touch both protective and reassuring. You felt his warmth seep into your skin, grounding you in the present moment.

As you leaned into his embrace, a thought crossed your mind, one that you hadn't entertained in weeks. You looked down towards your flat belly, the absence of the life that once thrived within it painfully evident. You hadn't dared to acknowledge it, let alone touch it, for fear of reopening wounds that had barely begun to heal.

But now, with Ben's comforting presence beside you, something shifted inside you. With trembling hands, you reached down towards your belly, your fingers hovering just above the surface. Ben swallowed heavily behind you, his own emotions mirroring yours.

Slowly, tentatively, your hand made contact with your stomach. You felt the smoothness of your skin beneath your fingertips, the absence of the life that once pulsed within. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to look away. For the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to acknowledge the emptiness that resided within you.

Ben watched you silently, his heart breaking for the pain you carried. He longed to reach out, to offer you solace and comfort, but he knew that this was a journey you needed to take alone. So he remained by your side, his presence a silent source of strength and support.

Together, you sat in the quiet of the bathroom, the weight of your grief heavy in the air. But there was also a glimmer of hope, a flicker of light amidst the darkness. And as you traced the contours of your belly, you knew that healing was possible, that love could triumph over loss.

Feeling Ben's tender kisses on your shoulder blades, you melted into his embrace even further. His touch was a balm to your wounded soul, offering a sense of comfort and reassurance that you desperately needed.

His arms tightened around you even more, pulling you closer against his chest. The warmth of his body enveloped you, chasing away the chill of grief that had settled deep within your bones.

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to simply exist in this moment of quiet intimacy. With each kiss and each gentle squeeze, Ben wordlessly conveyed his love and his unwavering support.

You lay there in Ben's embrace, the outside world forgotten as you reveled in the warmth of his love. Time seemed to stand still, each moment stretching into eternity as you held onto each other, unwilling to let go.

But eventually, Ben's super hearing picked up on voices downstairs, pulling him back to reality. Frenchie and MM were engaged in a comical discussion that he couldn't help but overhear.

"Frenchie, are you out of your damn mind?", MM's voice echoed up the stairs, incredulous. "Soldier Boy will kill us for just walking into his house like this!".

Frenchie grumbled in response, "It's fine! The door wasn't even locked!".

MM scoffed. "Of course the door isn't fucking locked! Who in their right mind would just walk into Soldier Boy's house uninvited?".

You felt Ben tense up underneath you, his muscles tightening with a hint of apprehension. Sensing his change in demeanor, you turned slightly, watching him with a furrowed brow.

“What’s wrong?”, you asked, concern lacing your voice.

Ben let out a low grumble, his jaw clenched with frustration. “Laurel and Hardy are fighting downstairs about whether I’ll kill them or not”, he muttered, his voice tinged with annoyance.

You blinked in confusion, not quite understanding the reference. “Huh?”.

Ben let out a groan, rubbing his temples with his fingers. "MM and Frenchie are downstairs to see you", he clarified, his frustration evident in his voice.

Realization dawned on you, and a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "Oh, they're here for me?", you asked, feeling a mixture of surprise and warmth at the thought.

Ben nodded, his expression softening as he met your gaze. "Yeah, they said they wanted to check in on you", he explained.

Ben shifted to sit up, gently urging you to do the same.

As Ben helped you out of the bathtub and wrapped a towel around you, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle tension in the air. His erection was evident, but he didn’t say anything, nor did he make any advances. You appreciated his restraint, grateful that he wasn’t pushing you into anything.

You knew that Ben had strong needs, and over the past weeks without any intimacy, it must have been incredibly difficult for him. But you also knew that you weren’t ready for that kind of physical closeness, not after everything that had happened.

“Thanks”, you mumbled, feeling a sense of relief wash over you as you started to dry yourself off. With a towel wrapped securely around your body, you made your way into the bedroom, knowing that Ben would follow.

Sure enough, Ben trailed behind you, grabbing some clothes from the dresser. His muscles were tense, and you could sense the effort he was making to control himself. With a slight wince, he discreetly adjusted his erection, hoping it would go down quickly.

“Are you okay?”, you asked softly, your voice filled with concern.

Ben sighed, running a hand through his hair as he tried to compose himself. “Yeah, I’m fine”, he replied, his tone strained. “Just… trying to get this under control.”,

You nodded understandingly, a pang of guilt tugging at your heart.

As you observed Ben, a wave of concern washed over you. You couldn't help but wonder how much longer he would be able to remain patient with you before he reached his breaking point.

The strain in his expression was evident, his efforts to control himself taking a toll on him. You knew that he was trying his best to be supportive and understanding, but you also couldn't ignore the underlying tension that simmered beneath the surface.

With a heavy heart, you realized that you couldn't continue to rely on his patience indefinitely. As much as you appreciated his unwavering support, you knew that you needed to find a way to confront your own grief and move forward, not just for your sake, but for Ben's as well.

After getting dressed, you walked over to Ben, feeling a surge of affection and gratitude toward him. Cupping his face gently in your hands, you pulled him down towards you, pressing your lips softly against his.

As your mouths met, a rush of warmth and tenderness flooded through you, a silent reassurance of the love that bound you together.

Ben responded to your kiss, but his voice broke the silence with a low mutter. "This certainly won’t fucking help", he whispered against your lips, his tone tinged with both humor and frustration.

You couldn't help but chuckle at his comment, the sound bubbling up from deep within you. Despite the weight of the situation, his words brought a moment of levity to the moment, easing the tension between you.

Blushing slightly, you pulled back from the kiss, meeting Ben's gaze with a mixture of amusement and affection. "Well, maybe it's not the solution", you admitted with a playful smile, "but it's a start".

With a soft laugh, Ben pulled you into his arms, holding you close against him.

Downstairs, MM and Frenchie continued their banter, their voices echoing through the quiet house. Frenchie lounged on the couch, idly flipping through channels on the TV, while MM paced near the door, his posture tense with anticipation.

"We should leave", MM muttered, his voice low and filled with unease. "They're probably not even here. We're just wasting our time".

Frenchie glanced over at MM with a smirk, shaking his head in amusement. "Oh, come on", he retorted, his tone teasing. "They're probably upstairs, fucking like rabbits. We just need to wait".

MM rolled his eyes, clearly not amused by Frenchie's suggestion. "That's ridiculous", he muttered.

As Ben and you made your way downstairs, Ben couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the sight of Frenchie lounging comfortably on the couch, as if he owned the place. Frenchie grinned cheekily in response, clearly enjoying his relaxed position.

Ben's expression remained stoic, his demeanor as grumpy as ever. "Make yourself at home, why don't you", he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with sarcasm.

You stifled a giggle at Ben's grumpy remark, knowing all too well that it was just his usual demeanor.

Frenchie simply chuckled in response, unfazed by Ben's grumpiness. "It's good to see you two", he said warmly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "We were starting to think you'd never come down".

Ben rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, we had things to do", he replied curtly.

Frenchie chuckled at Ben's response, shaking his head in amusement. "I bet", he muttered under his breath before standing up and making his way over to you.

With a grin, Frenchie handed you the bouquet of flowers. "Here you go, mon amie", he said with a playful wink. "You don't look so sick to me".

You couldn't help but laugh at Frenchie's comment, feeling a surge of warmth at the gesture. Despite the lighthearted teasing, you knew that his visit was a sign of his genuine concern and friendship.

"Thank you, Frenchie", you said with a smile, accepting the flowers gratefully. "It's good to see you".

MM watched Ben closely as he walked towards the kitchen, his gaze wary and cautious. Sensing the tension in the air, Ben glanced back at MM and let out a gruff shout. "I won’t kill you, MM", he declared, his tone firm but tinged with amusement. "Just sit the fuck down".

With a shrug, MM complied, settling into a nearby chair as Ben disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, Ben returned with two beers in hand, extending one towards MM with a small nod. "Here", he said gruffly, his expression softening slightly. "You look like you could use it".

MM accepted the beer with a grateful nod, his tense posture relaxing slightly.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

-

Part 4

-

Taglist: @deangirl96, @thatgirljayy, @suckitands33, @deans-spinster-witch@mimaria420@kaz11283@uncle-eggy@jackles010378@vxnilla-hxrddrugs @meowmeowyoongles@sarahgracej @zemosdarling228 @leila22rogers @mostlymarvelgirl@emily-winchester @blacknoirr @onlyangel-444@seasonofthenerd@staple-your-mouth@artemys-ackles@selfdestructionandrhum@mystic-mara @kat-nee @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @star-yawnznn @me1501 @CheyNovaK @faephoria @hobby27 @baby19sthings @fitxgrld @winchesterwild78

[ultrakill-confessions]

I have NO clue why I’m doing this, but.

Here is my ranking of Hell’s layers from hottest to least hot.

1. Gluttony:

I described this in another ask, but this layer is carnality distilled into a physical form of throbbing flesh and warm, sweet blood. This is, in my opinion, easily the sexiest layer. I’m not super into the acid, but I’m willing to overlook it if I get to know every tendon and sinew of Hell’s meat, to see the walls pulse and contract as the skeletal hands twitch and the eyes of the room roll back.

2. Violence:

The sleek walls of marble, sculpted elegantly to fit together, forming aesthetic perfection. The contrast between the radiant white and the bubbling blood. The trees, pleading, begging for just a little more. Feed us. Please, please, feed us. We’re so hungry, we’re so desperate. We need you. We need you. Everything about this layer is bloodlust and desperation. The need to escape the labyrinth, the need to free the Tree of Life’s aortal sap, the need to feed on blood and blossom, the need to escape life so desperately that it ends in arboreal agonies, the need to fight, to destroy, to win this war, even if you don’t have a reason besides this need, this gnawing need.

3. Heresy:

Blood oozes from every crevice of these blasphemous corridors, screams echo from the scorching prisons that lie against the walls and floors, every inch of crimson brick, every falling drop of blood, every flickering candle and red-eyed skull is sensual beyond measure. The insolent stench of death and destruction stains these halls, and it couldn’t be any more arousing. Every piece works together in perfect hatred, of peace, of life, of joy, to stomp out and snuff out what little moments of painless pleasure may be found in the brick-lain bowels of Hell.

4. Lust:

The buzzing of electricity, the rushing water and whirring of fans, all creating this pristine cacophony of calm chaos. The shadow of greatness looms, filling every street with the memory of it being something more. You can feel where two friends used to meet, talking about life, about death, about love and all the rest, before they were crushed beneath a husk’s heel. You can feel the sin course through the concrete and steel, screaming that loving one another is not a crime that deserves this fate, but the tragedy only compounds it. It could’ve been different. It should’ve been different. Maybe we could have fought back, or spoken better, or begged more, pleaded more? But it’s too late now. The sorrow of lost peace has sunken into the very foundations of this city, blending with the lightning of the cables and the whispered wishes.

5. Wrath:

A tempest. Chaos, anger, hate, desperation, despair. Everything swirls together, mixing and melding into something colossal. Wrath is the place of everything. Some will never stop, never quit sailing the ferry, never stop for even a moment until their weary bones are cast from the deck and cast into infatuation. Some will try, and try, and try, and one day, they stop trying. They sink, sink, sink to the deepest pits, melding, molding, mixing into the Leviathan, a being of rage, filled with the wills of those who have given up, those who thought they had nothing to fight for. The Leviathan will fight for them. They don’t know who to hate, but they know to hate. Hate the ones who damned them, hate the ones to stand in their way, hate the ones who fight back, hate the weaklings that don’t. All that’s left is hatred and apathy, and neither will aim the blast of the sea serpent.

6. Limbo:

Calm silence as you sit against chiseled stone. The birdsong of the speakers echo and the screens play through the simulation of day they love so much. To frolic through the bushes, run your fingers through the rubbery grass, pluck a flower and smell it, smell the hollow scent of soft plastic, is to know Hell in its most intimate form. It tries to become unsettling, to delve into an uncanny valley, but you know it well enough to not let it stay in that pit. You will smell the roses that smell of nothing. You will feel the winds that are not there to be felt. You will admire the handiwork of Hell, cherishing its careful carvings, its perfect glass, and its beautiful colors. You know Hell, and you will love Hell. And it won’t know how to love you back. But that’s okay. You can teach it.

7. Prelude:

Pistons crash rhythmically, like a foundation, a pounding drum for Hell’s opening symphony, its Overture. The fans whir, filling the music and beckoning you to join. You can be the melody. Fast, energetic, powerful. You can show them yourself. Fast. Energetic. Powerful. Feel the beat of the machinery like the beat of your heart, feel the beat of the machinery as the voice pushing you onward. Press your heel to their skull and push. Push. Push until they pop. See? Didn’t that feel nice? Feeling the beat of the machinery as the tendrils grasping your mind, the hands in yours that guide you forward, the third, double-pupiled eye that lets you see what life truly is. That lets you see life as something to be played with, toyed with, just like how you’re being played with and toyed with, used as entertainment. But it’s alright. If Hell wants a show, you’ll show it exactly what it wants to see. After all, isn’t that what you’re meant for? Isn’t that all your meant for? To serve Hell, obediently and violently is your purpose. And you would never stray from your purpose.

8. Greed:

Sharp and pointed, pyramids pierce the Heavens. The sun beats down on the golden sands, and there’s no escape from it. Greed is intensity, blasting down on you. You feel the intensity of the heat, the miserable, terrible heat clawing at your skin and threatening to rip your very flesh apart. You see the intensity of the labor, the insurrectionists toiling to lift their stones, sweat dripping slowly, so agonizingly slowly down their skin, collecting dirt and blood as their muscles ache and their bones grow tired. There is no respite, there is no rest, there is no requiem. There’s only intensity. There’s only the need to take more once you’ve already given over every piece of yourself. There’s only Greed.

-

[doliacuddles]

SHADOWS OF A MARRIAGE.

𝖶𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖶𝖾𝖻𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖣𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝖧𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇! 𝖠𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10

❝In our gazes lie the secrets of a love that never had its chance, trapped in a silence that screams the tragedy of what could have been and never was.❞

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆:

𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗅𝗎𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗒𝗇𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗌. 𝖠𝖽𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖨𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽.

The following days blurred into a whirlwind of intense emotions. Each time Alastor returned from work, moans echoed through all the rooms, their echoes reverberating on the walls like a macabre reminder of your growing dependence. Their encounters were a frantic dance of uncontrolled desire, mixed with a palpable desperation that kept you on the brink of madness. The scorching passion he displayed made you feel even more trapped in his intricate web, like a fly in the spiderweb of a cunning predator. But paradoxically, that same passion ignited a fierce determination in you: you had to keep his attention at all costs, no matter the price.

As night fell, when Alastor finally succumbed to the embrace of sleep, you would get up stealthily, carefully moving to avoid waking him. The kitchen had become your secret sanctuary, a refuge where you could prepare your Rue tea without his watchful eyes discovering you. The bitter and penetrating aroma of the infusion filled the house, a testimony to your desperate attempt to avoid a pregnancy that would change everything, a constant reminder of the fragility of your situation and the fears that kept you on edge.

You knew your decision was selfish, but the fear of losing Alastor's attention was stronger, burning like a voracious flame in your chest. Each sip of the tea was a sharp reminder of your intentions, a silent and desperate act of rebellion against the relentless fate he was trying to impose on you. With each gulp, you felt a mixture of guilt and determination, a dark dance between submission and resistance, all while his dominant shadow loomed over your existence, stalking your secrets.

Every day, Alastor noticed with increasing intensity the unsettling changes. Confusion gripped him with each failed attempt to conceive, a burden that became more overwhelming over time. He spent long hours distracted at work, his mind trapped in a whirlwind of dark thoughts and silent prayers. The certainty that his sins had condemned him took root in his soul, plunging him into growing despair and anguish that consumed him from deep within.

"What is preventing us from creating life?" he whispered through clenched teeth, his vibrant voice laden with soul-cutting pain. Every time you approached, his tired eyes scrutinized you, seeking answers in your every gesture. Though his yearning burned intensely, a hint of impotence tinged every shared moment, every touch of his hands on your skin.

One night, Alastor felt you get out of bed, fully waking him just minutes after your departure. Confused, he decided to follow you silently, with steps as stealthy as a predator stalking its prey. He observed as you made your way to the kitchen under the dim light that revealed your figure bent over the kettle, the steam from the boiling water rising in ghostly spirals. His eyes narrowed, trying to decipher your intentions as the scene unfolded before him.

Noticing the Rue plant on the table, his lips tightened in a mixture of incredulity and barely contained fury. He knew very well what that meant; his mother had warned him several times about Rue's effects: its abortifacient and contraceptive properties. He approached cautiously, his steps barely audible in the stillness of the night. Finally, he stopped right behind you, his imposing presence filling the space. His voice emerged low but loaded with a barely disguised threat.

"What are you doing?" he murmured, his icy tone resonating with palpable tension.

Fear flooded you abruptly, like a cold wave that completely paralyzed you. Your hands trembled uncontrollably, and the glass you were desperately clutching slipped inevitably from your fingers, crashing loudly to the floor. You turned abruptly, and there he was, Alastor, with his dark, penetrating eyes reflecting a storm of unleashed emotions: confusion, anger, and a deep sense of betrayal.

"Why?" His voice cracked slightly, revealing the vulnerability he had tried to hide behind his mask of dominance. "Why are you doing this?"

Words crowded in your throat, a tangle of truths with no escape. The raw reality, like a sharp blade, cut through the space between you, and in that instant, you felt the crushing weight of your own actions. Alastor advanced towards you with a mix of contained fury and palpable sadness, his gaze piercing you as if trying to unravel each of your darkest secrets.

With a swift movement, he grabbed your arm and pulled you towards him, his eyes shining with an intensity that seemed to set the air between you on fire. "Did you think you could deceive me?" he whispered, his voice dripping with venom. "Did you believe this would remain hidden forever?"

Under his firm grip, a chill ran down your spine as fear and guilt intertwined within you. The words barely escaped your trembling lips: "Alastor… I… I didn't want to lose you."

His laughter echoed in the room, a cold, humorless echo. "Lose me?" he asked sarcastically, pushing you roughly against the table. His face approached yours with calculated cruelty. "You are pathetic," he murmured with a voice that seemed to whisper danger. "A useless and pathetic creature, whose only purpose is to satisfy me. I am willing to do whatever it takes to ensure you understand and never attempt such follies again."

In the kitchen, the silence became almost palpable, interrupted only by the echo of your agitated breathing. Alastor released you abruptly, his gaze an intense mix of fury and pain that chilled you to the bone. Before stepping away, he left one last warning in a cutting voice.

"This is not over. The repercussions of your actions have yet to unfold."

With a determined gesture, he moved towards the Rue plants and threw them furiously into the trash bin. He glanced at you sideways over his shoulder, a silent but relentless invitation to follow him back to the room.

Intellectual property of @doliacuddles.

𝖳𝖺𝗀𝗌; @catticora @mo-0-o @alastorthirsty @its-a-dam-blue-brick @speedycoffeedelight @eris-norwega

[sadnymi]

The Tortured Poets Department: {Slytherin boys version} A Headcanon.

[Mattheo Riddle-Theodore Nott-Lorenzo Berkshire-Blaise Zabini-Draco Malfoy

The Department: These five delinquents may not be penning sonnets, but they cause enough drama to fill a Shakespearean tragedy. They're the rebels, and champions of chaos at Hogwarts.

The Name:  name, bestowed upon them by Professor Abraxas Rookwood, a man as obsessed with forbidden muggle literature as he was with the Dark Arts, was a cruel irony. Rookwood, with his melancholic readings of Byron and Shelley, saw their broodiness reflected in these young Slytherins, They became the Tortured Poets, their "poetry" scrawled not with ink, but with blood and fear.

The Rules (Unbreakable):

Loyalty is Our Blood Oath: Mess with one of them, you mess with all of them. This unwavering loyalty is their foundation.Betrayal is a fate worse than expulsion. A single transgression could result in a "disappearance," a fate worse than Azkaban.

Secrets are sacred currency: What's shared in the dimly lit corners of the Department stays there. Unless it involves a particularly juicy Ministry scandal, then all bets are off (courtesy of Blaise Zabini's insatiable gossip appetite).

Darkness is a double-edged sword: They embraced their darkness, honing it into a weapon against those who deserved it - revel in darkness too long, and it devours you whole.

Art over Arson: Destruction wasn't the goal. The Department aimed to leave their mark with a touch of twisted artistry.A perfectly sculpted ice sculpture of a screaming victim, a whispered poem etched on a sleeping rival's forehead, a haunting melody tinged with despair echoing through the halls.

No Scars: The mark of a Tortured Poet was discretion. Leaving physical evidence was a rookie mistake. The true artist left only a shattered spirit.

No Outsiders: The Department is a closed casket. New members are hand-picked, tested, and broken before being deemed worthy.

Never Love, Only Possess: Love is a weakness, a vulnerability they cannot afford. Possession, domination – these are the true expressions of power. ( a rule they all broke )

The Members:

- Mattheo "The Mastermind" Riddle:

The brains behind the operation. Heir to a dark legacy, Mattheo possessed a chilling charisma that masked a calculating mind. He wielded curses with grace, his voice a silken threat, capable of weaving hypnotic lies or unleashing venomous truths. Mattheo is cunning and calculating, always two steps ahead with a plan so outlandish it just might work. He's the one who assigns roles and ensures their targets get a taste of their own medicine (or worse).He embodies the darkness, a shadow that chills even the bravest hearts.

Theodore "The Artist" Nott:

With a talent for manipulating shadows, Theo could create phantoms that danced on the walls, whispering secrets and igniting paranoia. brewed potions that twisted emotions and conjured illusions that blurred the lines between reality and nightmare. His signature move: A shroud of darkness that swallowed the victim, leaving them alone with their inner demons. He was also The department's strategist. His mind, as sharp as a serpent's fang, weaved intricate webs of psychological manipulation.He took a perverse pleasure in dissecting his victims, unraveling their secrets with a chilling detachment.

Lorenzo "The Charmer" Berkshire:

The Charmer. Lorenzo's weapon of choice is not a wand, but his silver tongue. He can disarm with a smile and deceive with a single word. Information is his currency, secrets his trophies. He is the Department's siren, luring the unsuspecting into a web of lies. tongue that could weave illusions as real as dreams. His victims, lulled into a false sense of security, often found themselves entangled in compromising situations or facing fabricated scandals.

Blaise "The Blackmailer" Zabini:

Blaise has a knack for finding dirt on everyone and isn't afraid to use it to his advantage .He's the one who gathers intel and makes sure no one double-crosses the Tortured Poets. He was the Shadow Dancer. Elusive and acrobatic, Blaise was the Department's phantom. He could infiltrate even the most secure locations, leaving behind unsettling calling cards – a misplaced object, a cryptic message scrawled on a dusty window pane.

Draco "The Distraction" Malfoy:

Draco was the prodigy, a master of forbidden spells before he even reached adulthood. His talent fueled a quiet arrogance, but his loyalty to the group was undeniable. He was their muscle, the unleashed storm of magic when subtlety failed.He saw emotions as a map, effortlessly navigating the labyrinthine corridors of fear and hope.

◣━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◢

The Tortured Poets Department existed in the shadows of Hogwarts, a clandestine group teetering on the edge of sanity. They were not poets, but dark artists, sculpting fear and pain into a twisted form of power, a chilling testament to the allure and danger that lurks in the human heart.

◣━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◢

[genevawrenn]

I wrote a poem for the submissions Bekyamon opened for her library on The Realm, as seen in this tweet here, and since I am very proud of it I am sharing it here too!

Tragic Immortality

Totem of gold, totem of old How long can you outlive your friends Totem of death, totem of rest Memories of thousands, millions of ends Regeneration powers may be a blessing to some, but to those of immortal flesh it is merely an undying tomb

Demon of death, demon of forever breath How many friends must you reap Demon of gray, demon of decay Try as you might, you will always be the one laying others to eternal sleep Some you take pleasure in putting to death, others you will regret until your last breath

Being of creation, being of endless nations Entangling yourself in the lives of others Being of time, being of prime Never found a place to call home until you met your special one Until yet again the function you swore yourself to separate you apart, and you felt lost without your heart

Avian of crow, avian of hollow Your bleeding heart leaves you attached Avian of the sky, avian who cannot fly Too bad tragedy struck before they hatched Doomed to be the mentor to students who will long outlive you, evaporating like the morning dew

Moth of radiation, moth of extreme dedication Reaching for a goal many will not achieve Moth of a forgotten king, moth who misses everything Just how long do you have until you are forced to leave Your stubbornness is a boon, yet will also be your doom

Warrior of honourable code, warrior from the lands of snow You hide your weaknesses behind walls of steel, failing to account for those you made a deal Warrior of power, warrior who refuses to cower Will your spirit ever heal You pretend to stay afar, but that’s easily broken by those who become your star

Anarchist of bloody warfare, anarchist with the distant stare The only company you are used to is your own, sat upon a lonely throne Anarchist of despair, anarchist who finally found an heir Fated to become a living history of dead people Always recording what happens around, journeying across ancient ground

Souls of forever, souls of the severed You are fated to wander from world to world without a true home Souls of immortal flesh, souls of never death Your feet will endlessly travel across forgotten stone Archiving memories of the lost, for a most agonizing cost

[cosmicjoke]

Hange's Death and how it, Through Levi, Represents the Tragedy and Folly of the Concept of Duty:

So, something that annoys the hell out of me is people who claim that Hange's death was "unnecessary", or that it was somehow an insult or an undermining of Hange's character, specifically in relation to Erwin and their respective level of "importance" to Levi. People who claim this generally seem to also claim that "eruri" is canon, and they use Hange's death as some sort of evidence that Hange was less important to Levi or was meant to be framed as ineffectual as the leader of the Survey Corps in comparison to Erwin.

These kinds of takes drive me up a wall, because like so many interpretations of this story that insist on filtering everything through a shipping lens, it completely misses the entire thematic point of Hange's death. Hange's sacrifice is all about duty, and the concept of duty, and "Attack on Titan's" generally critical look at the concept, specifically through Levi.

Anyone who knows anything about Japanese culture probably knows that the concept of duty is paramount and core to their way of life. This idea that you're meant to place duty above everything. Duty to family, duty to your position, duty to societal expectation, etc... especially at the expense of ones own, individual well-being.

Hange, much like Erwin, falls prey to this belief that duty, specifically, their duty as Commanders of the Survey Corps, should take precedent above all else. Erwin's crushing guilt is rooted in the belief that, by being motivated and driven by his own, personal dream, he's somehow failed to fulfill his duty as Commander, and in turn, failed in his duty to the soldiers under his command. All of Erwin's self-loathing is wrapped up in this belief that, by caring more about his personal dream than about humanity's victory, he's betrayed his position and his responsibility. The reason he wants so desperately for Levi to order him to give up on his dream and die for humanity is because he wants to fulfill his duty as Commander. He wants to live up to the expectation of that duty. He knows he isn't strong enough to do it on his own, so he relies on Levi to make the choice for him, and we see in Erwin's relief at Levi's order that it's a weight off his shoulders. He's happy that he's able to give up on his dream, so that he can fulfill his duty. He wants to live up to the image and the expectations placed on him by being Commander of the Survey Corps.

Now, by contrast, Levi isn't happy about this. Levi is visibly upset at having to give Erwin such a command, even as he knows it's necessary to salvage the mission. Levi is a character who has always expressed a kind of doubt as to the worth of their mission. We see it in his emotional distress over the deaths of his comrades, and in his preoccupation with proving their deaths had purpose, through his attempts to imbue their sacrifices with meaning by fulfilling and realizing their dreams, succeeding in the goal they gave their lives for. His desire to kill Zeke is a manifestation of this same wish to imbue his fallen comrades deaths with meaning, and all of this finds its root in the fact that, to Levi, as expressed by his final monologue during the "Battle of Heaven and Earth", doesn't actually think any of this has been worth the lives of his comrades. He sees the final outcome and thinks to himself that none of them died for this.

Levi is the character that Isayama uses to demonstrate the folly of the concept of duty. It's through Levi that the audience is shown the tragedy of the concept. Through his reactions, through his despair, through his agonized resignation when his comrades express their desire to give their lives to the cause of the SC, and his own inability to do anything but lend his strength to that cause in a desperate attempt to ensure they don't die in vain.

The panels I posted above demonstrate this theme to perfection.

Hange asks Levi: "Hey Levi, do you think they can see us now? Our dead comrades? Will they be proud of what we do today?"

And Levi replies: "Don't you start talking like him, too."

He's referring of course to Erwin.

Levi's entire body language here is one of grief. Because he knows what's happening here. He knows that, like Erwin, Hange feels duty-bound to give their life to the cause of humanity, and like Erwin, Levi knows it's almost certain to lead to Hange's death. He knows that Hange feels the need to do this because they feel, up to this point, that they've failed to live up to their duty, specifically that they've failed to live up to Erwin's example as Commander. Erwin gave up his life to the cause of humanity, and now, in order to fulfill the expectations placed on them as Commander, Hange needs to do the same.

The next panels show Hange saying: "I'm the one who led us here. I pressed on, even at the cost of so many lives. Time to face the music."

This is followed by their exchange with Levi, wherein Levi makes a half-hearted attempt to stop them, and Hange says: "You understand. It feels like... it's finally here, you know? My big moment. I want to look as cool as I possibly can right now. So just let me walk away."

We then see a three-panel sequence of Levi's eyes, growing increasingly despairing as the camera zooms in on them. This is Levi's quiet, grief-stricken acceptance of Hange's decision, of Hange's commitment to their duty as Commander of the Survey Corps. The same way Levi has, throughout the series, had to quietly accept the choices of all his comrades to give up their lives to a cause that Levi himself never had full belief in. It was never a cause that Levi fully accepted as possible, or as worth the lives of his comrades. I've spoken about this before, how to Levi, it was always the cause that needed to prove itself worthy of his comrades lives, not his comrades lives that needed to prove themselves worthy of the cause.

And yet with Hange's sacrifice, just like with Erwin's, and with the way both of their self-loathing is wrapped up in their sense of duty and their failure to live up to that duty, we see duty win out. We see Hange and Erwin both succumb to the belief that their self-worth is defined only by their commitment to their jobs, to their ability to fulfill the expectation placed upon them. We see both of them make decisions which totally oppose Levi's own belief.

Hange and Erwin's deaths represent this idea that duty and the causes to which we dedicate ourselves are inherently worth more than our individual existence.

Levi's despair and desire to stop both Hange and Erwin from sacrificing themselves, indeed, Levi's desire to stop all his comrades from sacrificing themselves, represents this idea that duty, the concept of duty, of any, single cause being greater or more valuable than our individual lives, is foolish and wrong.

The conflict for Levi comes in his respect for the agency of others. He can't and he won't stop anyone from doing what they actually wish for themselves. He won't ever tell anyone else what to do or how they should think. Over and over throughout the story, Levi allows others to think and choose for themselves, because one of his core values as a character is in allowing people the freedom to choose how they live, and also, how they die.

So Levi is left with no choice here but to let Hange go. The same way he was left with no choice but to help Erwin fulfill his own duty. Hange asks Levi to let them walk away, and Levi accepts, and tells them to "dedicate their heart". Hange commenting that this is the first time they've ever heard him say those words itself demonstrates Levi's reluctant support of the concept of duty. Levi never believed this idea that his comrades were giving up their lives for a cause greater than themselves. Again, to Levi, it was always the opposite. That the cause had to prove itself as equal to the lives given up to it. Levi sends Hange off with the words "dedicate your heart" as an expression of his acceptance of their choice, and as an encouragement. But his expression and body language following that acceptance speaks plainly of a man who's overcome with grief at the loss of another of his comrades to the concept of duty.

That's also part of what Levi's choice during the RtS arc demonstrates. This idea of choosing humanity over ideology. Of valuing the individual life as much as the monolithic concept of humankind. Of not sacrificing compassion, mercy and kindness to the concept of duty, or the nebulous idea of "the greater good". As I've said before, the idea of the greater good can't exist without there first being a foundation of kindness and compassion at its root. If we give up our humanity to "save" humanity, then what exactly are we saving to begin with?

These are all vital, core themes of "Attack on Titan", and it's why it's particularly ridiculous when people claim that Levi wasn't essential or important to the story, that he was just there to be an "action hero", because Levi, more than any other character, really, encapsulates and represents these themes of compassion over ideology, and of valuing the individual life as much as the whole. The whole, after all, is made up of individual lives.

Isayama has spoken about Levi as being a hero, as being someone deserving of so much respect, that, again in accordance with Japanese culture, you wouldn't deign to look him in the eye. He's referred to Levi as being a better man than himself. With all of this in mind, I think it's fair to say that Isayama uses Levi as the story's moral center. The audience is meant to understand through Levi the value of concepts like compassion, kindness, empathy, sympathy, nonjudgmentalism, and overall, a deep and unwavering belief in the value of each, individual human life. Particularly, I think, Isayama uses Levi to understand the value of these things over concepts like duty and sacrificing ourselves to this idea of the greater good. In many ways, despite his immense strength, Levi is the story's most human character. He most embodies the human qualities that give humanity as a species hope, despite all its many flaws and foibles. Again, compassion, kindness, empathy, etc...

We hear again and again the refrain, near the beginning of the story, that in order to gain something, we have to be willing to sacrifice something. This is in particular relating to this idea of giving up our humanity, of "becoming monsters" to save humanity. Even Levi himself echoes these sentiments during his monologue to the 104th, during the Uprising Arc. But Levi is very specific in what he says. He talks about being willing to "take on the role of a lunatic", so long as it means no one else has to. He's willing to be the "bad guy" if it means sparing anyone else from having to give up on their own humanity. Levi wants to safeguard the humanity of others, and we of course see this play out during his choice with Erwin, choosing not to revive him. Levi might call himself a lunatic or a monster, but this choice itself demonstrates how Levi's own humanity remains thoroughly intact. Even while taking on the image of a madman, even in his willingness for others to think of him as a monster, Levi never loses sight of his compassion. He never becomes cruel. And that in itself represents this core theme of "AoT". Levi wants to save humanity, but he knows humanity can't exist if we lose sight of what makes us human to begin with. And duty isn't what makes us human. Ideology isn't what makes us human. Empathy and kindness are what makes us human. It's why Levi wants so much to protect that humanity, as he speaks of in his monologue during the Uprising arc, as he acts out in his choice during the RtS arc. And we see that humanity in Levi himself, demonstrated to us again and again through all of Levi's various acts of kindness and compassion throughout the series.

[undertale-fic-librarby]

Any error x nightmare fluff? Preferably cannon personalitys 🩷

Howdy, thanks for asking! Here are some fics that might fit what you're looking for!

I'll hate you as you hold me by Casual_Spectatee (Mature, Incomplete)

Nightmare has always had an interest in Error. From the moment he saw the Destroyer in action, he wanted that kind of power on his side. He imagined the terror he could bring if forced the Destroyer himself into submission and to assist him. Error does not give two fucks about Nightmare's dreams, he isn't fucking going to help that prick until God himself walks down and threatens him with eternal hell, and even then, he'd still prefer hell for the rest of his existence than to spend a single minute with Nightmare. Unfortunately for Error, Nightmare is set on getting the Destroyer to work with him one way or another. If that means helping Error for nothing in return, so be it. Error just wishes that it wasn't all such a common thing to wake up in the beds of his two worst enemies, because they all have shitty fucking blankets and he's getting sick of it.

To Trust A Nightmare by Otletes (Mature, Incomplete)

Error has been alone longer than he cares to think about. He's been insane longer than he likes to think about as well, but now he's come back from that insanity. He knows that he has to continue destroying, for the sake of the multiverse, so he's accepted that he will always be alone, in his cold white space. One day though he finds himself watching Nightmare and his gang, it becomes his new favorite pass time. He can't remember much of the dark skeleton, but watching him now, he can't help, but wonder… could this be a group that he'd be accepted in? A place where he could have a family? … Find love? Or will he fall back into insanity and remain alone?

Working through issues with a shunned diety by Hellian_Eden, Jesus_fox (General Audiences, Incomplete)

The Multiverse is vast and nigh infinite, possibilities, concepts, the very function of a world's reality only limited by sheer creativity. Within this realm, Dreamtale exists as an enigma, plucked from another Multiverse entirely. The tragedy of it's Story forced to continue beyond it's Endings, for it forced the concept of Balance into the Multiverse's rules. Now open-ended, the only two Characters wanders throughout the Multiverse as one of it's Outcodes. Dream broke out of stone to one colorful and curious Inkblot, so much to comprehend for someone so small. But alive nonetheless. Nightmare woke up freshly dead. Au: Get it? Cuzhe died lmao

Your memory has faded [BEING REWRITTEN] by unalivedcow (Not Rated, Incomplete)

Nightmare doesn’t remember anything after his transformation, leaving Error devastated. [BEING REWRITTEN] ! spoilers below ! (By the way this is based off a real life scenario of a man with Alzheimer’s forgetting he was married and falling back in love with his wife but I just tweaked it a bit)

Eclipsed by You by BadOmen (Mature, Incomplete)

A gentle breeze drapes the landscape like a soft blanket, with a lone figure standing atop a grassy hill. Feeling disconnected from the world and neglected by his busy brother, he’s on the brink of losing himself. His hopelessness drives him to the edge of fleeing from his own despair. But a planned encounter in the snowy expanse of a fading universe brings an unexpected twist. There, amidst the winter wonderland, he meets a warm and friendly face who gradually draws him out of his shell. Caught between the desire to retreat from this newfound kindness and the urge to let his walls crumble, he faces a profound choice. The story follows Geno and Night, two monsters from separate AUs—Who eventually turn to Error and Nightmare. Geno, struggling with his own emotional barriers, meets Nightmare in his gentler form. Together, they recognize their shared scars—both physical and emotional. Nightmare, self-conscious about his shattered eye socket, finds solace in Geno, whose own eye is also damaged. Through companionship, they agree to keep each other at arms length, perhaps sharing more than just laughter.

Here's a few more fics that are similar to what you're asking for!