#is doomed by something she cannot control

[arcanespillo]

The Darkest Hour, Merlin s4e01 All Hell Breaks Loose, SPN s2e22

[mutsubaki]

I cannot stop thinking how House Atreides has really died with Leto. All the inhibitions from Lady Jessica’s hunger for power and passion were removed and she truly became her father’s daughter. The further Paul was from the times his father was guiding him, the more he leaned into anger and cruelty. Reverend Mother Mohiam doomed them all when she advised to wipe out that line. Atreides and Harkonnen were supposed to balance each other, and her fear of Atreides incomplacency lead to full loss of control. Maybe Lady Jessica and Leto actually made someone who’d be able to become a saviour, but everyone who was involved in the making of the saviour has fucked him up beyond recognition - because the balance was lost.

And on this note, I can’t stop thinking about how Feyd-Rautha and Paul are really meant to be for peace; war is a result of many centuries of a feud between their houses, and an alliance - a union of resources, mind you - would change the political landscape in the universe. Sure, it makes sense why House Corrino fuiled that rivalry, because such alliance would drastically shift the power dynamics in the Lanstraad.

And it doesn’t matter if Paul, or Feyd-Rautha, or their offspring would become Kvizats Haderach - an all-knowing being would rise to the throne and elevate Fremen with less blood then a desert prophet if they had this power.

But Jessica is her mothers’s daughter because she seeks power before purpose, and is her father’s daughter because she doesn’t care about the cost of power, so; their love story with Leto could be described as something you would leave as a warning on a nuclear waste site: love was there. It didn’t save anyone. On every chance it could save us, love only lead to more destruction.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Doom of Ghis (Rhaenyra Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You decide to trick a Queen. It doesn’t quite go according to plan.

Warnings: Smut. Corruption kink. Twisting of religious rituals. Dubious consent? Fingering. Playing doctor.

A/N: I am tired of writing older man x younger woman. Meet older woman x younger woman. Palate cleanser in the middle of writing a new character. Also, I miss writing girls.

“THIS IS NOT a task fit for a Queen.” Rhaenyra looks at Corlys with narrowed eyes. Her annoyance at her own council has begun to build like a sore, and threatens to explode at any given moment.

Presently, it can’t. It would be in poor taste to do during dinner. Lord Corlys has asked her if they could sup in her quarters, to discuss a private matter. She had been expecting war preparations, not this.

“Yet it is a task we require of you.” Her Hand answers, unintimidated by her glare. Rhaenyra reminds herself it is a good thing, not to be feared. She wishes to be a wise Queen, one who is remembered as a champion of peace and not as the next Maegor the Cruel. She wants to be exactly like her father. Viserys the Peaceful.

Viserys the Peaceful never throttled his Hand. And his was much more irritating than hers.

“Why can’t we just… Forgone the custom?” She asks him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“The House of Pahl is already offended by the offer we made them. Marrying one of their daughters, even if it is one of the ones from the second son, to a bastard is an insult. Not having Graces present for the ritual is, too. We cannot afford to offend them any further.”

“Can’t Baela do it?” It sounds childish even to her ears. Rhaenyra isn’t quite sure why she feels so awkward about the ritual, it’s hardly as if she will see something she is unfamiliar with herself. She bets the girl will be more awkward than her, and the thought of having to soothe her seems unappealing. “Or Lady Mysaria?”

“Both of them are quite busy with their duties.” Lord Corlys takes a second to drink from his goblet. It stings, the unspoken fact that Rhaenyra is not. “The Lady Mysaria would provide greater offense, considering her… Previous occupation and lack of relationship to me. As for Baela, I do not feel prudent to recall her from her patrols.”

“My own kinship to you is fairly removed.” Rhaenyra cuts a piece of venison and takes her time chewing. When a Queen wishes to speak, men wait. And it is important to remember her Hand of that fact, especially since he is asking favors. “I am, what? Your second niece? And only through marriage.”

“They feel honored that a Queen will perform the ritual for their daughter. And we need their coin.”

“Slaver’s coin.”

“Coin that will win us the war.” Lord Corlys interjects. “That will buy men. Armor. Weapons. Food.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t answer. She simply cuts another piece of venison.

YOU SIT ON the table, legs hanging off the edge. A fire is lit, and a tea set is already prepared on another low table, along with cushions. A small, dragonglass dome, covers the cakes the Queen and you will share. The message is clear. Your family expects the ritual to go without a hitch.

You aren’t too sure. This Queen you will meet, who will take the place of your elder because your betrothed has no suitable relative to do so, isn’t Ghiscari like you. She is Valyrian. You hate Valyrians.

Cloaked in your pink veil, and wearing your simplest white shift, you await her arrival. You remember your mother’s words. Befriend her. Let her use you and touch you as she pleases. Do not try to instruct her to perform the ritual the right way.

What your mother suggests, simply put, is to see if she can be seduced while being convinced she is the one doing the seducing. Her friendship could give House of Pahl an even greater advantage that you will be getting after you become Lady of the Tides.

Not only control over a fleet that can block trade routes by marrying a Valyrian bastard. Friendship to a Queen. Lover to one. A whispered word in her ear and your wishes shall be law if you play your cards right.

There is no shame in it, your father had said, when they had instructed you as to how to behave. The Red Graces and White Graces do the same and their blood is as noble as yours. They serve the Gods of Old Ghis by providing pleasure to many men. What is asked of you is to only pleasure a single woman.

A single woman who is Valyrian. Whose ancestors burned Old Ghis, and forced yours to flee to Mereen.

It’s not that you object to the fact that it is a woman. You object to Valyrians. They are ugly little things, with queer facial features and skin and hair too pale.

But the woman who enters the room is anything but. She is beautiful, dressed in a black gown that makes her look regal. She has a sweet face, and her distasteful colorless hair is pulled back. It looks less offensive that way, you suppose.

“Your radiance.” You address, lowering yourself from the table you sit in and curtsying. The title has never felt more apt. Her face is beautiful despite her age, and her body shapely.

“Good morrow.” The Queen says. Her voice is delightful too, strong and commanding, with a feminine quality to it. Seducing her now doesn’t seem like much of a chore. “We use the title of Your Grace here.”

“Your Grace.” You rectify, and give her another curtsy. Underneath your veil, you are giving her an apologetic smile. She cannot see it.

You wonder what she thinks of you, cloaked in a soft pink veil that covers both your hair and face. Thanks to the artfully draped pleats, she cannot see you, but you can see her.

She probably thinks you look like a strawberry dipped in clotted cream. You cannot wait to marry and use the Velaryon colors. They look much more dignified than yours.

“I was explained by your Lord Father that I will become your elder after this ritual.” She says, voice full of gravitas. “So there is no need for you to curtsy so much. I hope to become a mother to you.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” You are thankful she cannot see your face, or you would burst out laughing. It’s what is supposed to happen, yet you are not counting on it. “I am sure you are a busy woman. We should begin soon.”

You sit yourself on the table again, feet dangling. The table is the perfect height for bending you over it, but you do not comment on it.

“…I… Of course.” The Queen seems taken aback by how straightforward you are, which makes you smile.

You wait for her to come to you. She hesitates, as if unsure of herself, before coming to stand between your parted legs.

Slowly, her hands pull your veil back. You school your expression into one of quiet dutifulness.

Rhaenyra gasps slightly when she sees your face. You do not allow your face to change, but internally, you are dancing a gig. The veil had been a stroke of brilliance on your father’s part. He always said the best part of worshiping a Red Grace was the reveal.

“You are a beautiful young woman.” She says, starting to map out your features with her fingertips. Her touch is soft, as if scared of hurting you. You play the part of the blushing maiden, letting out a gasp of your own when she traces your lips. Her eyes darken. “Alyn is a very lucky man.”

This Alyn is an accomplished sailor, you hear, and on the fast track to become a Captain. His recent acknowledging by Lord Corlys only propels him higher. You have heard the men admired him from starting from below, unlike other Lord’s bastards.

It’s not a bad prospect. Any man can give you children, you know. It’s not a difficult task. Not every man can give you a fleet.

“And I am very lucky to be marrying him.” You say, after a while. Rhaenyra’s hands have stayed where they are, lingering on your jaw. She doesn’t dare move further down. Her eyes are focused on your lips, as if noticing how intimate the embrace the two of you are in.

Her hands, holding your jaw. Her hips, nestled in the space made by your spread legs.

She goes back to tracing your lips with her thumb, a storm brewing in her eyes. She is confused, this Queen of yours. The intimacy is getting to her, but her morals are holding her back. Rhaenyra is not supposed to take advantage of a maiden she is supposed to welcome as her daughter.

You decide to push her a bit. You take her thumb inside your mouth, cradling it softly in your tongue. Her eyes dart to yours, but you close them, as if delighted by what you are savoring.

Rhaenyra pulls back.

“What are you doing?” She snaps at you. Your eyes open, but your lips remain tantalizingly parted still.

“You are meant to inspect me wholly.” You try your best to sound shy. “Even inside. My mother said…”

Guilt passes once again over her features. You are a poor naive girl, who doesn’t feel anything like arousal. She is the one getting a sick satisfaction over a sacred ritual.

It’s not the truth, of course. But it is what she believes.

She slips her thumb inside your mouth again. You close your eyes, scrunching them tightly. Feigning embarrassment once more. Her thumb presses down on your tongue, drawing a line. It makes drool begin to gather at the corners of your mouth.

As Rhaenyra checks your molars with a careful press of her fingers, warmth begins to accumulate in your core. You open your eyes, looking at her.

She seems absorbed by the task. The Queen barely notices you are holding her gaze, fascinated by your warm mouth. She removes her thumb, wiping it on your chin.

Her hands trail lower. Down your jaw, and to your neck. She keeps her touch light, making you squirm. Everywhere she touches, a trail of goosebumps follows.

“Shh, sweet girl. You are doing so well.” She rubs your shoulder, probably thinking you shake from nervousness and not from pure, sheer want. “So well for your Queen.”

You feel your flower growing slick with her words. You worry if that will give you away when she reaches that part of the examination. Rhaenyra might yet discover that you are not as innocent as you pretend to be. It only makes you wetter.

Would she punish you if she found out? Pinch your little pearl until you cried? Spank your rear?

Her hands slip the straps of your shift down your shoulders. You are left bare in front of her.

Your nipples are pebbled. They have been since she started touching you.

The Queen doesn’t touch you there at first. Not where you need her the most. Instead, her hands trail over your shoulders, teasing you with promises of what is to come. She traces imaginary patterns, all the way to your forearms.

You fight the urge to whine. You just sit there, eyes on your lap, not attempting to cover yourself nor to help her, the picture of dutifulness.

She runs one of her fingers over a taut nipple. You hiss. She gives it a pinch, carefully observing your face. Perhaps wondering how far you will let her go.

You say nothing. She pinches the other one, gently. Then, she cups your breasts in her hands.

“A pretty pair, these.” Rhaenyra licks her lips. You wish she would wrap them around your nipples instead. She continues to give your breast soft caresses, squeezing from time to time. An amused smile appears on her face, when she sees how you twitch when she accidentally brushes your nipples.

“Lay down, love.” She orders you, pushing your stomach. You obey her, laying flat on the table. A feast spread for a dragon.

Her hand lowers your shift even more, exposing your belly button. She touches under it, over your womb. She presses down on it, and you gasp.

The pressure feels odd. It feels good, too. It’s not something you would have thought to do to yourself when playing on your own, but her hand feels scorching hot over your skin.

“Hurts?” She asks you, softly.

“Feels strange.” You reply. “Good.”

Rhaenyra hums. Her hands pull your shift down fully, and take it from you. You close your legs tightly, embarrassed at how wet you are. Your father had ordered you to remove all your body hair before the ritual, so you are bare for her to observe. Completely.

“Spread your legs, sweet girl.” It’s said with a frown. Her hand grazes your bare mound, puzzled by it.

You spread your legs. Your folds unstick with the motion, slick shining between your legs.

“It’s customary. To facilitate the checking of the womanly parts.” You offer her, suddenly embarrassed.

“I see.” Rhaenyra says, spreading your folds. It only makes your cunt leak more. She presses on your pearl with her thumb, almost playing with it. Her face is dark, eyes almost all pupils. No longer a queen, but a dragon.

She doesn’t comment on your wetness, but swirls one of her fingers on it, before dragging it all the way to your pearl. Then, she presses a finger into your hole, checking your maidenhead.

You barely muffle your squeal.

“Tell me.” She says, tone almost conversational, starting to rub circles on your pearl. “Is this customary, too?”

Your mind blanks. Your famous ability to talk your way out of almost everything fails you. She keeps rubbing maddening circles on your pearl, and when you do not answer, she slaps your flower.

You yowl like a kitten.

“Answer your Queen.” She orders.

“No, Your Grace. It’s not.” You have your answer, you suppose. What would she do? Spank your flower. She does so again, making you tense. The pain feels strangely good, forcing blood to rush to the area, warming it. When Rhaenyra runs her fingers over your hole after, everything feels much more heightened.

“Naughty girl.” She scolds. “Get down from the table, and bend over it.”

You obey her, a bit breathless. Rhaenyra remains fully dressed, with a stern look in her face that makes you tremble. Your naked body is now on display, but under her heated gaze, you feel no shame.

You let your upper body hover slightly over the table, hips bent, your backside and flower on display. She pushes down on your shoulder, until your face and chest are squashed against the rough wood of the table.

The wood grains feel interesting against your nipples, making you squirm. You are not sure if the rough scrape is pleasant or not.

“Don’t move.” Rhaenyra says, and spreads your cheeks open. You can feel your other hole winking at her, and she makes a pleased sound. She pushes a finger inside, and quickly retreats it when you tense.

“You have such a sloppy cunt, sweet girl.” She says, voice almost impressed. “It betrays your intentions so easily.”

She begins to torture your pearl once more. She presses inside, rubbing at something that makes your cunt gush.

Rhaenyra is relentless. You try to squirm, but her other hand is firm between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned down and spread for her. Her motions get faster, touching you in the way you like best. Your peak comes fast and unannounced, making you let out a muffled yelp.

“I think I have to examine you again.” She says, coyly. “Only to make sure.”

You cannot wait.

[so-sures-blog]

Icebound

icebound definition: surrounded, obstructed, or covered by ice.

In which Zane uses his element against the Overlord to save the city and his friends. Because it wasn’t about numbers, it was about family.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

It is the end, and Zane knows it.

The Overlord is conquering Ninjago City, webs of gold stringing across buildings like Christmas lights and tying up his friends like flies. They struggle, but it is useless under the might of the Overlord.

Zane flips out of the way of a golden band reaching to ensnare him and lands on a roof. All of his friends are tied up, and only Zane is free. He knows what he has to do. He is the only one who can.

“Support me, friends. For one last time.”

He takes a running leap off the ledge, and Jay flips midair so his feet plant squarely on top of his. Then Cole, Lloyd, Kai, Sensei Garmadon, and Wu.

He soars, flying straight at the Overlord, and grabs onto his golden fangs.

Immediately, he feels its power, and its agony. Pain rips into every crevice of his body; his jolts rattle and shake and his wires spark under his skin.

“Let my friends go!” Zane shouts.

“Go where, Doomed Ninja?” The Overlord sneers. Its eyes, red and hateful, glare into him.

Zane writhes under the immense pain and power. His body cannot handle it, he knows, and he feels himself falling apart under it.

“The Golden Weapons are too powerful for you to behold. Your survival chance is low.”

But Zane isn’t trying to hold them. He’s trying to destroy them.

He thinks of his brothers. He thinks of PIXAL. He thinks of his father. He thinks of an old man with long white hair as pure as snow and ice blue eyes that visited him a long time ago, who had come and left as quickly as winter did and had breathed that power into him because he saw him worthy of it.

“This … isn’t about numbers … It's about family!”

The golden webs holding the Ninja fall and they escape. He can hear them screaming, telling him to let go, and he thanks them for that. Wu and Garmadon grab onto them and yank them back, away from the oncoming destruction.

His core — his heart — started reaching critical mass. Frost began creeping upon the Overlord’s fangs. Something blue and blinding in his heart freezes under his power, and Zane embraces it. It's his power. His choice.

“I am a Nindroid. And Ninja never quit. Go Ninja … go!”

He is the Master of Ice. He was built to protect those who cannot protect themselves. He stands for peace, freedom, and courage in the face of all who threaten Ninjago.

Frostbite burns his skin away; jolt and wires freeze under the cold; until he is left completely bare.

The last glimpse they get of Zane is him surrounded by a blizzard of his own making, bright and beautiful like a supernova. Burning blue and white with the terrible brilliance of his own determined choice.

Zane died; not as a machine, not as a human, not as a tool of anyone or anything — but as himself. Zane died to save the ones he loves.

And woke up as something completely different.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

PIXAL climbs her way up the steep cliff side, careful to place her foot in secure crevices in case she slipped and fell from the icy mountain. Heavy snow blinded her vision as the blizzard whipped around her, but she kept her pace steady and sure.

It had been months since she had left Ninjago City and began her search. Months since Zane’s death and memorial. PIXAL knew, logically, that she should be back there, properly mourning him. But she could not.

He had never given up on her, not when she was under the Overlord’s control or when she was struggling with the newness of emotions.

And that meant she could never give up on him.

When she had first met Zane, she became more than a machine meant to function. He was vital to her, and she was a part of him.

She carried half his heart, and against all logical explanations, she knew he was still alive.

She did not tell the Ninja of her suspicions: the immediate aftermath of Zane’s loss had been devastating. She’d watched as the team fractured, splitting at the seams as they all fled their separate ways, too heartsore and dizzy with grief to do much otherwise. She did not tell Cyrus Borg where she was going either, for she knew if he begged her to stay, she would.

If she had told them she had seen a snowy wraith emerge from the destruction of the frozen, apocalyptic atmosphere on the rooftop, she would have been told she had imagined it due to her grief.

And while she was grieving, she was not imagining it. She is a Nindroid, and she did not have an imagination. PIXAL was built to observe, to analyze, to collect data and gather information. She built theories and hypothesized, not assumed.

So she followed the signs. She kept track of all weather anomalies that happened across Ninjago — sudden snowstorms, cold drops in temperatures that swept through small villages and towns. It led her all across the country until it ended here, with her climbing up the frozen, snow-peaked mountain.

Finally, PIXAL arrived at her destination.

The Ice Temple.

Slowly, she makes her way towards it. Her sensors indicate the temperature dropping the closer she gets. For a normal human, they would have already gotten frostbite without the proper equipment and numb with it, but PIXAL was made of metal. The cold did not bother her.

She peers into the glacial architecture, but does not enter. Or more like, she is unable to. It feels as if there is some sort of force of winter that is keeping her at bay.

“Zane?” Hope finds its way into the desperation of her voice. Freezing winds whip her hair out of its ponytail and against the purple circuits on her cheeks, but she barely notices. “Is that you?”

There’s nothing except for the howling wind, then her eyes catch movement. Slowly, almost like a ghost, a figure starts to come closer, making a shape against the blizzard.

If PIXAL had lungs, all the air would have rushed out of them.

A being made of pure winter floated in front of her. Formed of ice and frost and molded by the wind, it stood there and looked at her. Opaque ice carved the face that has been imprinted in her memory drives, the one she had traveled across the entire world to see again.

It was frozen, and beautiful, and Zane.

Inside her neural drive, alarms were blaring into her system, flashing behind her eyes. Warning: Severe weather alert. Temperature reaching sub-zero levels. Retreat into a warmer climate —

PIXAL shut off the notifications.

“Hello,” she says. Zane does not move. She dares a step closer. “Do you recognize me?”

He says nothing, so PIXAL continues on. It feels like their roles were reversed when they first met: she, the one struck speechless by the other’s beauty. Him, stoic to it all.

“I’m PIXAL, the Primary Interactive X-ternal Assistant Lifeform. I’m a … friend. I came searching for you to bring you home. There are things about you that you don’t understand. That you have yet to discover. I am here to help you remember.”

Zane is quiet, but she senses that he is listening. Something glowing in her chest aches.

“It is alright if you don’t remember me,” PIXAL says. She cannot cry, but is she would she could. She is still new to emotions, and many are overwhelming her: joy and grief and something fierce and pure deep in her heart. “I remember you. And we are still compatible.”

Zane tilts his head and drifts closer. The snow slows its fall, the wind stopping altogether. Snowflakes gently coat her hair. Now that he is closer, she can see the differences that make him unlike the old Zane: he doesn’t have the one dimple on the right side of his cheek, or the small beauty mark on his collarbone, or the tiny scar on his index finger from his shuriken.

But he is still Zane, even as an icy spirit.

She held out a hand. “Your brothers miss you very much. Will you come back with me, Zane?”

He is silent, staring at her. Unlike before, it is impossible to know what he is thinking. She gazes up at him, imploring. His eyes have no irises or pupils, so she is simply staring up at pinpricks of pure blue light.

Slowly, his hand reaches out of her.

BANG!

A loud sound echoes across the ice, and out of nowhere chains of Vengestone come flying out and capture him.

Fear slams into her. “Zane!” PIXAL cries.

Ice races out from his body and across the chains as Zane struggles, but no matter what, he can’t break them.

PIXAL whips around to face the assailant.

A man in his thirties, wrapped in a thick parka to prevent the cold and wearing a red mask. He has shoulder-length brown hair and is wearing a dyed red straw hat, and under it she can see he is hiding an eyepatch.

“What are you doing?” PIXAL shouts. Anger — an emotion she rarely feels — burns through her.

The man lowers his gun and pulls out another one before she can even blink.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Just following orders.”

Before she can question what that means, he fires. A net tangles her limbs together and brings her down against the cold snow. Before she can fight against it, electricity courses through her.

And then everything went black.

[mswyrr]

One of the most important bits of dialogue in hotd is from Viserys in 1x01:

"The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. They're a power man should never have trifled with. One that brought Valyria its doom. If we don't mind our own histories, it will do the same to us."

This is a man who bonded with Balerion, The Black Dread, the oldest dragon who had actually hatched in Old Valyria. This was the same dragon who flew Princess Aerea, a 12-year-old girl who bonded with him, back to Valyria against her will - sickening and killing her in the process (Fire & Blood, p 263). The little girl was away from her home at the time and probably feeling "I want to go home" but what Balerion did with that feeling killed her. His will was strong and his memory was *deep*.

Viserys only rode him one time, his inaugural flight, and then never again. IMO he experienced something bonding with that ancient beast that--in addition to studying the family's history and Valyrian lore--convinced him of the danger and fundamentally uncontrollable nature of dragons.

It is totally in keeping with canon events that Vhagar, in the current timeline the most ancient dragon alive--a dragon who drank deep of bloodshed and war with Visenya during the Conquest and *likes* war--translated Aemond's anger at Lucerys into murder of the boy and his small dragon. It is perfectly in keeping with what the show has been saying since episode 1.

An ancient, powerful and wilful dragon overcoming the will of its rider is *literally canon*. Princess Aerea must have been terrified during the whole, long flight to Valyria, and yet all her protests couldn't stop the dragon she'd bonded to.

I would also say that the Valyrians turned magical creatures, dragons, into weapons of warfare - that the dragons, in that sense, represent war. And the show is imo fundamentally antiwar - so here war is something you cannot control. GRRM has said the dragons are "nukes," which fits with this reading:

“Dragons are the nuclear deterrent, and only [Daenerys Targaryen, one of the series’ heroines] has them, which in some ways makes her the most powerful person in the world,” Martin said in 2011. “But is that sufficient? These are the kind of issues I’m trying to explore. The United States right now has the ability to destroy the world with our nuclear arsenal, but that doesn’t mean we can achieve specific geopolitical goals. Power is more subtle than that. You can have the power to destroy, but it doesn’t give you the power to reform, or improve, or build.” (source)

War and nukes - you cannot aim them only at the guilty, only at those you hate; you cannot prevent them from consuming the innocent as well. They a raging fire that consumes, that is all. And so, on that level, I just adore what they're doing and how it all fits together.

Aemond's domestic violence fits too - boys go to war thinking it will be honorable and manly and they'll protect "their women" but instead come home and hurt those very women. This thing burns and burns until it is exhausted, and it doesn't stay contained, not within you or outside you. "So it goes," to steal a phrase from antiwar writer Kurt Vonnegut.

The reason I keep coming back to my antiwar reading of the show is that things that people dismiss as "bad" or mock actually come together beautifully if you don't expect to war to be glorious and masterful and heroic. If you take the text seriously, in terms of what the dragons are metaphorically and what characters have outright said about their fundamentally uncontrollable nature. The lore supports what Vhagar did! That she could overcome a teenaged human's will with her century old bloodlust.

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

His Moon

Summary: Horus learns that Lorgar has a daughter. The thought of his own child takes over his mind.

Horus/fem!OC, Emperor and Lorgar's daughter (OC, platonic), Lorgar/fem!Reader

Warnings: yandere, kidnapping

Word count: 1002

Song: The Cure - Lullaby

This fic was born because of this beautiful post.

The Warmaster looks at one of the many contracts and freezes, unable to sign. Memories of brighter days on Terra capture Horus. The primarch simply cannot, cannot sit behind the documents. The title of Warmaster weighs heavily on his shoulders. The responsibility of continuing the Crusade as a leader weighs heavily. He wants simple human affection.

Horus loved his sons. Everyone was dear to him, especially the members of Mournival. Yet they were war machines. Perhaps much better than ordinary people, but the primarch was connected to them only by gene-seed. Pure science and controlled selection.

It was not the same as the childhood of the primarch himself. When his Father taught him astronomy, the art of war and told him stories of the past. It’s an unforgettable feeling to look at the man in front of you and listen to his every word. While you yourself are still a boy who has not seen the world and has not known its taste.

Neither brother could understand Horus. Couldn't take the place of the Emperor's favorite son. Because that's how it was. The Warmaster was found before anyone else - and therefore Terra is not just a home by name. No matter how hard some of them, especially Lorgar, tried to earn the Emperor's love. All their attempts were doomed to failure.

Even worse, the primarch of the Word Bearers had caused real anger with his behavior. Horus thought that everything would end with the burning of the Monarchy. Until he was told interesting news. Lorgar had a wife. One of the civilians of Colchis, with whom he... fell in love. And he took her to himself. But that was not all.

She was pregnant with the primarch's child.

Something clicked in the Warmaster’s head and he decided to visit the Imperial Palace. Discuss new trade routes, diplomatic meetings, military tactics. Horus did not want to show his excitement. But he so wanted to see a new life. From his primarch blood.

***

“Her name is Erda.” - The Emperor cooed over the cradle with a toy in his hands. A sight unusual even for Horus. - “Unlike all of you, she grows much slower. Even than an ordinary person. But this has its own joy. She will stay this small longer. Isn’t she a beauty, my son?”

It is difficult to discourage a primarch. But little Erda did it. Unfortunately for Lorgar, his daughter will remain on Terra with the Emperor forever. Daughter. Horus says the word again in his mind, tasting it. It sounded like family; love is hidden behind this word.

She is very small, half asleep, but still carefully watches the wooden horse that her current father carved. The girl was bathed in love from birth. And although she was surrounded by the gold of Terra, her lullaby, soft blankets and toys emitted a moderate light. Gentle. Almost lunar.

The girl reaches out and grabs the horse. Smart eyes wait expectantly for some action. Until the Emperor, with a smile that even Horus has not seen, begins to squeeze her. Erda bursts into laughter - the most beautiful melody the Warmaster has ever heard.

"Yes. She's a beauty."

 And Horus can't help but want to take her. But she is still not his child.

***

There is a stir in the chambers and Horus looks up. A smile spreads across his face by itself. The serf girl cleaned his armor with zeal, wanting to scrub away the hardened dirt. The primarch liked best when it was she who looked after his armor and cleaned his room.

At first, the primarch thought that the reason was that she was the best at performing her simple duties. But no, other serfs did a better job. The man had to admit that he simply enjoyed her company. She was nice. A pretty and kind girl - her quiet presence was calming.

Everyone had to look at him with adoration. The Warmaster deserved it. And the serf was no exception, but her devotion was more tender. As if she was always nearby, as if it should be so. If Horus had any tempting thoughts, he suppressed them.

But now... they came out again, taking over his mind. Lorgar was not afraid to admit that he had fallen in love. He lost his wife only because he was terrible at his duties. His pathetic brother incurred the wrath of the Emperor only because he could not renounce the senseless traditions of Colchis.

But Horus was the favorite son. Horus was the best among his brothers, a magnificent warrior and politician. Everyone loved him and everyone wanted to please him. It was not for nothing that his Father gave him the title of Warmaster. The primarch worked as hard as he could, couldn't he take some nice little liberties?

The girl stops and looks sharply at the primarch. Apparently she felt someone else's gaze. Horus can't help but stare at the way her cheeks grow warm and her hands clutch the rag to her chest. So fragile and tender compared to him. She needs only the best care. Especially when her belly will be filled with new life.

"My Lord?"

Even though she is a serf, Horus wants to do everything right. The girl was already amazed by the primarch’s aura. There was no point in putting pressure on her or forcing her to do anything. A man could be a Warmaster not only on the battlefield, but also in romance.

And he really wanted to win such a little heart. Besides, then Horus will have a story for their child about how he met his mother. Omitting details about the imbalance of power.

“Have you ever thought about becoming a mother?”

The last word permeates the entire essence of Horus and he can barely restrain his carnivorous smile. Soon, very soon, his Luna Wolves will be holding a little brother or sister in their arms. It just needs to wait.

And then a lullaby will also appear in his chambers.

[galaxygermdraws]

Finally designing the Sonic cast. or. at least. Some of them. There are too many characters in this franchise these are just the ones I think about the most often. So uh. Ya. I will leave any notes under the cut since I have a lot, although not every character will have notes because we haven't explored every character (and share them with @shadesofvermillionvoid)

(reblogs with tags/comments are appreciated. Thankyu)

Sonic

Sonic's earring is Chip's bracelet. I don't think Sonic particularly likes having anything on his wrists, and Sonic Forces made that worse

The regulators are based directly on Sonic Prime, as I love the regulators in that show and think the idea of giving Sonic something similar to Shadow's Inhibitor Rings makes a lot of sense

He got those little markings due to accidentally absorbing some of Chaos' DNA

Tails

Tails has goggles like in Sonic Boom, because I like Boom Tails' design

He still has his robotic bits from Sonic Lost World, he still managed to keep his free will, but what happened was Zavok used his ability to control robots to force Tails to fight Sonic. Since then, Tails has updated his cybernetics so he can filter out any suspicious frequencies that could take his free will.

The cannon arm from Lost World is now basically like the guns from Mario and Rabbids, where you hold it in your hand and it like covers your arm. It's like that

Tails is a skeptic. This is the funniest bit but also thanks to Boom (the bad luck episode) it has some precedence

Knuckles

Knuckles in our lore is deeply spiritual (we are developing Mobian belief systems because we are Insane) , and the first time he saw Sonic he noticed he looked similar to the murals in Hidden Palace. So when Sonic turned out to be good, that made sense to him, as Sonic was common in a lot of prophetic murals around the island.

Knux actually thought Sonic was a god at first. Then he saw him choke on a Chili Dog.

He put beads around his spines after the events of Sonic Forces, since the war was over and he could relax for the first time in months.

Amy

Amy, like Knuckles, actually has a deep connection to her belief systems. We haven't figured out everything exactly, but she and Knuckles quickly bond over this aspect of their lives

I styled her quills differently because I kind of like giving her something that makes it obvious she is a hedgehog

Similarly, I gave her a back spine, and the hedgehog nose, since I had never realized she has the same kind of nose as Tails or Cream

Shadow

Shadow wears eye makeup. He puts it on every morning. For a while he had to have help with it (from both Rouge and Amy), but eventually figured out how to do it himself

He has yellow sclera due to the Black Arms blood. Similarly, he has a longer tail than most Mobian hedgehogs, and he cannot retract his fangs. His blood is green

He has some less favorable urges. Mostly related to the whole "Black Arms feed on living creatures" things, but they don't crop up often

He and Rouge have matching earrings

Rouge

I based her design off of Sonic Prime because I honestly prefer that design more. One because she looks like an actual spy, and two because it's based on her Sonic Heroes design. Similarly, she has Prim's hair tuft

Gave her the bat nose a lot of people do because I like the way it looks

I don't have a lot of thoughts about Rouge as of right now I am so sorry.

She and Shadow have matching earrings

Silver

Silver has a lot more scrapes and burns from his future, even though it's been fixed several times

He is displaced from time. He doesn't feel connected to his current future, especially since in our lore he is one of the few people to remember Sonic 06 (it's because in our lore, Timeline B Silver got his powers from Mephiles, in the sense that those time powers had to go SOMEWHERE after the timeline reset.)

I am going to be designing a weird messed up form for Silver (like Werehog or Doom Morph for Sonic and Shadow) based probably on Mephiles to some extent

Blaze

Like Silver, she has remnants of powers from the previous timeline. She already had fire powers in Timeline A, but she has much stronger ones now, as she still has Iblis inside of her, although the powers are no longer destructive, as they were never provoked

Her dimension is actually a result of Solaris ceasing to exist. That power still existed and had to go somewhere, so it ended up resulting in the Sol Dimension.

[mistyheartrbs]

cannot stop thinking about weird barbie and queercoding and how her subplot mirrors margot robbie barbie’s main plotline and the Implications of it all. because like. weird barbie is introduced as this outsider who lives on the fringes of barbieland society (it’s intentionally never made clear whether she was exiled or chose to set up camp there herself; the way mckinnon plays her makes me think probably a mix of both) who, as one of the other barbies (i want to say alexandra shipp/the author?) explains, was one of the prettiest barbies until a little girl played with her too hard, and now she’s an outcast. the barbies call her Weird Barbie behind her back and to her face. this is because of something she couldn’t control (first parallel to robbie’s barbie, whose crisis is brought on by gloria’s own feelings of negativity) and yet she’s forced away because of it. going to hop onto a brief tangent here and say one of the things that never sat right with me in toy story 3 was the weird...demonization? of the preschoolers who chew on/break/otherwise harm the toys because in a story where the Very Ultimate Dream of any toy is to be loved and played with it’s bizarre that they then seemed to be saying well, actually, there are Wrong ways to play with toys when these kids didn’t know any better. and it would’ve been easy for that to be weird barbie’s deal - a freaky little girl played with her in the “wrong” way and doomed her as a result. but she gets to be a hero! she leads the resistance!

robbie’s barbie is immune to ken’s brainwashing bc she experienced the real world’s misogyny and more specifically felt gloria’s messy complex human emotions - her “dark and crazy” drawings, as sasha calls them - stemming from the pain of being a woman in society. weird barbie has never been to the real world and still manages to stay immune, along with her mansion of misfit toys (including, as other tumblr users have pointed out, magic earring ken aka Gay Ken) - there’s layers to that. in both robbie’s barbie’s and weird barbie’s cases, their girls placed Weird and Unpleasant feelings onto the perfect ideal that is Barbie™ and absolutely upended their lives as a result - but they became fully realized people because of it. barbie chooses to go back to the real world to live as a human woman because she wants to feel all those messy and bizarre human feelings! she loves them! she loves humanity and the avenues through which she reaches that love are women being unabashedly freaky and weird both within and outside of her understanding of the world she lives in. what a queer experience. what a way to showcase that scary exciting feeling of being on the very fringes of girlhood and needing to define it for yourself. pink birkenstocks. she leaves barbieland better than she found it. she can’t stay there anymore. she loves the people around her and she loves herself and that self-love is something she’s earned now. weird barbie gets to run sanitation. gloria’s ideas for ordinary barbie foster understanding. barbie is sasha’s stepmom now probably. greta gerwig you’ve done it again.

[novaursa]

Legacy (strings of time)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: dark wings

- Next part: long live the king

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The air on Dragonstone was heavy with the scent of salt and sulfur, the volcanic island shrouded in an eerie mist that clung to its ancient stone walls. Melisandre stood alone in the shadowed chamber of the Painted Table, her crimson robes flowing like molten fire as she chanted in the guttural tones of her native Asshai. The flickering flames of the surrounding braziers cast dancing shadows against the walls, the light refracting through the ruby at her throat, which pulsed like a heartbeat.

Before her, a small brazier burned with an unnatural intensity, fed by oils and powders she had sprinkled into its depths. The fire danced and leaped, responding to her incantations, its flames twisting into shapes that seemed to defy the natural world. Faces appeared briefly—shadowy, indistinct forms that flickered in and out of existence like ghosts.

She was searching, reaching across the vastness of Westeros for her target. The former Targaryen princess, now Lady Lannister, was an anomaly to her visions, an enigma that refused to be revealed fully. Melisandre’s lips moved faster, her voice rising in urgency as she pushed harder against the veil of the unseen.

But then, something shifted.

The flames, which had been obedient and malleable, suddenly roared higher, blazing with a white-hot intensity that forced Melisandre to step back. A wave of heat rolled over her, searing and oppressive, and she raised her hands to shield her face. The ruby at her throat flared violently, its light so bright it painted the chamber in crimson.

“No!” she hissed, her voice breaking. “Show me! Reveal her to me!”

But instead of clarity, the fire erupted in a burst of chaotic energy. A deafening roar filled the chamber, echoing like the cry of a great beast, and a sudden force slammed into Melisandre, sending her sprawling to the floor. Her head struck the cold stone with a sickening crack, and the room spun as she struggled to regain her bearings.

The flames in the brazier had turned black, writhing and twisting as if alive, and from within the inferno, a shape began to emerge. It was dark and indistinct, but there was a sense of immense power emanating from it—something ancient and wild, something that defied her control.

The ruby at her throat burned like a brand, and she cried out, clutching at it as a searing pain shot through her body. Her connection to the flames, to her magic, was being turned against her, and she felt the power she had called forth recoil like a snake, striking at its master.

“No!” she gasped, her voice a mix of pain and desperation. “This cannot be!”

The shadowy form in the flames surged forward, and for a moment, Melisandre thought she saw the outline of a dragon—massive wings and a serpentine neck, its eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. The roar came again, shaking the very foundations of the chamber, and the flames exploded outward in a wave of force that extinguished the braziers and plunged the room into darkness.

Melisandre lay motionless on the floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The ruby at her throat had dimmed, its light flickering weakly, and the room was deathly silent except for the faint crackling of the dying fire. Her hands trembled as she pushed herself up, her vision swimming.

“What… what was that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

A faint whisper echoed in the darkness, a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was deep and resonant, carrying a weight that made her blood run cold.

"You meddle in powers beyond your understanding, priestess."

Her breath hitched, and she looked around wildly, but the chamber was empty. The fire in the brazier had gone out completely, leaving only smoldering ashes. The ruby at her throat gave one final, weak pulse of light before dimming entirely.

Shaken, Melisandre staggered to her feet, clutching the edge of the Painted Table for support. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. She had sought to pierce the veil, to uncover the truth about the Targaryen woman who had eluded her visions, but instead, she had been struck by a force far greater than anything she had encountered before.

“She is protected,” Melisandre whispered, her voice trembling. “By what, I do not know, but she is not alone in this world.”

Her gaze turned to the darkened brazier, the lingering scent of burnt oils still heavy in the air. She felt a pang of unease, a rare crack in her unwavering confidence. Whatever power surrounded the Targaryen woman, it was beyond her control, and that realization sent a chill down her spine.

With unsteady steps, Melisandre left the chamber, her mind reeling. She would have to tread carefully now, for the game had become far more dangerous than she had anticipated.

The warm glow of the mid-morning sun streamed through the arched windows of the Red Keep as you walked with Ser Barristan at your side and two of Tywin’s personal guards trailing close behind. It had been one moon since the shadow had invaded your bedchamber, and the increased protection around you had become your constant reality. Every step you took was measured, every moment scrutinized, and yet, the weight of unseen threats lingered.

As you rounded a corner leading to the gardens, soft, muffled sobs reached your ears. Your steps faltered, and you exchanged a glance with Ser Barristan, who instinctively moved closer, his eyes scanning the area for potential threats. But it wasn’t danger that awaited you—just heartbreak.

There, beneath the shade of a tall ash tree, you saw Sansa Stark crumpled on a stone bench, her face buried in her hands. Her delicate shoulders shook as she wept, and beside her sat Margaery Tyrell, her arm wrapped around Sansa’s trembling form, whispering words of comfort.

Concerned, you quickened your pace, your gown trailing behind you as you approached. “Sansa?” you called softly, your voice filled with worry. “What’s happened?”

Both women looked up, Sansa’s tear-streaked face breaking your heart. Her blue eyes were swollen and red, her expression one of utter despair. Margaery, ever poised, gave you a faint smile of greeting, though her own eyes carried a shadow of frustration.

“My lady,” Margaery began, her voice smooth but tinged with sadness, “it seems the council has made a… decision this morning. One that has upset Sansa greatly.”

Your stomach tightened, dread pooling in your chest as you looked between them. “What decision?” you asked, your tone sharpening as your gaze fixed on Margaery.

Margaery sighed, brushing a strand of Sansa’s auburn hair away from her tear-streaked face. “They have decided that Sansa is to marry Lord Tyrion. The arrangement was finalized this morning.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. When they did, your breath caught, a rush of disbelief and anger flooding through you. “Tyrion?” you repeated, your voice low but incredulous. “This was not the plan. The Tyrells promised she would marry Willas, did you not?”

Margaery’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of resigned frustration. “We did, my lady, but Lord Tywin is not a man to be countered easily. It seems he was… persuasive.”

Sansa let out a quiet sob, shaking her head as she clung to Margaery’s arm. “They’re using me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I have no choice. They’re… they’re taking everything from me.”

You knelt before her, gently taking her hands in yours. “Sansa,” you said softly, your tone firm yet filled with compassion, “look at me.”

Reluctantly, she raised her tear-filled eyes to meet yours.

“This is not fair, and it is not right,” you continued, your voice steady. “But you are stronger than you know. Tyrion is not like the others—he is not cruel. If this is to happen, you will not be alone in it.”

Sansa’s lips trembled, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t love him. I barely even know him.”

Your heart ached for her, and you squeezed her hands gently. “Love is rarely a luxury afforded to those of us born into noble houses,” you said softly. “But you have survived worse, Sansa. You will survive this too.”

Margaery glanced at you, her expression thoughtful. “You speak with such certainty, my lady. Do you truly believe this will be a kinder fate for her?”

You met her gaze, your own eyes shadowed by the weight of your experiences. “I know Tyrion,” you replied quietly. “He is flawed, yes, but he is not heartless. He will not harm her.”

Margaery seemed to consider this, her lips pressing into a thin line before she nodded. “Then perhaps there is some hope,” she murmured, though her tone lacked conviction.

Sansa sniffled, her tears slowing slightly as she clung to your words. “What if… what if they change their minds again?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What if they decide something even worse?”

You shook your head firmly. “Then I will stand by you,” you said, your voice unwavering. “No matter what happens, you will not face it alone.”

Ser Barristan, who had remained a respectful distance away, stepped closer, his presence a quiet reminder of your own precarious position in the court. You rose to your feet, glancing back at him briefly before returning your focus to Sansa and Margaery.

“Stay with her,” you said to Margaery, your tone soft but commanding. “She needs someone who can keep her steady right now.”

Margaery nodded, her expression solemn. “Of course.”

You reached out, brushing a strand of Sansa’s hair away from her face. “Take the time you need to grieve this, Sansa,” you said gently. “But do not let it consume you. You are a wolf, and wolves endure.”

She nodded faintly, her tears slowing as a flicker of determination began to creep into her expression. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

As you turned to leave, Barristan fell into step beside you, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “You spoke well, my lady,” he said quietly. “But this court is filled with vipers. You cannot save everyone.”

You glanced at him, your expression hardening. “Perhaps not, Ser Barristan,” you replied, your voice low. “But I can try. And I will not let her be devoured by them.”

The weight of your words hung between you as you walked away, your mind racing with thoughts of how to protect Sansa in a world determined to break her.

The chamber where Tywin and Olenna Tyrell sat was austere. The Painted Table between them was littered with scrolls, maps, and the remnants of a freshly poured pot of tea. Tywin, ever composed, sat upright in his chair, his steely gaze fixed on Olenna, whose sharp wit and relaxed demeanor made the tension in the room almost seen.

"You do understand, Lady Olenna," Tywin said in his measured tone, "this arrangement is not up for negotiation. Sansa Stark will marry my son, Tyrion. It is the best way to secure both her claim to Winterfell and the loyalty of the North, should Roose Bolton’s efforts falter."

Olenna tilted her head, a sardonic smile playing on her lips as she sipped her tea. "Yes, yes, Lord Tywin, but you can’t possibly expect the girl to be overjoyed at this prospect. A Lannister wedding is hardly a maiden’s dream these days. You’ve quite the reputation, you know."

Before Tywin could reply, the door opened abruptly, and you stepped in, your gown trailing behind you as Ser Barristan lingered in the doorway. The room grew heavier as both Tywin and Olenna turned their gazes toward you, the latter looking more intrigued than perturbed by the interruption.

“Forgive me,” you said, though your tone carried little contrition. “But I need to speak with you, Lord Tywin.”

Tywin arched a brow, his hands folding neatly in front of him. “We are in the middle of a discussion, Lady Y/N,” he said, his tone cold but measured. “Surely it can wait.”

“It cannot,” you countered, stepping further into the room. Your gaze flickered briefly to Olenna, who watched with unabashed interest. “This is about Sansa Stark.”

Olenna’s brows rose slightly, and she leaned back in her chair, clearly pleased to witness the exchange.

“What about her?” Tywin asked, his voice edged with impatience.

You clasped your hands in front of you, your posture straight and unyielding. “I’ve just spoken with her. She’s devastated by this decision to marry her to Tyrion. She was promised to Willas Tyrell. You’ve taken her hope and replaced it with something she cannot understand. She is a child, Tywin.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his composure hardening further. “She is a Stark, and she is a key to securing the North. Her feelings are irrelevant.”

You stepped closer, your voice rising slightly. “Irrelevant? You would sacrifice her peace of mind, her future, for your ambition?”

Tywin stood, his towering form casting a long shadow across the table. “Peace of mind?” he repeated, his tone cold. “You speak of peace as though it were a luxury afforded to those in power. It is not. Sansa Stark has a duty to her family and to the realm. Just as you do.”

Olenna smirked, sipping her tea as she watched the exchange unfold like a play meant for her amusement.

“Duty,” you snapped, your voice sharp now. “Always duty with you, Tywin. Did you ever once consider the weight of what you demand from others? Or is everything and everyone simply another puppet to be moved around when it suits you?”

The room fell silent, the air crackling between you. Olenna’s eyes darted between the two of you, her smirk growing wider.

“I fail to see why this concerns you so deeply,” Tywin said finally, his tone softer but no less commanding. “You’ve made your point, Lady Y/N. Now leave the matter to those who understand it.”

You crossed your arms, tilting your head slightly as you replied, “If you understood it so well, Tywin, you wouldn’t have to deal with me right now.”

For a moment, it seemed as though Tywin might argue further, but then a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head slightly, his expression shifting into something almost amused, though his voice remained firm. “Very well. I’ll speak with Sansa myself and ensure she understands her duty. You may go.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden concession, but you refused to let it show. Nodding curtly, you turned on your heel and left the room, Ser Barristan falling into step beside you as the door closed behind you.

Olenna chuckled softly, setting her teacup down with a satisfied clink. “Well, that was entertaining,” she said, her sharp eyes glinting with mischief. “I must say, Tywin, I didn’t think you had it in you to yield so gracefully.”

Tywin exhaled slowly, lowering himself back into his chair. “It wasn’t yielding,” he replied, his tone clipped. “It was strategy.”

Olenna leaned forward slightly, her grin widening. “Oh, is that what you’re calling it now? Strategy? I’ve never seen you so…” She waved a hand, searching for the word. “Accommodating.”

Tywin shot her a warning look, but Olenna merely laughed, clearly enjoying herself. “I like her,” she said, nodding toward the door. “She has spirit. A dangerous thing to allow in your wife, but entertaining nonetheless.”

Tywin didn’t respond, instead turning his attention back to the maps before him, though the faintest flicker of amusement lingered in his eyes.

The echoes of your footsteps on the stone floor were accompanied by Ser Barristan’s steady presence behind you. The corridor felt colder as you moved toward your chambers, the weight of your conversation with Tywin still fresh in your mind. As you rounded a corner, a familiar figure appeared before you—Cersei, her golden locks framing her smug expression. Her arms were crossed, and the glint in her emerald eyes told you she had been waiting for this encounter.

“Well, if it isn’t the Lady Lannister herself,” Cersei drawled, her tone laced with condescension. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

You stopped, your expression calm but guarded. “Cersei,” you greeted, your voice civil. “What brings you here?”

She took a step closer, her eyes flickering briefly to your midsection before returning to your face. “I was merely curious,” she said with a practiced smile. “How is the pregnancy progressing? My father must be… overjoyed.”

Your hand instinctively rested on your growing belly, though your face betrayed none of the irritation her words stirred. “It progresses well,” you replied evenly. “Better than Grand Maester Pycelle expected, though I doubt his predictions are ever worth much.”

Cersei let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Yes, Pycelle has a way of overstating his usefulness. But how fascinating that you’re handling it so well. I wonder, is it because of your Valyrian blood? Or do you simply thrive on being the center of attention?”

You met her gaze steadily, refusing to rise to the bait. “It’s neither, Cersei. Perhaps I’m simply stronger than you give me credit for.”

Her smirk faltered briefly before she recovered, stepping even closer. “Strength is important,” she said, her tone softening, though her eyes remained calculating. “Especially when surrounded by people pretending to be something else. You should remember that.”

“I do,” you replied, your voice calm but firm. “And I’ve learned that strength comes not from tearing others down but from knowing when to rise above them.”

Cersei’s lips tightened, but she masked it quickly with another smile. “How noble of you,” she said archly. “I imagine you must be feeling quite sad about all of this.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious. “Sad? About what, exactly?”

Her smile widened, her tone turning syrupy. “About poor little Sansa, of course. Such a sweet girl, isn’t she? So naive. It must pain you to see her traded like a pawn in a game she doesn’t understand.”

You allowed a pause, studying her carefully before replying. “It does pain me,” you said softly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Cersei arched an eyebrow, her amusement flickering with confusion. “Oh? Do enlighten me, then.”

You stepped closer, your gaze steady and unflinching as you lowered your voice. “It pains me, Cersei, because I see so much of you in her. A young girl, trapped in a world she cannot control, used and discarded by those around her. But where Sansa may still find hope, you…” You let the sentence hang, your tone laced with veiled courtesy. “You’ve lost yours.”

Her face hardened, the smugness draining away as she stared at you. “What nonsense is this?” she demanded, her voice low but sharp. “I’ve lost nothing.”

You offered a faint, almost pitying smile. “Haven’t you? You wear your crown of bitterness like armor, Cersei. But all it does is isolate you, even from those who should stand beside you.”

Her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing. “Careful, Lady Lannister,” she said coldly. “You may be my father’s wife, but that does not grant you the right to lecture me.”

“I have no intention of lecturing,” you replied smoothly. “Only to remind you that strength comes in many forms. You may believe yourself untouchable, but even the tallest towers can crumble when their foundations are weak.”

Cersei’s gaze burned into yours, her hands clenched at her sides. For a moment, it seemed as though she might lash out, but instead, she forced a tight smile. “You think yourself so wise, don’t you?” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “But wisdom won’t save you from this game. You’ll see that soon enough.”

You inclined your head slightly, the gesture both respectful and dismissive. “Perhaps. But for now, I must prepare for the rest of the day. If you’ll excuse me, Cersei.”

You moved past her, your steps measured and composed, leaving her standing alone in the corridor. As you walked away, you felt her gaze burning into your back, but you did not look back. Ser Barristan fell into step beside you, his expression stoic but his presence reassuring.

“You were bold,” he murmured quietly. “She will not forget that.”

“She doesn’t need to forget,” you replied softly, your voice steady. “She only needs to think.”

Tywin sat at the head of the table, his posture as straight and imposing as ever, his hands steepled before him as he continued listening to Olenna Tyrell with a mixture of patience and calculation.

Olenna, for her part, seemed perfectly at ease, perched in her chair with an air of casual authority. Her sharp eyes danced with amusement as she studied Tywin, her teacup cradled delicately in her hands.

“Lord Tywin,” she began, her tone laced with a sly edge, “you and I have had many discussions about alliances, strategies, and, of course, the peculiarities of your family. But today, I thought we might delve into something a little more… personal.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained stoic. “Personal, Lady Olenna? I was under the impression that our discussions were strictly political.”

“Oh, politics and personal matters are often one and the same,” Olenna replied breezily, taking a delicate sip of her tea. “Especially when it comes to you, Lord Tywin. You’ve built your house on both, haven’t you?”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his tone remained cool. “If you have a point, Lady Olenna, I suggest you make it.”

Olenna set her teacup down with a soft clink, leaning forward slightly as her expression grew more pointed. “Very well. I’ve recently had the pleasure of reconnecting with an old acquaintance—someone who, let’s say, remembers the court of King Aerys rather vividly.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“This acquaintance of mine,” Olenna went on, her voice smooth and unhurried, “mentioned something quite interesting about you. Specifically, about your… ambitions during those years. A certain proposal you made to the Mad King regarding his youngest daughter.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, but there was a faint glint of something in his eyes—irritation, perhaps, or caution. “And what, pray, does this acquaintance claim to know?”

Olenna’s smile widened, the corners of her lips curling with satisfaction. “Oh, nothing too scandalous. Just that you were rather… eager to secure a match between yourself and the young princess. A match, it seems, that the Mad King outright rejected.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice low but measured. “That is old history, Lady Olenna. If your intent is to dredge up ancient slights, I suggest you focus on matters more relevant to the present.”

“Oh, but it is relevant,” Olenna countered, her tone sharp as a blade. “After all, here we are, decades later, and you’ve finally achieved what you wanted, haven’t you? A Targaryen bride, the union of fire and gold.”

Tywin’s jaw clenched slightly, though he refused to rise to her bait. “What happened in the past is of no consequence to the decisions I make now.”

“Isn’t it?” Olenna pressed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I find it fascinating, really. You’ve always prided yourself on being a man of logic and control, yet here you are, married to the very woman whose family’s rejection you’ve surely never forgotten. One might wonder if this is about more than just strategy.”

Tywin leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a cold, measured tone. “You would do well to remember, Lady Olenna, that I do not allow sentiment to cloud my judgment. My marriage to Lady Y/N is a calculated move—one that ensures the stability and legacy of House Lannister.”

Olenna chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Oh, Tywin, you’re as predictable as ever. Always so quick to dismiss anything that might suggest you’re… human. But you forget, I’ve known men like you all my life. You can claim strategy all you like, but I see it for what it is. You wanted her. You’ve always wanted her.”

Tywin’s gaze bore into hers, his silence heavy and deliberate. For a moment, something unspoken was in the room, the air thick with unspoken truths.

Finally, Olenna broke the silence, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “Well, whatever your reasons, I must admit, it’s all rather fascinating. The Mad King’s refusal, your patience—or perhaps obsession—and now this union. I do hope it works out for you, Tywin. It would be such a shame if history repeated itself.”

Tywin’s voice was as cold as steel when he finally spoke. “I appreciate your insights, Lady Olenna. But you would do well to remember that my choices are mine alone. If you wish to continue speculating on my motives, I suggest you do so elsewhere.”

Olenna smirked, rising from her seat with a regal grace. “Oh, don’t worry, Lord Tywin. I have no intention of causing trouble. But as I said, I find it all very… enlightening. Good day.”

With that, she turned and swept out of the room, leaving Tywin alone with his thoughts. For a moment, he sat in silence, his hands steepled before him once more. His face betrayed nothing, but his mind churned with the memories Olenna had dredged up—memories he had long since buried.

The memories unfolded in Tywin’s mind like pages from an old, worn book. The vivid colors and echoes of King’s Landing during the height of Aerys Targaryen’s reign came rushing back—though the stench of paranoia and decay that lingered in the Red Keep overshadowed its grandeur. It was the day Tywin had laid out his plans to the Mad King, the day he believed he would solidify the ultimate alliance between House Lannister and House Targaryen.

The throne room was alive with dread, its gilded splendor marred by the unsettling presence of Aerys on the Iron Throne. The Mad King, even then, exuded a sense of menace, his long, unkempt hair cascading over his gaunt face, his violet eyes burning with deranged delight as he listened to Tywin.

"You think," Aerys had said, his voice high-pitched and mocking, "that I would tie my daughter—the blood of Old Valyria, the dragon's line—to you, Tywin? To a lion? A beast of the field?"

Tywin had stood at the base of the Iron Throne, as unflinching as he had been when he first took up the position of Hand. He had chosen his words carefully, keeping his tone steady and devoid of the sharpness that often accompanied his temper. “Your Grace,” he began, “a union between House Lannister and House Targaryen would strengthen the realm immeasurably. My daughter, Cersei, is young and beautiful, a match fit for Prince Rhaegar. And I—”

“You,” Aerys interrupted with a cackle, leaning forward on the throne, his fingers twitching against the jagged edges of the swords that surrounded him. “You would take my daughter as your wife? A dragoness for a lion?”

Varys had been there, lingering in the shadows, his expression inscrutable as his keen eyes darted between Tywin and the Mad King. Several courtiers stood nearby, including Lord Chelsted and Lord Merryweather, their faces betraying thinly veiled discomfort at the volatile mood in the room.

“I would,” Tywin continued, ignoring the ripple of murmurs that spread through the chamber. “Lady Y/N is a princess of royal blood, but she is also young and unwed. A match between us would unify the crown and the wealthiest house in the realm. Such a bond—”

“Enough!” Aerys’s voice boomed, and he rose from the throne, his movements erratic. He descended the steps slowly, his robes trailing behind him like blackened fire. “You think to bind me with your gold, Tywin? To cage the dragons with your lions’ claws? No. Never.”

Tywin remained composed, though the heat of anger burned beneath his skin. “Your Grace, I seek only to serve the realm and secure the future of your house. A union with House Lannister—”

“Would be an insult!” Aerys snarled, his voice echoing off the walls. “The blood of the dragon is pure, untainted by the likes of you. Lions have no place among dragons. They belong in the dirt, clawing for scraps.”

Laughter erupted from Aerys, high and shrill, as he turned his back on Tywin and ascended the steps once more. “Perhaps your daughter can find herself a kennel,” Aerys continued, his voice dripping with malice. “And as for you, Tywin, you forget your place. You serve me. Do not presume to dictate terms to your king.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the courtiers, though it was hesitant, wary. Varys stepped forward then, his movements as fluid as a shadow. “Your Grace,” the spymaster said, his voice silken and unassuming, “perhaps Lord Tywin’s offer was made out of his deep respect for your house. A rare moment of… misjudgment, surely.”

Aerys turned to Varys, his expression shifting from contempt to suspicion. “Misjudgment?” he repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Or treason?”

“Never treason, Your Grace,” Varys replied smoothly. “Lord Tywin’s loyalty is beyond question. But he is ambitious, and ambition often blinds even the most loyal servants.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to Varys briefly, his jaw tightening. He knew the eunuch’s words were calculated, a subtle way of defusing the situation while also keeping Aerys’s ire focused elsewhere.

The Mad King waved his hand dismissively, his attention already waning. “Begone, Tywin,” he muttered, sinking back onto the Iron Throne. “And take your golden dreams with you. My bloodline will not be sullied by yours.”

Tywin bowed stiffly, his mind churning with barely restrained fury as he turned and left the chamber. The laughter of Aerys echoed behind him, a sound that would linger in his memory for years to come.

Back in the present, Tywin’s jaw tightened as he recalled that day, the humiliation of being so openly dismissed. Aerys’s madness had only grown after that, and the rift between them widened beyond repair. It was a lesson he never forgot: power was not given—it was taken, seized with unrelenting force.

And now, decades later, he had what Aerys had denied him. The Targaryen princess was his, bound by marriage and bearing his child. Tywin’s lips thinned into a faint smirk. Aerys had laughed at him, but the Mad King was long dead, his dragons reduced to ashes, while Tywin Lannister remained unbroken, building his legacy one calculated step at a time.

[irisbaggins]

This isn't going to be as in-depth as my other meta (I am too tired after Uni and thinking about different literary theories), but I've seen some folks point it out and wanted to add my own two cents:

From the way I view Evan's behaviour since the killing of Philtrum, I read it as him becoming defeatist towards his own nature. He truly believes he's a bad person, who doesn't deserve love nor happiness. He chafes against any assertion that he's loved or cherished, and he clashes with anyone attempting to assert that he's valuable and loved just the way he is. The only person who he doesn't outright clash with is Sam, and that is - I believe - only due to the fact he saw and experienced her emotions and feelings, and therefore cannot quite dispute them. With Jammer and K he can, because he doesn't have that insight into their true feelings. He can make assumptions, then, and run with that idea.

Why does this matter, then? Well, I've noticed how Evan pushes back against the three, and how it differs with each person. Because he does clash against all of them, just differently depending on the person. With Sam, he doesn't outright deny her claims, but it's clear he doesn't believe her fully. He just doesn't say it because it makes her sad and, after every kindness she's shown him, he doesn't think she deserves to feel like that. With Jammer, we've seen him either outright challenge him - how he's mentioned to Jammer's teammates and the lack of talking about his inherent magic - and we've seen him doubt and distrust Jammer's overt affection - not believing they're family, despite Jammer's insistence that they are. And with K, Evan has never truly believed himself worthy of love, but he doesn't quite understand that that's the issue K has with him, and therefore thinks K just wants to "change him" to fit their worldview (instead of being that K wants to "fix him" in terms of his self worth etc.).

Evan clashes with all of them, and I argue that it's because he doesn't see himself as worthy of their compassion. I would have to re-watch the first few episodes of the season to be sure, but I have the distinct feeling that Evan's refusal to believe in his friends' compassion started after killing B2, something he did without hesitation and without direct remorse. And I think that's the core issue, here. I believe that's why Evan is so adamant in his position, in his belief of his unworthiness, in his desire for power and control; he truly believes he became what he always feared, and he's both accepted this and is also denying it. He pretends everything's fine, yet he also cannot escape the feeling that he's doomed. He called himself heir to the evil house, something he's always denied. I think that alone is an insight into Evan's mindset; he thinks himself evil, which places him in direct opposition to his friends who he believes to be good.

I talked about K and control, and how they can - in their attempt to pretend - be hurtful in what they say. I argue the same is true with Evan, but instead of being directly self-sabotaging with his speech, he's doing it indirectly. He's placing himself as someone they shouldn't trust, and he himself might not be consciously aware of it. He's self-sabotaging, at least from the way I read his actions, especially in light of K's conversation with Tabby. He doesn't trust that the affection of others is genuine, and therefore will treat it as if it weren't. And he's only gotten worse, I think. Yes, he can throw out affection and "I love yous", but receiving them? He doesn't know how to handle that, and will either just go along with it quietly, or question it directly.

Evan's trapped within a negative feedback loop, and I think this is only heightened with his conflict with the Qohlye, and his conflict with him. Specifically, I'm thinking about the ways in which Evan refuses to actually understand why he was given the book, and why it's a horribly sad thing to happen to him. Not because the Qohlye thinks Evan is only meant for sadness, but because the Qohlye understands and knows that the book will only lead Evan to a darker place in a desperate attempt to keep control. The Qohlye is sad, I think, because he knows Evan will happily walk a path he himself doesn't want just to keep his friends close - something that will, in the end, only lead to great sadness. Just take his near sacrifice when saving K from death in the first season, or killing B2 in this season. Evan is a self-fulfilling prophecy, and the Qohlye sees this, and sees Evan refusing to attempt to understand it. That's the sad part, I think. That's where that grief comes from. It comes from seeing a bright and kind kid destroy themselves because of them believing themselves unworthy of love.

I could go on with this topic, but I think I'll end my rant for now by concluding with this: Evan hasn't acknowledged the demons directly since he discovered they had returned, and I am very worried with what's going to happen in the last two episodes. Especially with the references to "kill your dad" and all. Evan is such an interesting character to analyse, especially since he's such a flawed and complex character. Often, what I've noticed with him, is that it's what he doesn't say that leaves the most impact. And him not acknowledging his own emotions and his own fears regarding his nature is quite telling. Especially as he's positioned himself as a wizard killer. I'll probably write some more meta at a later date regarding him - as well as meta on K, Jammer, and Sam, as I find all of them so incredibly fascinating. But I shall end the post now before I fall asleep typing, because I am dead on my feet. So, if this post makes no sense, really sorry about that! Will probably refine it later when I'm dodging writing about my thesis.

Also, just wanted to add: If anyone has like, any points, disagreements, or just general thoughts about this post and my takes, I'm happy to hear them! I'm always up to hear what others think of my takes, especially if you disagree. It always fascinates me to hear what others think about characters and a story, so please do not hesitate to interact if you have your own two cents!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wrap My Teeth Around the World

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as tentacle sex, monster fucking, cosmic horror element, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As you work on your latest novel, the line between reality and horror are skewed.

Characters: Nick Fowler

Note: I hope you all enjoy this. Hoping to have another scary story on the way.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me❤️

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The moonlight gleams like moisture on the unfurling tentacles. Horror shines in her eyes as she watches the beast emerge from his mortal shell. The man is not what he seems. He is creature, he is beast. His svelte silhouette contorts and convulses. 

He real form bursts into the night. An otherwordly coil of limbs and scales and things she cannot name or make sense of. The cosmic being lets out a deep rumbling declaration, a voice she doesn’t hear but rather thrums into her from the earth. 

‘It is I. The doom. The end. The consumer of all.’ 

You take a breath as your fingers hover over the keyboard. You tend to hold it in when you’re focused. You’re a bit woozy from not only the pressure in your chest but the scene you’ve painted into words. Slowly, it fades away from your imagination and you’re alone in that room. 

Your apartment is far from the vast seascape of your story. There is so vibrant horizon, no storming waters, nothing but a window peering out into the grey city. The walls are no less dull. The plaster is a lifeless white, the floors a worn hardwood with scratches and scuffs, and the furniture is a motley collection of what does the job. 

You sigh and rub your eyes. Your dead line is more horrific than the fictional beasts. You’re so close yet it feels so far away. You can do this. You can get something done. 

You get up and take your empty mug to the kitchen. You rinse away the dregs of tea leaves from your last refill. You flip the switch on the kettle and peruse the sampler kit your grandmother sent you for a new flavour. Maple Black. Mm. It’ll do. 

That’s all that life is. What will do. But writing, that’s a doorway to what you wish could. It’s a pathway to possibility. A portal to potential. In your mind, on paper, you can be anything, and the world can be everything. 

Existence is futile. Brutal. There’s always that most basic truth of being. There is no control. There is no change. The world is exactly what you see. It’s four walls and roof; a stained mug and prepackaged tea. Reality is inescapable. It wraps its tendrils around you until you can’t breathe and all at once, as quickly as it bloomed, it’s gone and you’re dragged back into the ether. 

You might be spending too much time in the lore. Your eyes come back into focus as a shadow shifts against the wall. You flinch and blink. You look around, searching for the source. How strange. The window can’t possibly cast into the kitchen and the only light on is the stove light and the lamp at your desk. You must be seeing things. Sleep deprivation at its finest. 

You fill the mug with steaming water and return to your perch. The chair squeaks under your weight and the wheels barely roll as the plastic warps with use. You set your cup down and yawn. 

Finish the chapter, then you can nap. 

🦑

Your timer beeps, tearing you from a skull-pulsing slumber. You push the heels of your hands into your eyes and groan. Your intended three hours was maybe two at best. The anxiety of writing kept you tossing and turning as you found yourself weaving narrative in your mind as your body ached for rest. 

You silence your phone and sit up dizzily. The rectangle of light shining through the window ripples on the wall, as if sheer fabric were dragged across the glass. You turn, catching yourself on the arm of the couch as you narrow your eyes.  

It’s only the window. Streetlights blare through in a yellow glaze that makes your eyes hurt. You shake your head, rattling the stone behind your brow, and make yourself get up. 

Tea, a few biscuits, and then you begin. Your keyboard stays silent as you stare at the blinking cursor. You know what happens next but that’s not the problem. 

You rest your thumbs on the plastic and blink. Your eyes stick shut and your fingers tingle. Suddenly, a tight pressure cords around your digits, squeezing at your knuckles. Your fingertips slam into the keys and your eyes snap open. 

You look down at your hands and the inky black tendrils around them. You shriek and they disappear like black mist. You raise your hands shakily and pull up the sleeves of your shirt. Great. You know you need more sleep but you can’t afford it. If you don’t meet this dead line, you don’t meet rent. 

You wiggle your finger push your hands over your hair. This is real horror. The torture of keeping yourself alive. Scraping just to subsist. Not to thrive, just to be. 

You sniff and take a sip of tea. It burns your tongue. Shit. 

You look down at the keyboard and splay your fingers, holding your hands just above. You brush your palms over it and sigh. Get your shit together. 

The iron sky is still and unblemished. No cloud, no sun or moon, it is no sky at all but the vastness of nothing... 

You let yourself sink into the atmosphere of that other world. The one that very much mirrors your but with those distorted nuances. Those little terrors and tremors that make your blood flow cold. 

It trickles out of you. Letter by letter, word by word, paragraph by painful paragraph. Half a chapter down. 

You sit back and the monitor blurs to a white fuzz. You cover your eyes with your hands and slowly exhale. Your drop your arms and lean back, letting your eyelids close, just for a moment. A moment becomes more than that. The soft glow against your eyelids dims to a dark void. 

Like tentacles, the blackness curls around you. You drift down into the lull of your subconscious and wade into the waters of exhaustion. The tides are thick like mud and the current pulls you under until you’re drowning. 

You give a start at the noise of the error. Ding. Ding. Ding. 

You sit up and grunt. You touch the imprint of the keyboard against your cheek. Shit! 

Your doc is a mess. Thank god for the cloud and version history. Still, the time it’ll take you to sift through the gibberish is enough to put off your entire plan. Of course. You always fuck something up. 

You lean your face in your hand and scroll through the pages. Up and up and up. Your fingers flick back and forth as you drag the pages by. 

Wait no. No. Page 50; you wrote more than that. 49, 48, 47... 20... 19... they’re all just filled with clusters of nonsensical symbols. 

Page ten stops your scrolling. The font changes. Bolder, bigger, icons you’ve never seen before. Geometric spirals and clusters of dots and sticks. You frown and go up to the language bar. 

Language undetected. 

You scroll up and down. You go into the version history. You pick the autosave from an hour ago. The whole doc transforms. The symbols are spaced out deliberately. You don’t understand. You zoom out on the doc. It’s an image? 

You zoom out, further and further. You change the settings so that you can view two pages side by side and keep hitting the minus. When at last you can see all the first ten pages, the image is clear. 

It’s a man. His eyes are spirals and his square jaw is set menacingly. His necktie is like a snake, slithering down his chest. And his jacket is a series of tentacles woven around his arms and torso to mimic fabric. You shudder. What the hell is this? 

The screen goes black. Everything does. The streetlights, the other buildings, the sky. You sit the silky darkness, paralysed, confused. You must be dreaming. It’s a nightmare of your own making. 

You’re shaking. No, the room is shaking. The floors, the walls, you can feel it. The chair wobbles on its wheels and you put your toes to the ground to try to still it. Then you hear, no, you feel laughter rumbling through you. 

The rocky snicker is like an avalanche. It crashes down on you, crushing you so you’re crushed against the chair. You grip the armrests and blink but cannot see through the dense darkness. You can’t move as a dripping surrounds you. It isn’t wet but cold and dry. How... 

It starts at your toes. As if you’re being submerged in a thick substance. It creeps up your body, encases it, slithering, coiling, up to your knees and thighs, hips, torso, arms. All of your right up to your chin. Your head is forced up by the tight constriction around your neck. 

You’re lifted by the otherworldly force. You feel the shift, you hear the chair roll and crash. You are brought flat parallel to the floor. You wheeze in terror. 

“Fear what you long for, for you cannot comprehend the perils of desire unknown,” that voice with no noise flows through you. 

You cannot answer. Your arms are pulled straight, stretched out from your sides. Your legs snap open, ankles wide, and back arches as an icy sheath spreads over your skin. You feel your clothing dissolve beneath the grip of that unseen force. 

There’s a tickle up your cheek. Flicking and slimy. You shudder and search the darkness instinctively. Your heart hammers in your chest. You cannot discern what’s happening to you. 

As you’re enshrined in a coldness so raw it hurts, your insides boil to a flame. You moan and squirm as your veins flood with fire, coursing into your blazing core. You quiver as the battle of hot and cold drenches you in sweat. 

You let out a choked squeak as the pressure around your thighs tightens. The tickle between your legs strikes the heat in you to paramount. You rasp as your whine is muted by the thrall on your throat. The sensation along your cunt intensives, centering on your tender bud. 

The sucking pinpoints on your clit, drawing the weight in your core down on your cunt. Your toes curl within the shell of your entrapment and your eyes wet in confusion and overstimulation. 

“It is I.” The horse thunderous voice says. “The doom.” You feel something else along your ass, it creeps towards your cunt. You tense as it prods along your entrance. “The end.” The voice declares, “The consumer of all.” 

As your impaled, you whimper out. Your vision lights with a ghastly bluish glare. The tint illuminates a face you know. The one you imagined when you wrote, the same etched in those mysterious icons, yet it is distorted in some way you cannot place. 

His eyes are blue and green at once, stirring like currents in the ocean, and his features are sharp and exaggerated, yet enthralling. He is beautiful unlike anyone or anything you’ve ever witnessed. He is beauty wrought of malice and malcontent. He is the evil of desire. The consequence of longing. 

“Let yourself be consumed,” he purrs. 

Your eyes travel down his thick neck, a muscular chest limned in the blue light, veins black beneath his flesh. His torso is corded with muscle and his pelvis angular and defined. Yet below is something horrifying.  

A long tentacle unfurls from him where a man’s cock would be. You follow the length down to your own body. It is inside you, sliding in deeper and deeper, filling you to the point of intolerance. You watch helpless as he invades your body. 

From behind him, his shadow proves to be more. From his back extends dozens of tendrils, all of which coil around your body, holding you at the mercy of his intrusion.  

The tentacle delves deeper and deeper until you see your stomach distend beneath the winding shell around you. The blue light illuminates your body and his as he pulls you closer. You groan at the pressure inside you roils with that on your clit. The suction of another tender latched and unmoving. 

Your eyes roll back as you surrender the maelstrom of the creature’s thrall. You are bursting at the seams as your climax tears through you. You flesh tautens, your muscles split, and your bones snap. You spasm and cum, gushing out around the tentacle, gagging and choking on your mindless cries. 

Your wails follow you into the darkness. The blue light fades and the rumbling voice recedes. You sink down into the ether, back to whence you emerged. You melt into the sludge of life and death. You are not you. You are nothing. 

You are them and they are you. All is all, and one is nothing. The end, the doom, the consumed. 

[yourbloodysunrise]

Hiii! I hope your requests are open because I love your way of writing and something just occurred to me

Can I request platonic headcanons with the Ninjago mains (Lloyd, Zane, Jay, Nya, Cole and Kai) with a reader who recently acquired future vision?

Like, context, on a mission reader somehow got caught in a magical situation that gave them future vision. They manifest as deja vu or through dreams and can be of near or distant events, it can show important and dangerous events or everyday things. And, regardless of the type, are giving the reader anxiety, worrying too much about learning how to understand or control them.

I hope it's not too complicated! Don't feel pressured in any way if you don't want to do it <3 <3 <3

🌤 — ooh, it sounds amazing!! also, you can always view the requests status in pinned post  c:

🌤 — I've already tried to write about characters who have future vision abilities through the dreams, so I decide to choose this one. enjoy!

❝ The Seer and the Ninja. ❞

— FANDOM: NINJAGO

— PAIRING: MAIN NINJAS x GN!READER

— PLATONIC

— HEADCANONS

— TW: BAD GRAMMAR, BAD ENGLISH, OOC, CONTAIN SPOILERS, THE EVENTS TAKE PLACE BETWEEN SEASON 7 AND 8 IN OFF-SCREEN TIME

LLOYD:

☆ ┈ Okay, let me start by telling you my vision of how the reader could gain a vision of the future. (don't worry, Lloyd, we'll get back to you soon)

☆ ┈ You might have been stuck on Iron Doom in season 7 with Wu, Nya and Kai, but unlike them, you stayed a little longer before getting to the present.

☆ ┈ It all started with ordinary, unremarkable things. You could have dreamed some kind of stupidity, for example, you saw Lloyd slip on a wet floor, and something similar happens tomorrow. You can take it as an ordinary coincidence until it starts repeating itself.

☆ ┈ Minor little things bring significant worries. You began to be scared by the realization that what you are dreaming is repeated in the future, but this is only the beginning. It gets worse. Events can get bigger, therefore your anxiety also grew.

☆ ┈ Lloyd, of course, notices your worries. You will probably sleep less and worry more about some minor little things. He is worried about your condition, and at some point he will want to talk to you about it.

☆ ┈ For some reason, I don't think the reader will hide it. After all, it's difficult to keep quiet about something like this.

☆ ┈ To begin with, he is confused. He just doesn't know how to comfort you. Not only do you not know how to control your abilities, you don't even fully understand some of your visions.

☆ ┈ Despite his misunderstanding, Lloyd is ready to listen to you completely! He hopes that you will feel a little better when you talk it out.

☆ ┈ Although he cannot help you learn to control your abilities, he will be your moral support. You can tell him about your visions, and Lloyd will help you figure them out.

☆ ┈ Even if both of you don't always guess the message correctly, you don't lose heart. With Lloyd's support, it has become easier for you to endure the visions.

☆ ┈ Of course, sometimes there is something that scares him too, but Lloyd promises you that no matter what you see there, he will always be with you to support you at the right moment.

☆ ┈ And he keeps his promise. Over time, you try to learn to control your visions, you don't always succeed, but you can learn to see the future not only through sleep, but also during meditation. You have found power in your visions, and you are not worried about what might happen, because you will be ready for it.

☆ ┈ ..At least, that's how it will be until you see Lloyd's battle with Quiet One while you're meditating.

NYA:

☆ ┈ Most likely, she is first to notice changes in you, namely your nervousness.

☆ ┈ It will take time before she decides to voice her suspicions to you. Nya just wants to give you some time to come to your senses.

☆ ┈ She can hint to you that if you have something on your mind, then you can tell her about it. You get hint, but you're hesitating for some time.

☆ ┈ Well, Nya understands the concept of your ability pretty quickly, even though she's not sure how it works.

☆ ┈ She won't be able to help you learn to control it, however she will try to help you understand them. Nya doesn't really understand this herself, but she generally understands what's what.

☆ ┈ Like with Lloyd, you sometimes tell her about your visions and the two of you then try to explain them or make them out. Nya does it even better than Lloyd.

☆ ┈ Anyway, she tries to support you in a difficult moment, for example, if you see some passage from the future that scares you. She is skeptical about this, believing that not all of your dreams are visions, so she usually worries less than you do.

☆ ┈ Despite the fact that your visions do not always come true or they may speak of something bad, Nya considers your visions a good ability to be prepared for something. Maybe it will be more useful if you just learn to understand them?

☆ ┈ At a time when Ninjago is safe and you haven't had any foreshadowing dreams, you usually spend it with Nya. This is a pleasant time when you don't have to worry about any visions, and she cherish it with all her heart.

☆ ┈ She would like to distract you from thinking about visions, but sometimes she just doesn't know how to do it, and sometimes crimes in Ninjago takes time.

☆ ┈ Considering that in seasons 7 and 6, Nya got a lot of unpleasant things, and you were visibly battered by the vision of the future, you have something like the dynamics of 'two people want to help each other'.

☆ ┈ In the end..Well, actually, it's not bad. You support her, she supports you, and that's enough for you.

☆ ┈ Nya hopes that your visions will stop bothering you, and you want her not to think about unpleasant events from the past.

JAY:

☆ ┈ I do not know why, but I have great confidence that you will want to tell Jay about your visions first.

☆ ┈ At first, he may think that you are just joking with him. Come on, this can't be happening! Jay has seen this in comics, but what would happen in real life? You almost caught him, haha!

☆ ┈ ..You're joking, right? Yeaah?

☆ ┈ Jay will seriously worry more than you, but only if you are worried about your abilities, Jay is worried about you.

☆ ┈ Maybe he once saw in a movie how some superhero went crazy after they started seeing the future, and Jay is very afraid that the same thing might happen to you.

☆ ┈ Of course, you deny this, saying that there is a big difference between comics and real life, but he still does not take comfort in this.

☆ ┈ You can tell him your visions, or you can not tell him. He will build theories about the visions that you have seen, and if you do not tell him about them, he will try to beg you to tell him.

☆ ┈ Jay is very curious about your abilities, although for the most part these are questions like 'did you dream anything bad'?

☆ ┈ He, in general, bothers you a little, but all this is out of pure concern for you. Jay can be hysterical when it comes to those he cares about..

☆ ┈ In short, in the Jay version, you don't even have time to worry, because Jay does it for you lol.

☆ ┈ Over time, he will try not to focus on it. He understands that talking about it all the time won't help you, so for a while he'll try to forget about your abilities.

☆ ┈ You are still you, Jay's friend, without a vision of the future or not, you are still his friend.

☆ ┈ Overall, Jay feels flattered that you decided to tell him about it, and will walk in front of other ninjas with his head held high, as if he knows the secret of the whole world.. (even if you have already told others about it)

☆ ┈ The dude is just trying to cheer you up for 23 hours a day. Hey, can you blame him for his tenacity, he just wants you to feel better!

KAI:

☆ ┈ He probably won't suspect anything at first. Well, yeaaahh, you seem to be a little more nervous, but hey, there must be reasons for this, right?

☆ ┈ Kai can ask you what's the matter and then you can tell him about your visions. He, like Jay, will take it as a joke at first.

☆ ┈ When it comes to him that you are serious, say that he will be surprised is not to say anything. He will forget himself for a while in his minds.

☆ ┈ It seems to me that platonic Kai behaves more like an older brother, so he can be quite overprotective. (if thinking how worried he was about Nya and Lloyd in the original series)

☆ ┈ He often asks you if it's a coincidence, maybe it's just an accident? Kai is torn between the opinion that the vision of the future will get in your way and the fact that it's damn cool.

☆ ┈ Kai will try to help you learn how to control your dreams. Yes, he has almost no influence on this, but he tries to find out more about it so that you can figure it out together.

☆ ┈ He trying to help you a little. For example, he suggested that you try to see the future through meditation, as Wu did. And, actually, it worked.

☆ ┈ It's up to you to tell him about your visions or not, but often he will ask you to tell him. Kai is not averse to learning something about the future, whether it is something of a possible danger to Ninjago or an ordinary routine.

☆ ┈ Are you worried about some kind of vision? Poof! Kai is already sitting next to you, ready to listen to you.

☆ ┈ If you told just Kai about this, he will ask Nya what he should do to comfort you, and she may tell someone, so don't be surprised if someone else besides Kai finds out about it.

☆ ┈ He will eventually forget about your ability to see the future if it stops bothering you. Like, "if you're okay, then he doesn't care."

☆ ┈ To sum up, at first it will be difficult with him, but soon he will almost forget that you see the future, only if you do not decide to tell him about some of your vision.

ZANE:

☆ ┈ He is also one of the first to realize that something is wrong and immediately asks you if something has happened.

☆ ┈ He is the one to whom it is better to tell everything. Zane will know that you are worried about something and will want to help you, he is worried about your condition.

☆ ┈ If you decide to tell him about your new "ability", Zane will calmly listen to you without interrupting. He wants to give you a chance to talk everything, so he waits patiently until you tell him you're done.

☆ ┈ Zane has clairvoyance, as it was shown in the series, so he can understand your concern about your visions.

☆ ┈ He tries to assure you that everything is fine. Of all, he helps you the most in developing your abilities, he teaches you how to control your emotions and how to understand your visions.

☆ ┈ Of course, there is a chance that he will not understand some of your visions himself, but the main thing for Zane is that you understand them. The main thing for him is that it doesn't bother you.

☆ ┈ He will most likely ask you if you have told anyone else about this. In other cases, he may have prompted you to ask Master Wu about your visions, but since he is no longer there, he takes it upon himself to help you.

☆ ┈ Since P.I.X.A.L. is embedded in Zane's system at this time, I believe she shares some of his emotions (my little headcannon, if you don't mind), and she also wants to help you.

☆ ┈ Even if she doesn't have a physical body, she searches the web for any information that might be useful to you.

☆ ┈ If the very fact that you have a vision of the future makes you nervous, he will try not to mention it.

☆ ┈ With the help of Zane (and P.I.X.A.L.), you can eventually develop your ability to see the future, learn to control it and understand it. Zane will be there to support you in your progress.

☆ ┈ As a result, Zane successfully helps you cope with the new "ability" you have acquired!

COLE:

☆ ┈ With Cole..It's a little difficult.

☆ ┈ He will either quickly notice that something is wrong, or he will not perceive your concern as something important.

☆ ┈ If your nervousness increases, then he will start acting. Most likely, he will wait until you two are alone, come up to you and ask if everything is okay.

☆ ┈ If you tell him about your visions, he will doubt. You're probably joking, but it bothers him how serious you look when you say it. Simply put, Cole doesn't immediately, but believe you.

☆ ┈ And he has no idea what to do. The platonic Cole has a father figure, so he looks like a confused, very worried parent.

☆ ┈ He like wants to help you, but doesn't know how. All the advice he thinks about, he immediately puts aside, because they seem useless to him. Cole is not very good with words when it comes to support.

☆ ┈ If some of visions bothers you, Cole will try to comfort you. Not very well, of course, but he will try! For some reason, I'm sure that he will give you something sweet so that you can eat stress, as he does.

☆ ┈ Two words: nervous laughter.

☆ ┈ Cole tries to cheer you up with jokes, but all his jokes end with his forced laughter. He's just not completely sure that it helps you.

☆ ┈ HUGS. LOTS OF HUGS.

☆ ┈ He considers it vital to hold you in his arms all the time when he can, as if after that your visions will abruptly disappear and everything will be as before.

☆ ┈ ..It seems to me that you will get so tired of this that you will start learning how to control your visions just to show Cole that everything is fine.

☆ ┈ The process is slow, but it is still going on, and over time you will stop worrying about your visions. Cole breathes a sigh of relief after he finds out about this.

☆ ┈ Well, the most ambiguous option, but I want to say one thing for sure: Cole will try to reassure you about your visions and spend time with you more often to make sure that you are okay.

..:*･ﾟ☆.｡.:*･ﾟﾞ｡.:*･ﾟ☆.｡.:*･ﾟ🌤

🌤 — okay, first: writer's block is sucks.

🌤 — at some point, I wanted to finish this so badly because I was slow with it, that I started rushing just to finish it. I sincerely hope that this did not ruin hcs and that readers will like them.

🌤 — hope you like it, have a good day☆

[shadowharkness]

bordering on headcanon territory here but a thought i had recently:

agatha's attracted to power sure, but control is a huge thing for her too. after all, in her younger years her own mother tried to have her killed for a perceived lack of control over her own desire for knowledge and her whole power-succubus-siphoning thing. so it's only natural that someone nicknamed 'the witch-killer' would have a complex relationship with the idea of control.

which is why her relationship with rio is so frustrating and all the more tragic. agatha likes things she can have control over. take wanda for example. despite being imbued with literal chaos magic...she was in control (to an extent). she wasn't a direct threat to agatha. in fact, agatha found her intriguing (gay), not threatening. agatha wanted her magic. wanted her power. wanda, despite being inherently more powerful, was still something agatha could control. whether it was through the memory sequence when she's bound, or even in the final episode of wandavision where wanda chooses to leave agatha as 'agnes', there was still an element of control.

her relationship with rio gets infinitely more complex. you cannot control death. rio, like the scarlet witch transcends humanity, but unlike the scarlet witch, rio cannot submit to agatha. will not submit to her. not when her duty is something she's cosmically bound to.

which is why agatha was all the more interested in rio. the idea of death being at her beck and call? to be able to have control over the one constant in every universe? that's something agatha harkness could do with. it was a double-edged sword. by getting into bed with death, agatha doomed herself to the loss of control. ultimately, rio would prevail over agatha no matter what happened. even if Nicky didn't exist, whenever agatha died she would have to return to rio. regardless of how their twisted relationship went, agatha would always belong to rio.

agatha hates that she can't control rio. agatha hates that gnarled part of her that still loves rio despite it all.

[partycatty]

liu kang > why me?

why, of all the timelines, did your god doom you to misery?

warnings: i just bawled my eyes out and i'm insanely sad so i'm avoiding it by writing a fanfic so sorry if it's bad

[ masterlist ]

• "do i even call you my lord if you have done nothing to be worshipped for?" your voice is hoarse, crackling as the blood in your throat accumulates. even still, you stand tall and stoic with bunched fists and tattered clothes.

• liu kang's words are lost in his throat. in his era of peace, all mortals were promised a path of hope, a new beginning. you had always been a kind, pure soul. something somewhere got entangled with darkness, and now you were, as much as he hated to admit it, the worst possible version of yourself. corrupted, angry, venom-spitting and vengeful.

• you stand atop the pyramid, variations of your friends and otherwise slaughtering each other for reasons they probably don't even fully comprehend. at the top though, are just you and liu kang's fiery fists.

• "i am not worthy of worship," he replies after a long pause, expression gentle as always though the ground cracks at his feet. "i am merely your creator."

• "merely," you mock the word, faltering your stance to shift your weight with an eye roll. "you have conspired against me since the dawn of time and you hold no accountability?"

• liu kang frowns. "there was no conspiring. you were destined for greater."

• "then tell me what i did wrong!" a clot of blood flies from your lip, staining your uniform. "tell me when i took the wrong turn, and why you did not interfere. tell me if this could have been prevented."

• "that, i cannot say." despite the confidence in his tone, his brows furrow in thought. he feels the lie bubble in his chest. "my power only permits me to begin the endeavor. it is the duty of mortals to finish it."

• liu kang knew you were going to fall into evil hands quite some time ago. he knew better though, to not interfere and become hungry with the need for control. he knew his vision was not perfect and had no intention for it to be. all he wanted, after losing it all and then some, was peace.

• there's a glimmer in your eyes, once he painted in your iris when his hands built your universe. his calloused hands stained with the hues of your form, hues he couldn't wash out if he tried. you were his responsibility, as much as you didn't want to be... as much as he didn't want to be. your eyes are wet, skin glittering from the bloodstains splattered and dripping.

• "why didn't you help me?" your question echoes into the open horizon, past liu kang's form as he stands expressionless. for a moment, you feel like a child again, asking your mother for help with a wound that she can't seem to understand.

• "i..." he replies, his voice far away. his glowing eyes feel as if they burn straight through you. "i thought you would be stronger this time."

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

pt VI good omens s1e2, a totally all-inclusive summary i remember everything

i don't, that's a lie. i lie like aziraphale, rarely and badly but with great gaslight energy.

alright well let's not dawdle for 6000 years, i'll forget what i DO remember.

An angel named Gabriel who is not Jimbriel yet, so a foetus Jimbriel, gets into Aziraphale's bookstore and yells about pornography to keep humans from following him into Aziraphale's secret back chamber.

What they do there, I do not know. It is up to speculation. They talk and Aziraphale is flustered about Crowley, I think, but that's the whole show so far.

The intro sequence remains strange. Cartoon Aziraphale is an impregnated chicken, cartoon Crowley is the baby daddy.

There are witch hunters and they want to burn Agnes Nutter alive. I don't know who Anges Nutter is yet.

We cut to Agnes Nutter and I know I will never forget her. She is beautiful and a BAMF. A MILF. An absolute bombshell.

The bombshell part is literal. They set her on fire and she explodes, killing all those in a 100 metre radius. I want to be her.

I assume it is a witch thing, but then find out she put bombs under her skirts. I want to be her, but more ardently.

There is a book. She writes prophecies in it.

There are horsemen of the apocalypse, which I forgot was still happening. We are in present day.

War kills everyone. She is pretty. She is not Warlock, the kid whom Aziraphale and Crowley raised.

Famine is a sexy beast, and runs Michelin star restaurants. He likes tiny food. He is developing foodless food.

If there are others, I do not notice. There could be. There really could be. There probably are.

There is a girl who scribbles on the book from earlier. She grows up. I think she is War. I am wrong. This is probably a good time to mention to Tumblr that I have mild issues with facial recognition, which is totally not going to affect my understanding of what is happening at all.

She is named Anathema. That could be someone else. What is real? Not Neil Gaiman.

She finds the Antichrist and the Them, and they are all playing at a witch hunt. The Antichrist does not have an aura. Yellow is fear. Yellow is joy. I lose track of what is happening for several scenes.

Newt is works in an office. There is a power cut. Newt no longer works at an office.

Newt joins a witch hunt.

There is a delivery man. I think he is Newt. I am wrong. His name is something resembling Judy. It is an easy mistake, everyone's reaction to not-Newt-maybe-Judy is the same as that to Newt, deep protective love.

Crowley and Aziraphale steal a Bentley. Find a Bentley? I am unsure. I am too busy looking at Crowley.

Crowley speeds. Crowley likes speeding. They hit a motorbike that has maybe-Anathema. They pick her up and take her to a house somewhere. The Bentley plays Queen music. Everyone is very excited about this. Beepop.

Maybe-Anathema enters the house. This could have been before she finds the Antichrist. But if the show isn't linear I don't have to be either, I decide.

Crowley and Aziraphale panic a lot, but find time to eye each other hungrily and lovingly. They have priorities, and I respect that.

Crowley yells at his plants to grow better. He pretends to kill one of them. I cannot believe I was entirely right about my interpretation of that GIF. I am filled with confused anger. Later I find out that he is projecting how heaven told him he was a disappointment and threw him out. I am no longer angry. I am sad. This is an ongoing thing when it comes to Crowley.

A major plot point is Dog, the best friend of the Antichrist, having a face off with a fat tabby cat. Dog loses. It was doomed from the start.

Aziraphale gaslights gatekeeps and girlbosses. He assures heaven that everything is under control. It is not. That is okay. I think.

Heaven asks about Crowley. Aziraphale gets flustered. This is as per usual and he assures them that he is battling Crowley, who keeps him on his toes. I not-so-privately think that Crowley keeps him on his knees, really.

Things happen. I'm too busy thinking about Aziraphale's puppy eyes. He is a bitchy sweetheart. I love him.

More things happen. I'm too busy thinking about Crowley's sexy hips and shoulders and, well, everything.

The episode ends. I am still thinking about Crowley. I am always thinking about Crowley. Everyone is always thinking about Crowley.

This... this is all I remember. Have it, Tumblr.

[chesometer]

Been replaying Dragonspyre with my friend and one thing that I’ve always found fascinating about it is the way that it handles the ghosts.

All throughout the world, you see that every human has been killed. Dragonspyre is a ruined world, and the only people still around are the servants of the dragon titan. In place of everyone who’s been killed, a ghost stands where they once stood.

What I love about the ghosts is their various levels of comprehension of the state that they’re in. Some of the ghosts acknowledge what happened, that the dragon titan completely razed their world. However, many don’t. In fact, there’s a decent number of Dragonspyre ghosts who flat-out don’t even realize they’re dead. One that struck a cord with me in particular said something to the effect of “I’m no longer tangible”, seemingly understanding his state as “still alive but not able to touch things for some mysterious reason”. Many of the ghosts make excuses for the fact that they can’t do what they once did when they were alive. This is either because they don’t realize they are dead, or my interpretation, that they don’t want to acknowledge that their lives were cut short.

I also love that so many of the ghosts are very much stuck in their ways from when they were alive. It’s basically left up to interpretation whether that’s a symptom of them being a ghost, or if that militant adherence to order and rules is a symptom of growing up in Dragonspyre’s culture that’s impossible to shake. There’s an NPC, Belia Windgazer, who is still running paperwork for the vaults, even though that paperwork is coming from and going to no one, and is not useful for a single person. It’s running through the motions of the busywork that you did when you were alive, and that’s kind of nightmarish. Even in death, they don’t get any rest.

Another NPC, Zanna Fireflower, has made it her main priority to secure a tower that has visibly been toppled a long time ago, leaving only a single floor. She sees this as a necessary military accomplishment. However, in the present day, this is basically entirely meaningless from both an objective and political viewpoint. Gaining control of this tower does nothing for nobody, the tower doesn’t even stand there anymore. Is this fixation simply something that is static beyond the grave, or is it such a point of pride for her that she can’t let go of such a pointless task all these years later?

Playing through Pirate101 and getting to the point where you meet the four ghosts of Ratbeard’s crew adds a new layer to this situation as well. In that game, those ghosts cannot move on from the mortal realm and go to the next life because they still have unsettled business in this world. Does that imply that with such a massive tragedy on Dragonspyre, the dragon titan not only killed countless people, but doomed them to never rest in peace and move to the next world due to the fact that all of their lives had been cut tragically short, leaving every one of them with unfinished business? Absolutely horrifying stuff